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Adult non-fiction, Book Reviews

Upheld: A widow’s story of love, grief, & the constancy of God

by Christine Farenhorst 2025 / 252 pages Rating: Good/Great/GIFT Anyone who has ever loved is going to face loss, and what are we to do then? It’s not a thought I like to dwell on. But as I age, and as I attend more funerals of godly men and women, I see whole families who are mourning, not as those without hope (1 Thess. 4:13), but as those assured that Christ’s victory over death is our victory too. But what does that assurance look like in the day to day? Here is an answer. Christine Farenhorst was married to her Anco for almost 53 years, and Upheld is the story of their life, and her loss after Anco died in 2022. Here we have someone wrestling with one of the greatest losses any will face, assuring her beloved readers that yes it’s really true “that in all things God works for the good of those who love him” (Roman 8:26). Or as she puts it: “When we are pushed off a cliff, whether that cliff is war, cancer, a snub by a friend, the death of a mother, being maligned and slandered for standing up for the truth, or suffering a stroke – it is of prime significance to note that God has let this happen so that we can die to ourselves and live for Him. He only works for our good.” That assurance worked itself out throughout Anco and Christine’s married life. She shares story after story of relying on the Lord, and looking for the good He was bringing. So when, for example, the Christian Reformed Church was slowly capitulating to women in office, and to a non-literal understandings of the opening chapters of Genesis, she could be grateful. “Strangely enough, although the Word of God was watered down in many pulpits, this visible bruising of the church became a blessing to our family. It was as if Joseph said to us: ‘Others mean this for evil, but God means this for your good, to bring about that many people should be kept alive .... So do not fear: I will provide for you and your little ones.’ And God did provide for us. The slippery slope exhibited within the church proved to be the tilt that caused our family to climb up and study God’s Word in such a way as we never would have done had there been no issues. Consequently, our children were taught male headship by both Scripture and by Anco’s example; they were grounded in the fact that God hates all sexual sin; and they were spoon-fed on the historicity and infallibility of the Bible.” When you understand that God is always working on you, and through you, then you start to see rightly that what’s in front of you is always another opportunity to glorify your Creator. And throughout their lives together, Anco and Christine had quite some opportunities! In one of my favorite passages Christine shares how, when Anco was still in veterinary school and they were living the life of poor students, they’d be grateful for any lunch or dinner invites. However, one of their invites was from an elderly couple, the Pots, who were “rather impoverished themselves.” So when Mrs. Pot offered her a pastry, Christine was horrified to discover, after a couple of bits, that her piece was full of mold. Should she say something? The elderly woman was quite delighted with her own piece: “Isn’t it good? I’ll bet you haven’t eaten anything like this for a long time!” “Mrs. Pot beamed at me again and a patch of sunlight caught a faded spot of the carpet. I knew she considered both Anco and myself underfed, and had taken great pains to buy something special for us.” And so, Christine ate it all down as quickly as she could, and when asked whether she’d like another piece, she “croaked a trifle hoarsely” that no, she did not, “but it was delicious.” “ appeared very pleased with the comment, and I knew that my statement, strange as it sounded to my stomach, was Gospel truth to my heart.” Sometimes a lie is no lie at all – the cake was both disgusting and also delicious; stomach-churning, and heart-warming all the same. One of the benefits of reading biographies of godly men and women is that they have sometimes, in God’s grace, triumphed over a pitfall we are still getting tripped up by. So their example can show us the way. Today one pitfall the Church has is an eagerness to be respected, or at least tolerated by society. We wanted to be liked. But in the Bible we’re repeatedly told that we will be cursed because we love Jesus (Matt. 10:22, Luke 6:28, Ps. 109:28, etc.). And what does that look like, and how should we act when it happens? “Anco was once asked by someone, someone who disliked him intensely, to come for a meeting in a Tim Horton’s restaurant, so that she could speak with him. A very liberal woman, one who had wreaked havoc within the church community, she had also spread slander about him. He went and was reamed out in such a loud manner by this female, that people in surrounding booths turned their heads to look. It was embarrassing as well as demeaning. Anco listened quietly and let her go on and on. The woman ended the public diatribe by saying: 'You are a narrow-minded bigot. It’s like you’re in a box and you don’t allow anything else in that box.' As she was sounding off this last statement, she drew the picture of a box on the booth table with her right index finger. Anco waited a moment to make sure she was done. Then he took his Bible and placed it in the box.” I could share one passage after another – there is so much to love – but I’ll content myself with just one more, a section I read to my daughters about Christine’s wedding... interrupted. Husband-to-be Anco was already waiting at the front of the church when a late-arriving 5-year-old nephew slipped on the snowy steps outside and knocked himself unconscious. The boy was taken to the basement and Christine’s sister, one of the bridesmaids but also a doctor, went to see if she could help. “My father, about to escort me into the church but anxious about his oldest grandson, also departed. Consequently, no matter that I was resplendent in my wedding finery, I was left alone in the church foyer with the caretaker. He was a man of few words and simply stared at me in mute sympathy.” And so, Anco, best man beside him, stood up front unsure of just what was going on. For the next 15 minutes the organ continued to play as the whispering among the pews increased. Thankfully her nephew turned out to be fine, and the wedding resumed. But oh, what a start! So who would love this book? I don’t know that I would give it to anyone who has recently experienced the loss of a loved one. But it’d be a wonderful book later. And important beforehand. Just how good is it? Well, it ranks at the top of my own rating scale which goes something like this: Didn't like it Enjoyed it Enjoyed it enough to recommend it Loved it so much I had to read sections out loud to my wife and/or kids Loved it so much, I have to put this in folk's hands I’ve bought ten copies and my daughters will be among the first to get a copy. But I wanted plenty more, because I'm sure this will be a much-appreciated present to other family members and friends....

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Science - Creation/Evolution

The "Watchmaker argument"

Two hundred years ago a bishop, by the name of William Paley, wrote a book in which he used a watch to illustrate how clear it was that God is real. He pointed out how many intricate parts a watch had; and how only a skilled watchmaker could put these parts together. He described how the watch was designed so that each small part had a purpose. He then argued that the watch, because it had so many parts, had to have a planner and that, because the watch had a purpose – to tell time – it had to be an intelligent planner. And then Bishop Paley also pointed out that there were many creatures much more complex and wonderful than the watch. Consider the woodpecker One of these creatures is the woodpecker — a bright, feathered hammerhead, whom we often nickname Woody. And if we look at the complex, awesome parts of the woodpecker, we cannot help but stand in awe of our Creator. 1. Shock-absorbing beak The woodpecker, is a marvelous bird and far from ordinary. Take his bill, for example. Isn't it amazing how he can ram it into a tree thousands of times a minute without having to replace it or getting a terrific headache? Well, his head is equipped with shock absorbers. And these shock absorbers cushion the blows so that the skull and brain of the woodpecker do not suffer. 2. Feet that grip Now consider his feet. Have you ever wondered how this bird could stand sideways against the tree for such a long time without slipping off? Well, God equipped the woodpecker with very stiff tail feathers with which he can brace himself. Also, his feet have four claw-like toes. Two toes point up and two point down — so that he can get a good grip on bark. 3. Glue the grips Now, once he's drilled his little hole, how does he manage to reach inside the tree for his supper? Again, our God and his Creator has equipped him well. The woodpecker has a wonderful tongue. It's long, with special glands on it which secrete a substance that bugs stick to like glue. When the woodpecker pulls his tongue out of the drilled hole it's covered with a smorgasbord of insects. 4. Tongue that curls The woodpecker's tongue is worth even closer scrutiny. Most birds have tongues that are fastened to the back of their beak. The woodpecker would choke if this was the case because his tongue is far too long. So do you know where God fastened it? In his right nostril. Yes, when the woodpecker is not using his tongue, he rolls it up and stores it in his nose. Coming from the right nostril, the tongue divides into two halves. Each half passes over each side of the skull, (under the skin), comes around and up underneath the beak and enters the beak through a hole. And at this point the two halves combine and come out of his mouth. You have to agree that the woodpecker's tongue is a most intricate and complicated piece of equipment. Blind to the wonder Not everyone believes that God created "every winged bird according to its kind." (Genesis 1:21b) Some evolutionists believe that birds were first reptiles. A 1980 Science Yearbook states that "paleontologists assume that the bird's ancestors learned to climb trees to escape from predators and to seek insect food. Once the 'bird' was in a tree, feathers and wings evolved (grew) to aid in guiding from branch to branch." Isn't it funny to think of so-called scientific men who believe this? If evolution were really true, why don't we see lizards sitting in trees today sprouting little feathers? Doesn't the thought alone make you chuckle? Actually, some evolutionists themselves are even aware that this is not really true. In 1985 an evolutionist named Feduccia said, "Feathers are features unique to birds, and there are no known intermediate structures between reptilian scales and feather." So why do people continue to believe and teach evolution? Romans 1:18-20 tells us why. Some people choose to suppress the truth. They have no faith in God's marvelous creation, even though it is all around them, and these people are "without excuse" (v. 20) before God. No, we are wise to stick to our faith in Scripture. The complexity of birds, certainly including the woodpecker, point to an intelligent Creator. And Bishop Paley's argument is good because today, 200 years later, we can point to many other living creatures also, (even tiny microscopic forms of life are infinitely complex), who could never have come about by any chance process of evolution. We praise and thank God for His marvelous creation. With the four and twenty elders of Revelations 4:11 we can say: "You are worthy, our Lord and God, to receive glory and honor and power, for You created all things, and by Your will they were created and have their being." https://youtu.be/vKR9vS4df-I?t=10s Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books, including her new historical fiction novel, Katharina, Katharina, about the times of Martin Luther. This article first appeared in the February 1991 issue of Reformed Perspective. ...

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Assorted

How to write

…for Reformed Perspective ***** Everyone has at least one article in them – I’m convinced that’s true. It doesn’t matter who I’m talking to, they all have a story, some lesson, a piece of wisdom earned or received, that is so valuable they should feel obligated to share it with the rest of us (Ps. 71:17-18). Sure, we aren’t all writers, and yes, there are other ways of telling “the next generation the praiseworthy deeds of the Lord” (Ps. 78:4b). Sharing can happen via chats at church, over coffee, or in the car with the kids. Maybe you can start your own podcast – that could be brilliant too. But there is something about putting pen to paper and just pondering, what has the Lord been teaching me? And if it’s something you’d share with your spouse, friends, or kids, then couldn’t a few thousand others benefit too? You don’t even have to be the writer to get it down on paper – one of my favorite Reformed Perspective articles is Alice Kuik’s World War II remembrance “War through the eyes of a child,” as told to her writer friend Jane DeGlint. Together they crafted something that should be read every single Remembrance Day. The point is, we all have our God to glorify, and we all have a story to share, and pulling out your laptop and typing away might be a really good way of doing both. But what if you’ve never written much of anything before? Well, then you’re like the new homeowner who has to figure out for the first time how to get your shower draining like it should. There’s nothing to it but to start, turn to whatever advisors you might have at hand (“Hey dad, have you ever…?”), ask YouTube and ChatGPT for a few tips too, and then slog through until something works. Yes, there are master plumbers out there who could do it better, and master writers too – folks who can just churn out poetic, punchy stuff – but for the rest of us, it is just a matter of putting in the sweat and time. And I’m here to help too. While I can’t make it easy, I can make it easier. What follows are my own best tips, the same half dozen I’ve been sharing with aspiring writers, and repeating to myself every time I’ve run stuck, these last 25 years. I’m not sure I like the acronym (so if you think up an alternative let me know) but I’m going to run with it – let’s see if we can get your writing to pass the SMELLS test. 1) Specific detail (or, Show, don’t tell) If I told you that Wes Huff is a witty Christian apologist, you’d have to take my word for it. But what if I showed you? In his recent appearance on The Joe Rogan Experience, Huff explained why it’s not enough to respect Jesus as a great teacher: “I have a friend, Andy Bannister. He’s out in the UK, and he says if you take Christ out of Christian, all you’re left with is Ian. And Ian’s a great guy but he’s not going to save you from your sins.” Now, instead of just taking my word for it, you’re a witness – this guy is funny. Specific details like this key quote help a writer to show, rather than tell. Specific details that liven up your writing could include pertinent statistics (so long as it isn’t just dry data), on-the-ground facts, setting-the-scene descriptions, and the right biblical text. The key here is specificity. The difference between an insightful blog post read by only dozens and an insightful article read by thousands can come down to whether the writer is talking in generalities, or whether he is willing to dig up specific examples and illustrations and facts and figures. So, it’s one thing to say abortion is devastating and another thing entirely to say that it may account for 52% of all deaths worldwide. It’s one thing to say we are facing a demographic crisis, and another to explain, as Mark Penninga recently did, that “if we look at Italy, in just 30 years it is projected that 60 percent of Italians will have no brothers, no sisters, no cousins, no aunts, and no uncles.” It’s specific details that catch our attention and drive home the truth. 2) Murder your darlings In her latest book, Upheld, Christine Farenhorst remembers when her husband Anco was taking classes in veterinary school, and they were thankful for folks who’d take compassion on their poor student status and invite them over. The Pots were an example, but “rather impoverished themselves.” So when Mrs. Pot offered her a pastry, Christine was grateful for the treat. But after a few bites, she was horrified to discover her pastry was full of mold. Should she say something? The elderly woman was quite delighted with her own piece: “Isn’t it good? I’ll bet you haven’t eaten anything like this for a long time!” “Mrs. Pot beamed at me again and a patch of sunlight caught a faded spot of the carpet. I knew she considered both Anco and myself underfed, and had taken great pains to buy something special for us.” And so, Christine ate it all down as quickly as she could, and when asked whether she’d like another piece, she “croaked a trifle hoarsely” that no, she did not, “but it was delicious.” “ appeared very pleased with the comment, and I knew that my statement, strange as it sounded to my stomach, was Gospel truth to my heart.” I love this exchange, and since reading it I’ve wanted to use it in an article about how Christians’ love of the truth needs to be better understood. The point I want to make is that it would be no lie for a high school boys’ basketball team to identify as girls for one particular game against that team – the one with the “girl” with the 5 o’clock shadow who’s been dominating the women’s league. In trouncing that team, our boys would be highlighting the truth that men are not, and cannot become, women. I wanted to use Christine’s story because here too, a lie is no lie at all – the cake was both disgusting and also delicious; stomach-churning, and heart-warming all the same. But try as I might, I can’t make Christine’s story fit smoothly. It is a fantastic story, but to include it and explain its relevance will only complicate things, distracting from my point, rather than illustrating it. And so, for my purposes, I need to cut it (though in Christine’s book, it is perfectly placed). This is what G.K. Chesterton meant when he said “Murder your darlings” (or was it Faulkner?). Every line and paragraph in your piece has to advance your plot or argument. If it doesn’t, it can’t matter how much you like that passage – how well written it is, or how funny – it needs to go. So yes, you must be able to “murder” your favorite lines, paragraphs, and examples. 3) Evocative God’s Word is evocative – He calls us to not only hear, but to live out what He’s told us (Matt. 7:24-27; James 1:22-25). That’s what we want in RP articles too – there needs to be a call to action. The reader should not, once the conclusion is consumed, be able to simply file this away for information. We are trying to pass along wisdom, not just knowledge, so an article has to evoke a response: it needs to become wisdom used. 4) Lead (or lede) line The most important sentence in your article is the first one, with the second almost as much so – if you don’t grab readers right from the start, flipping the page is really easy to do. That’s why your lead line and lead paragraph have to start things off with a bang and it’s also why I spend the bulk of my editing time on just the first few lines of each article. What’s the key to a good lead? A question can draw a reader in – here are examples from the last couple issues: • How do you buy a house when you are 19? • Want to reduce your chances of being depressed? A pithy quote (both, again, from last issue) can also be a strong start: • “How we see is who we be.” – a wise pirate • “The public school has become a counter-church” – Abraham Kuyper And a solid standby is to begin with an anecdote – pull us in with a story. But while there are all sorts of tricks, it’s really about effort. Flip through a few RP issues and study how each article begins, and jot down the openers you like best. Then figure out what you liked about them. Grab a Christian Renewal or your local paper, pull up your news feed, and start collecting the best beginnings. Learn by just opening your eyes to the writing you are reading every day. 5) Less is more Blaise Pascal quipped this apology in one of his articles: “I have made this longer than usual because I have not had time to make it shorter." Brevity takes time, but it’s key to readability. If you could have said it in two pages but take four, you either won’t get your article accepted in the first place, or your double-stuffed piece will get half the readership it might otherwise have. So a key to good writing is to be a good editor who can cut away all the fluff and confusion. Fortunately, if you are a reader (as every writer should be), you have all the makings for being a pretty decent editor – you can already tell when something is wordy, confusing, or repetitive. So get your first draft down, put it away for a week, and then with fresh eyes get to cutting, cutting, and more cutting. 6) So and but, not and Not all your paragraphs should begin with “so” or “but” – that would get repetitive fast –but it’d be good if it was at least possible. These are transitional words that show there’s a tight linkage from one paragraph to the next. In contrast, if you could only begin a paragraph with “and,” it would indicate that this paragraph isn’t all that connected to what came before it. You can test that out on this article, and here are some sentences that illustrate the same point: • I ordered a chicken burger and an egg salad so I could see which came first. • I tried to write a joke about procrastination but I never got around to it. With “so” and “but” the second part of the sentence is responding to the first. We end up with what’s basically a very short story, and that’s great because stories are great. But substitute the word “and” in either case and you just have a series of unrelated events. I ordered a chicken burger, and I ordered an egg salad, and I could see which came first. If that’s how your article sounds, you need to work on your transitions, tightening up your story or argument so it’s clear how it flows from one paragraph to the next. Conclusion This SMELLS Test is just a half dozen tips that should be taken for the helpful suggestions they are intended to be, and not as some sort of unbreakable rules. Shucks, sometimes these tips conflict. For example, in writing up Tip #2, I wanted to use some “specific detail” to “show rather than just tell” what it would look like to have to “murder your darlings.” All that showing meant it became one of my longer tips, ignoring Tip #5, that “Less is more.” However, in this case I judged that more was more. Some of these tips are more important than others, and #3 is a big one, so I don’t want to end without issuing my own “evocative” call to action. So, how about it? Will you seriously consider writing for RP? Yes, not everyone is a writer… but it sure does seem like we’re all storytellers, and that’s almost the same thing. If you’ve got a story you’ve just had to share with all your kids or grandkids, or if you’ve been sharing business tips or marriage, parenting, mentoring, and general life lessons, how about sharing them with a few thousand more? If God has gifted you a lesson, pass it on. We’re not all writers… but that doesn’t mean we can’t be. ***** You can send your queries or articles to [email protected] and I’ll try to get back to you within two business days. If you want to dig deeper into the topic of writing as a Christian, you can’t go wrong buying a copy of Marvin Olasky’s “Reforming Journalism,” which offers all sorts of thoughts and lessons. For more tips in a much shorter format, see ReformedPerspective.ca/write-for-RP....

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Amazing stories from times past

Four days in the life of Albert Tenfold

What you'll find below is a Reformed Perspective tradition that started back in the winter of 1991 – 31 years ago! Each year since then, at year's end, and just in time for Christmas holiday reading, Christine Farenhorst has gifted us with a longer short story, and what follows below is her latest edition. We've also included links to reviews we've done for seven of Christine's books, so that when you're finished, you'll know where to go to find even more of Christine's stories. “I’m going out tonight” "Now for the matters you wrote about: It is good for a man not to marry. But since there is so much immorality, each man should have..." Albert always felt slightly uncomfortable reading this passage. He ran his hand over the thin paper of his Bible page and cleared his throat. "What's the matter? Do you have a sore throat?" "No, mother." His mother sat across from him, regal and straight, in the red, high-backed plush chair that had been his stepfather's. She peered at him through her bifocals. "Shouldn't let your thoughts wander, Albert." He cleared his throat again and continued to read. "...should have his own wife, and each woman her own husband." His mother's voice picked up where he had left off. They took turns reading two verses each after meals. He regarded her for a moment as she read, ring-fingered hands resting in her lap. It was one of the few moments he could observe her without her knowledge. Her rather coarse face had an equally coarse voice. Loud it was, and monotonous to the point of dull. She hadn't gone to school here, so perhaps the English.... But then, come to think of it, when she read in Dutch there was no inflection either. The voice was always flat and without feeling. Her gray, rheumy eyes suddenly met his. "Albert, where are your thoughts tonight? Verse five, child." He found the place and read on. "Do not deprive each other except by mutual consent...." As he read, his thoughts smoothed out, smoothed out ridges which he occasionally tripped over and when he later breathed the words: "for it is better to marry than to burn with passion...," he was able to keep his mind on Paul without focusing on the lack of passion in his own life – a passion he occasionally desired. **** Before Albert cleared the table, he helped his mother to the couch. "Do you want the paper? Or shall I turn on the television for you?' She shook her head to both questions. "I'm a bit tired, son. I think I'll have a small nap while you do the dishes. In that way I'll be fresh for Scrabble when Mrs. Dorman comes later. Be sure to set out the cups for tea and the cookies..." He stopped the avalanche of words with "I know, mother. I know." There was a certain resignation in his voice as he pulled the afghan over her body but a thin thread of irritation unraveled in his hands and a sudden clumsiness overtook them. **** Christine serves up biographies of six very different men: Martin Luther King Jr., Albert Schweitzer, Rembrandt, Samuel Morse, Freud, Norman Rockwell. Click the cover for our review. In the kitchen Paul's words swam about as Albert placed the dishes in the sink. "It is better to marry than to burn with passion..." Had Paul known more about passion than he did? Had Paul been married? Had he taken a wife with him on his missionary journeys? Or a mother? If Paul had had his mother... He suddenly grinned at the suds but then became serious. What did he, Albert, know about marriage anyway? His expertise lay in being single. He scrubbed at the potato pan with vigor and frustration. The small kitchen surrounded him with apathy. There was nothing new. Coffee mugs hung on a small rack in the same way that they had hung for years and years. A birthday calendar, with numerous Dutch aunts and uncles enshrined on separate dates, hung beside it. The white refrigerator stood squarely and the patterned tiles on the floor reflected cleanliness and care. The wooden plaque on the wall spoke to him in Peter's voice. "Cast all your care upon Him for He careth for you." "But what are my cares, Peter?" Albert questioned the apostle out loud and repeated: "What are my cares?" "What's that, Albert? I can't hear you." "Nothing, mother. Just go to sleep." "I'm sure I heard you say something." "No, mother." He folded the dish towel over the rack and walked into the living room. "Are you sure you didn't say something, Albert?" "Yes." He stood in the middle of the room, undecided as to what to do. "Sit down, son, and read the paper." "I'm going out tonight, mother." "Out? But Mrs. Dorman..." "She's your friend, mother. She's coming to play Scrabble with you." "But you always play with us. She..." "I'm going out tonight, mother." His voice was firm. "Where are you going?" She half sat up, reaching for her bifocals on the side table. "I'm going out." It was all Albert could manage. "But..." "You'll be all right. And I'll be home in good time." He was out in the hall before she could formulate a reply. ''Albert?" Opening the closet door, he took his coat off a hanger. "Albert?" Her voice was growing in intensity. "I'll see you later, mother." The door handle felt cold under his hand and the hinges squeaked. "Albert?" It was more of a shout this time and he shut the door firmly, feeling both guilt and relief. Into the night Albert Tenfold lived on the fifth floor of a high-rise apartment building with his widowed mother. He was thirty-five and she was seventy. His stepfather had died when he was a teenager. Cast into the mold of male provider at an early age, he had never really been young. Fiercely dependent, his mother had leaned on him heavily, and he had settled under the weight. To the outward eye, they were a model family - a stalwart son providing constant love and care for an aging, frail mother. And it had seemed that way to Albert also - had seemed that way until this last month. Perhaps because he was rapidly approaching his thirty-sixth birthday, he had been doing some thinking. Ten years from now he would be forty-five, almost forty-six, and his mother would be eighty and then, ten years later, he would be in his mid-fifties and she would be ninety. Unless she died - but somehow he could not envisage his mother dead - even though deep down he sometimes wished it. He would be her son forever, her son and not someone's husband. And then guilt would flood over him like a wave of hot wind and he would break out into a sweat. How could he be thinking such thoughts? The hall was empty. As he plodded heavily towards the elevator, Albert awkwardly buttoned up his coat. It had all been very well to tell his mother that he was going out, but the truth was that he had no inkling as to where he would go. He had few friends - few friends outside his mother's circle, that is. There were a great many Mrs. Dormans; widows who delighted in visiting back and forth; who excelled in speaking of rheumatism and the weather; and who always commented on how fortunate his mother was to have him. The elevator had brought him down to the first floor. He legged it towards the front door. It was raining outside and he stood for a moment, contemplating the sidewalk through the heavy glass panels. He could possibly go to the library. As he resolutely opened the entrance, both the sound of the rain and the fresh air comforted him. Raindrops were a sound he had always enjoyed. Sighing deeply, he pulled up his collar and struck out. It was quiet outside and almost dark. The faint glow of streetlights reflected and trembled in the puddles. He wished he were going somewhere - somewhere where someone was waiting for him. It began to rain harder as he passed Mary's Dome, the large Roman Catholic cathedral. Although he had quickened his step with the downpour, he stopped for a moment to contemplate the cathedral’s colossal size and grandeur through the sheets of rain. Stone arches glistened in their wetness. He suddenly shivered and coveted shelter. Perhaps he could sit inside for a while. Just until the rain stopped. Turning, he climbed the stone steps which led to massive wooden doors. Gingerly pressing down on a wrought-iron door-handle, he pushed. As the door creaked heavily, an aperture appeared and Albert stepped inside. Flickering candles The cathedral foyer was dark and smelled slightly musty. Behind him the massive wood fell heavily into place, the sound echoing and re-echoing. Hesitantly he walked on through the foyer into the lighted sanctuary. It was huge compared to that of his own church - and comparatively quiet. There people talked and whispered behind their hands when they walked in. They rustled bulletins and took out peppermints. But perhaps because there were so few people here... He inhaled the quiet and relaxed. Three or four people were present in the front pews, heads bowed and silent, praying, as far as he could tell. Albert stood for a moment and then slowly made his way toward the middle of the church, sliding into a seat on his left. The pew was small - almost too small for his bulk. He grinned to himself. What would his mother say? Or his ward elder? Or Mr. DeVries, his employer and an avid commentator on false churches? After a while the quiet had embraced him to such a degree that he felt as if time had stopped. Did it matter to God whether you sat in a Reformed church or a Roman Catholic one? Of course it did, he knew that. But it was raining proverbial cats and dogs outside and the state of one's heart, was that not what God considered? He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face dry. If a church happened to be on your way in a rainstorm and that church was Roman Catholic, well then... Well then, what? It certainly was peaceful here. He cautiously examined the stained-glass windows on his right. Impressive and grand, they made the raindrops outside them glow with color through the matted glass as they danced their way down in rivulets. He shifted his frame somewhat and his foot knocked against a wooden slat beneath the pew in front of him. He contemplated the kneeling bench with interest. Padded with red leather, it appeared comfortable. He glanced about again. There was no one present except the few worshippers at the front and the only one staring at him directly as he peered about was a statue of Mary in the aisle next to him. Clad in a sky-blue stone robe, she eyed him serenely. Cautiously he slid his knees onto the padded red leather and bowed his head. "Our Father..." He could not recall ever before having knelt for prayer in church. He did kneel for prayer when he went to bed. It is not a matter of knees or kneeling, the minister had told them in catechism, but a matter of the heart. And yet, kneeling always made his heart more submissive. Was it submissive now? So many thoughts.... Could you be submissive with so many thoughts running around in your head? "Hallowed be Thy name..." There was a strange smell here. It reminded him of... What was it? Christmas was the time when mother brought out the candles. It was the scent of sweet tallow. Mary's statue, just ahead of him in the center aisle, had a number of candles in front of it. Several of them were burning. Luther had knelt in such churches and so had Calvin. But he was neither a Luther nor a Calvin. Imagine people four centuries from now saying that they were Tenfoldian or Tenfoldistic. He ran his hand over the wood in front of him. The grain was smooth. Sometimes he was not even sure of the truth he stood for. Was the truth always smooth? He went to church, had gone to a Christian school, read the Bible at mealtimes and before he went to bed, prayed at set times and was able to recite a fair number of the catechism questions and answers. Did those matters encompass the truth? And if he heard a lie, would he be able to detect it? He sighed. All of life, all of life... was it not one confrontation after another? Were simple problems not large ones in miniature? And each spoken word... Were you not judged for it? "Thy kingdom come..." Most times, he admitted to himself as he shifted his knees on the red leather, he had no thoughts of God's kingdom at all. There were only the day-by-day affairs of coping with small things, of pleasing his mother and of doing his work properly for Mr. DeVries. "Thy kingdom come...." He moved his body back up onto the bench again and rubbed his knees. In heaven there would be no marriage. The statue of Mary smiled at him benignly. The Roman Catholics believed that she was immaculate, pure, undefiled; and that she had never had relations with her husband Joseph. The figure certainly seemed flawless. There was one thing he had never doubted about her and that was that she surely must have loved her Son. But then, Jesus would have been easier to love than an Albert. Contemplating the statue, he began to whisper confidentially. "I know that you were highly favored, but you were human - you did have sin." Mary kept on smiling. A dozen candles shone brightly at her feet. He imagined lighting candles at his mother's feet, imploring her to intercede, begging her to help with some problem. Did candles have to be made of tallow? Did he not often light candles at his mother's feet in other ways? Did he not do it by always deferring to her and conceding that she was right; by asking if he might do this or that; by permitting her to take a role that somehow made him weak and ineffective, even though it seemed to all the world that he was the provider and the man of the house. Tonight was actually the first time that he could recall that he had actually done something without asking her permission. He regarded the statue again. The sky-blue of the robe was peaceful and Mary’s eyes were pensive, as if she was thinking deeply. But there was a hair-line crack along the folds of her stone robe. He knelt down again on the leather and rested his forehead against the pew in front of him. He did love his mother. Hadn't he taken care of her all these years? Perhaps, perhaps he just didn't like her. Did she love him? Had she reason to not love him? His forehead rubbed against the smooth wood and slipped just a bit as sweat trickled past his eyebrows. He could not recall that she had ever said, “I love you, Albert.” There had been phrases like “I'm proud of you, Albert,” when he had graduated from college, and if he donated money to the church or Christian school, she would say, “The Lord loves a cheerful giver,” but that was about as close... “You are a priest, then?” A slight noise to his right startled him. He raised his head and saw a woman standing by Mary's statue. She fumbled with her purse and Albert watched her take out a wallet, fish out and fold a ten-dollar bill before depositing it into a slot. She made the sign of the cross and lit two of the candles. Hunching down, her clasped hands almost touching the carpet, she was evidently praying. Her blue raincoat dripped water onto the carpet staining bright red. He watched her for a long time. She was motionless but he could see that her lips were moving. What petition, he wondered, was worth ten dollars? What question so burned her heart that she had to kneel down on a faded, red carpet in front of a lifeless statue? Had Eli watched Hannah in this manner? She rose and turned and he could see that there were tears in her eyes. Ashamed to be watching, he bowed his head down on the pew wood again. "...a rare treasure, a must for all parents!" click the cover for the rest of our review. "Excuse me. Could you tell me what time it is?” He opened his eyes. The woman was standing by his side. "I'm sorry to bother... to bother you." She stuttered a bit in embarrassment and he pulled up his coat sleeve to check his watch. "That's all right. It's a quarter after nine." "Thank you." Her blue raincoat was still shiny with rain and black hair curled damply around an oval face. She was fairly young. He would guess her to be around twenty-four or five. "Are you the... the priest?" She looked at him rather anxiously and he wondered if he had put on his collar backwards. The statue of Mary silhouetted behind her and compassion overcame him for her misplaced faith. "The priest?" "Yes... He was to meet me at nine. I thought... thought that you ...?" Clearly, within the chambers of his mind, he heard Peter's words, "But you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, that you may declare the praises of Him Who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light." The girl continued to stare at him. Her dark blue eyes were pensive and he smiled at them. "I'm not the priest. That is to say, I'm not the priest you're looking for." "Oh, but you are a priest then?" "Well..." He looked for words to explain to her that as a believer he reflected the glory of God and... His thoughts got no further. "If you're not busy, maybe you have time to speak to me for a moment?" He saw the statue smiling at her back and got a whiff of the tallow. "I'm not Roman Catholic." For a small moment looking into her dark, blue eyes, he was sorry he was not. The girl blinked and took a step backwards. "You're not?" He shook his head. "No, I'm sorry if my being here misled you." "You were praying." She said it defensively. He felt a trifle foolish and stood up. "I came in out of the rain. It's very peaceful here. Yes, I was praying." "I'm not Roman Catholic either." She suddenly smiled up at him and he could see strong, irregular, white teeth. "Oh?" "If you were praying," she was earnest again, "maybe you know about God... about prayer…?” “You might be a king, but…” Albert Tenfold had led a very structured life. It had been drilled into him that organization and discipline were next to godliness. When he was growing up, his mother had always made sure that he had porridge for breakfast, drank milk with his lunch and went to bed at a set time after dinner. Christian grade and high school were givens and catechism lessons a must. There were always two services to attend every Sunday, regular Young People's meetings, and occasional youth rallies. After he had made a public confession of his faith at age seventeen, he had tithed, celebrated the Lord's Supper every two months and attended study weekends on various Bible topics. "About God...?" he answered the girl slowly. "About prayer?" She nodded at him. During his entire thirty-five years of Christian living, Albert had never been confronted with questions of this sort by anyone outside of his church circle, and they hung in front of him like an unused banner. He played for time. "Do you want to go for a coffee and talk for a while?" She considered him for a long moment and he wondered if she felt that this cathedral was a safe place, a place where strangers could be approached without fear. "I'd talk here but it's just that..." He stopped abruptly and made a small gesture towards the front pews with his head. There were still some people there and Albert's whisper carried. "Sure, I'll go for a coffee." Turning her back on the statue, she walked down the aisle ahead of him and he followed. **** 74 short stories make for great devotionals with your kids! Click the cover for our review. The rain had eased off considerably. There was a smell of sweetness in the air and in the distance a dog barked. "What's your name?" She asked the question almost as soon as they reached the pavement. "Albert. What's yours?" "Victoria, but my friends call me Vicky." He grinned. "Why are you laughing?" "Albert and Victoria." She looked at him blankly. "You know," he explained, "the king and queen of England." She grinned too. "Well, you might be a king but I'm not exactly a queen." He awkwardly offered her his arm as she gingerly edged past a puddle on the sidewalk. She took it lightly. He barely noted her touch. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that her hand was small and that her fingers had well-rounded, clean nails. He could not help but think of how his mother would cling to him in this sort of weather. His mother who always wore gloves. Her voice bounced off the sidewalk now and he heard her command clearly within the chambers of his mind. "Your arm, Albert! Give me your arm!" He sighed and quickened his step. She looked up at him questioningly. "You probably have other things to do, right? Actually you don't..." He didn't let her finish. "No, no. I'm sorry if I've given you the impression that ... that I'm not enjoying myself." He finished the sentence rather lamely and almost blushed. **** The coffee shop was crowded and the noisy atmosphere fell about them like an intrusion. They stood in line for a while behind one another, not speaking, studying the pastry behind the glass. "I'll pay for my own." She spoke curtly and avoided looking at him. "No, please..." He didn't really know what to say but went on hesitatingly. "I'd be honored to pay for your coffee and..." "Maybe," and she interrupted in a low voice, "maybe you won't be honored after we talk." He felt unsure suddenly. Maybe this girl was a prostitute; maybe she had committed a murder; maybe... He got no further with his thoughts. "Can I help you, sir?" "A glazed donut, please, and a coffee." "To go?" "No, we'll eat here." Vicky ordered the same and allowed him to pay. “Sometimes, you want to redo time…” Providentially there was an empty table by a window. It had begun to rain again and the sound eased the tension between them. Albert stirred his coffee and wondered how to begin the conversation. But he didn't have to. "Do you still want me to talk to you?" she said. He looked at her. She was fingering her donut without eating it. Damp hair clung to her forehead. "Yes, of course... but if you'd rather not…" His spoon sploshed some coffee over the side of his cup and she reached for a napkin from the holder on the table. "Oh, I'd like to talk to someone. Actually I have to talk to someone or..." She stopped and rubbed the brown puddle on the table fiercely, small fingers white with the pressure. "Well," he said, matter of factly, "well, I'm here and at your service." She took a small sip of her coffee, smiled nervously at him and began. "A year ago I was a student at the university here in town. I was enrolled in Political Studies..." She lifted her coffee with both hands and stared out the window. He waited. He didn't have to wait long. She no longer seemed to be speaking to him but, considering her reflection in the window, addressed it. "I resented most things... rich people, styrofoam, male chauvinists, acid rain and apartheid. I joined Greenpeace, the Sierra Club and Amnesty International and talked about a lot of things without really understanding any of them. I said that I was an agnostic and I was flattered when I raised eyebrows." She paused for breath, put down her cup and crumbed off a piece of her donut. Not eating it, but turning it over in her hand, she went on. "All my friends were saying the same sort of things. One of them... One of them..." She picked up her coffee, sipped again and returned to her reflection in the window. "To make a long story short... Well, I became pregnant... The father was someone I hardly knew... and the baby I conceived was just another thing I didn't really understand." Albert had been watching her face. He had been listening to the sound of her voice thinking that it didn't really fit in the story. She had a child's voice and her hands were a child's hands. "The group I hung around with all advised me to go for an abortion. So I did what was expected of me. I scheduled an appointment for an abortion at a health clinic." Albert sat up straighter and took a bite out of his donut. His heartbeat increased and he felt sweat trickle down his armpits. "But my friends... they suggested that I try a new abortion technique. It was a drug. So I... I looked into it. There was a special clinic and it was close to where I lived. I went to it." **** Some people passed their table and Vicky stopped talking. She gulped down some of her coffee and coughed. Albert cleared his throat. He racked his brain for Biblical texts - prayed for some homily to come to him which he might deliver here at this coffee shop which would relieve the tension and which would both teach error and convey compassion. "I... There was a staff." Vicky seemed not to notice his discomfort. Engulfed in the past, her voice kept on confessing. "They examined me and had me sign two documents. One was a release form and one was a government something or other. Then a nurse came and she had this small suitcase. She explained things... like how this drug would work. I didn't understand it all but didn't let on. I was scared." Albert took another bite of his donut. It tasted bland and he had trouble swallowing it. "Was I sure I wanted to go ahead? That's what the nurse asked. And I said, yes... yes, I was sure. And then she opened the suitcase and gave me a small box. There were three pills in the box, just three little pills. She brought me a glass of water and then I... I swallowed those pills. Just like that... just like that." Her voice broke and Albert took a swallow of his coffee and cleared his throat again. Vicky pushed her donut towards the center of the table and picked up her napkin. "Sometimes you want to redo time, to relive just one moment. Have you ever had that?" She turned her face to him fully for the first time and he noted that her eyes were blue with small flecks of green in them. He answered slowly. "I've had that. Yes... I've had that lots of times. It's because we continually do things that we regret later. We always..." "Yes," she interrupted, "but what if the thing you do is so..." She stopped again and then went on. "The pills made me sick. I had cramps, nausea and diarrhea and I bled... I just bled and bled. I phoned the clinic and they told me not to worry but I felt so ghastly. I could barely get out of bed to make it to the bathroom. There was so much pain and I couldn't focus properly. I finally phoned for an ambulance. They came and took me to the hospital." "Did you... Had you..." Albert couldn't help but ask, "Had you lost the baby?" She stared at him with her blue eyes. "Lost it? You don't understand. If you lose something... Well, you can maybe find it later. I failed to abort with the pill but it had done the job. The child in me was dead and, as a result, I had to have a surgical abortion and... And during that surgical abortion my uterus was punctured. There was infection, a bad infection, and then I had a hysterectomy." "Oh." It was all Albert could manage. He played with his cup and noted that it had stopped raining. Were these the words Vicky had prayed to Mary? Was this what her silent lips had been speaking of to a mere statue? Had she lit a candle to atone for murder? He shivered. “I have to apologize to someone” "They didn't tell me that I would be feeling such guilt. No one ever mentioned the fact that I would feel such a..." She stopped and tried again. "No one explained. You see, I know for a fact that it was a child... not just a nothing... and I killed this child... my child. My friends didn’t understand when I tried to explain how I felt... and I was so lost." “Your family..." Albert got no further than two words. She laughed. "I have no family. That is, my mother died when I was seven and my father is living with wife number four. I haven't been home for years and don't plan to go there now." "Oh." Again, it was all Albert was able to say. How would his mother react to a Vicky? "Mother, may I introduce you to Vicky. She just had an abortion and is feeling a little down." "I... I realize that whatever it was that I was trying to be or say last year and before that, was a fraud - was not real. But I know that there is something real. There has to be! And I'm trying to find it. So I wanted to ask the priest about God and then he wasn't there. But you were there." **** There are 9 short stories here, and “I was a Stranger” is reason enough to pick it up. Click the cover for our review. Albert was suddenly calm. "You see," she went on, staring out of the window again, "if there is nothing, then I wouldn't be able to live. I... I... I don't know if you understand, but I have to be able to apologize to someone for... for killing this baby." There was a sudden clap of thunder outside and the rain resumed with thick drops splattering the sidewalk. Vicky shivered. Albert began to speak. Cautiously his voice crept across the table. "I think I understand what you mean," he said. "Can I tell you something about myself - something I haven't told... something I have never told anyone." He stopped. She turned her eyes towards him. He could read neither approval nor disapproval in them. "Sure." Her passionate voice had become flat. It had turned bland, disappointed perhaps. Maybe she wanted a quick answer. But he wouldn't be able to answer quickly. He looked her full in the face. "It isn't easy for me to speak actually. I'm more of a doer than a speaker." She didn't respond and he went on hesitantly, choosing his words with care. "I was born during the first year of the war. We lived in a small village somewhere in the north of Holland. I don't remember much." His hands crumpled the napkin he was holding. "It’s funny, the things that I do remember though. Things like the creaking of the cradle I must have slept in; things like a horse pulling the milk cart passing our house every morning. My mother says that my first word was horse." He looked at her, waiting for some sort of response, but there was none. And his intuition told him that she wasn't really listening because the words meant nothing to her, nothing at all. But he went on all the same. “My father had a good job. He was a lawyer, a very good lawyer my mother tells me. He conducted a lot of business and people liked him very much. When the war came, he helped people. He helped Jews in particular. The strange thing is that I don't remember my father's face but I do remember that he was tall, very tall. Perhaps I remember that because he used to throw me up into the air and catch me in his arms." “My heart accused me…” Vicky was still not reacting to his story at all. If anything, she was slightly uncomfortable. But Albert persisted. "During the first years of the war my father lived at home. He was not suspected by the Germans of any subterfuge even though he was involved in the underground. His specialty had something to do with illegal documents. But later on he had to leave our house and go into hiding. My mother and I only saw him on those few occasions that he deemed it safe to come for a short visit. On one of those visits the Gestapo must have been tipped off because shortly after he arrived they surrounded our house. My mother was frantic and father hid behind a secret panel in the living room. When they came into the house a moment later, she and I were in the kitchen. They didn't ask where he was but simply began searching." Albert stopped and stretched his legs under the table. He wasn't looking for a reaction in Vicky's eyes anymore. He had actually almost forgotten she was there. "And then... What happened then?" Her voice called him back and he saw that she had become genuinely interested. "Then? Well, miracle of miracles, they didn't find him." He stopped and stretched his legs again. "What was the point of telling me that story?" "The point? I'm still coming to that. You see, after their combing of our entire house, one of the officers hunched down by me, small boy of three that I was, and began to play with me. He had a chocolate bar in his pocket and even though my mother frowned, I took it when he gave it to me. He helped me unwrap the candy and I began to eat... and all the while my mother was glaring. But it tasted wonderful and the man seemed so friendly. When he took me on his lap a moment later, I completely ignored my mother and freely smiled at him. He joked with me and then asked if maybe my father was maybe playing hide and seek. I laughed out loud, greatly amused that he would ask such a question. He laughed too and asked where my father, who must be very clever indeed, might be hiding. I slid off his lap, walked into the living room and stood by the panel. When they discovered my father a few moments later, I remember that I did not feel quite right about it but didn't really understand why. When I ran to my mother for comfort, she spat in my face. Then they... they took him out into our yard and shot him, right in front of the house. The soldier who had given me the chocolate said, 'Danke schön,' bowed to my mother and myself, and left. He was mocking us. Afterwards, my mother made me go out to look at the dead body of my father... and I screamed and screamed until the neighbors came and took me away." "You didn't mean it," Vicky said. "You didn't know what you were doing. You were only a little child." "Yes," Albert answered thickly, "you are right. I was only a child." The thunder rolled in the distance and Vicky's eyes were sympathetic when she said, "How did you... How did you manage? What did your mother...?" "She... I lived with the neighbors until the end of the war. She didn't want... me." "Oh." She drummed her fingers along the table edge and regarded Albert seriously. "You were praying in church. You told me that you were praying. So, what did you do with your guilt? Or, didn't you pray when you were little? Or, what I'm trying to say is how did you deal with the fact that you caused...?" 7 stories from the 2 World Wars. Click on the cover for our review. She stopped abruptly. He smiled at her. The fact that he now felt forgiven for the death he had caused did not make it any easier to speak of this time. "No one really spoke to me about my father's death. The neighbors were very kind. But as I grew older I felt, also because of what other children said to me at school, that I was solely responsible for the fact that my mother was a widow. When my mother remarried in 1946 I had been living with her again for about a year and my stepfather made plans to emigrate to Canada. We never spoke of my own father. As I grew older my mind told me that I had only been an ignorant child during the war, but my heart accused me of murder every day. We went to church, yes, and we read the Bible." Vicky's eyes were wide with affinity. Albert went on. "What finally saved me from this terrible guilt feeling, Vicky, was the fact that God allowed me to see that He was totally in control of all things." He was quiet and for a moment saw himself earlier that evening, kneeling in the pew. He had been thinking about truth, the truth that God controlled one's life, the truth that God's tender, loving control had always drawn him with cords woven throughout everyday life. Vicky continued to look at him and he went on. "God was in control of my father's life. He had stipulated when and where my father would die. And, I was also led to see that, but for my father's death, I would not have been as drawn to study the Bible so thoroughly to investigate the mighty God I worship, the God Who forgives when we are truly sorry." Vicky stared at him unblinkingly. He wondered if she had understood what he was saying. "I think that if you are looking for God, Vicky," he finally ended, "it's safe to say that He is making you look, that He has used this very tragic thing that has happened to you, this abortion, to make you look for Him." “I can tell you where to look” A waitress stopped by their table. "How is everything with you folks? Anything else you need?" "No, thank you." Albert was quick to answer but then amended, "Maybe you would like some more coffee, Vicky?" "No, no thank you." Her voice was thin and lifeless. The tables around them were almost empty. The waitress smiled. "All right. We'll be closing soon. It's after eleven." Albert glanced at his watch. He imagined that his mother would be livid by now. He took out the small notepad and pen he kept in his pocket and jotted down his church address. "I can't give you faith, Vicky. I can't give you forgiveness either. But I can tell you where to look for it." "I know God is there." Vicky whispered the words. "I know... but I don't know how I know." "Do you have a Bible?" "Yes, I bought one last week." "Then you must read it every day." The lights in the restaurant dimmed and they automatically stood up. The rain had let up again. "I'll walk you home." "No, no... I live very close by." "Well, then it shouldn't be a problem." "No, no... please, I need time to think and be by myself. Thanks." The waitress eyed them impatiently as they walked past her to the door. "Thanks again, Albert." "Goodnight, Vicky." He watched her walk away, small and slight in a coat the color of her eyes, and felt some pain. “It’s your mother…” In the elevator ride up to the fifth floor, Albert rehearsed what he would say when he walked in. There was no doubt in his mind that his mother would still be awake. "Albert?!" "Yes, mother." "Where were you all evening?" "Out with a girl, mother. She'd had an abortion and felt rather miserable. So I took her to a coffee shop and tried to tell her about the forgiveness we can have in Christ." He contemplated the elevator buttons and continued his conversation. "Do you know about forgiveness, mother? You don't, do you?" "Albert, what kind of way is that to speak to your mother?" "Sorry, mother, but I had to say it sooner or later. Even though God forgave me for inadvertently causing father's death you never let me forget that I made you a widow. You never let me forget that I was the one who..." The elevator had reached the fifth floor. The hall was quiet and Albert's inward voice dissolved. **** He took out his keys as he walked towards the apartment. They jangled and he stifled a yawn, hoping against hope that his mother would, after all, be asleep. Before he could fit his key into the lock, however, the apartment door opened. Mrs. Dorman stared up at him. "Albert, you're finally home." "Yes, but what are you still doing here, Mrs. Dorman?" "Your mother, Albert... It's your mother." "What about my mother? What's the matter with her?" They were still standing in the doorway and he moved past the small, dark woman into the apartment. "Maybe you should sit down before..." "What's the matter with my mother, Mrs. Dorman?" "She felt ill, Albert. She had a pain in her chest. So I called an ambulance..." "Yes?" A strange feeling came over him. "They came within five minutes of my calling and the attendant said that it was her heart." He stared at Mrs. Dorman. The woman was nervously twisting her hands together. "It was a heart attack, Albert. I rode in the ambulance with her to the hospital. They took her to intensive care. But before they took her there I promised that I would come back to the apartment and wait for you." "Thank you, Mrs. Dorman. That was kind of you." "Are you going down to the hospital now?" She looked at him, her eyes wide and helpless. His mother was her best friend. "Yes, I will and I'll phone you in the morning to let you know how things are." "Thank you, Albert. Thank you." She walked towards the door and then turned. "Wasn't it too bad that you were out just tonight of all nights?" "Yes. Goodnight, Mrs. Dorman." **** After he closed the door behind her, Albert walked into the living room. A just-begun Scrabble game lay on the table. The words apple, tax and problem stared up at him - three words made by his mother and Mrs. Dorman. He ran his fingers through the word “problem” and then tilted the board, emptying the letters back into the Scrabble box. Maybe his mother had already felt ill when he had left. She had looked just a bit off color. He closed the box and sighed. A great weariness crept over him. But greater than the weariness was the feeling that he had failed somewhere - again. He sat down and cupped his face with his hands. If he was really honest with himself he had to admit that he had no great affection for his mother. “Honor your father and mother - which is the first commandment with a promise - that it may go well with you and that you may enjoy long life on the earth.” He didn't really know at this precise moment whether or not he had honored his mother. Holding him with invisible ropes as it were, she had made him aware of the past in innumerable ways. The small clearing of her throat, for example, when the minister read the sixth commandment. It had always made him edgy, nervous, countless times as a child, and still caused him to squirm. Not because God had not forgiven him, but because she had not. He sighed again and slowly stood up. Better go to the hospital and see how things were. “Forgetting what is behind…” It was still raining when he drove the car through the streets not five minutes later. The windshield wipers beat a soft rhythm and the quiet of the hour calmed him somewhat. He could not stop thinking about his mother's life. She had been happy, as far as he could tell, with his stepfather. His stepfather had been a good husband, a kind father, a gentle and hard-working man. But his mother had always been reserved, had always held back. Albert could not remember that he had ever seen her kiss his stepfather. Neither had she ever kissed her son for that matter. He could not remember either, that she had ever sung spontaneously or laughed genuinely at something silly. On the other hand, she had always cooked good meals, had provided adequate clothing and had kept the house very neat. She had led an ordered existence, an ordered existence that would now, he went on to think, maybe come to an end. What could he say to her as she lay on her hospital bed? If he could never speak to her again but this one time, what was it he should say to this woman who had, after all, borne him in her belly for nine months and who must, it seemed to him, have harbored some love for him. But he could not feel that love as he sat in the car and drove through the dark. **** The streets were deserted but he stopped punctually at every red light, playing for time, having no particular desire to get to the hospital quickly. He thought of Vicky - a compassionate, young woman who had wept because she had killed her unborn child. Perhaps Vicky had more compassion for her dead child than his mother had ever had for him. No, that was a ridiculous thought, an unfair thought. He rubbed his forehead with his right hand and, returning it to the steering wheel, found it wet with sweat. He should not be unfair. What was it he had said to Vicky? Nothing, he had said, nothing is outside of God's control. God had used the tragedy in his life to make him realize just how dependent he was on God. What was it the minister had preached on last Sunday? Oh yes, forget what is behind and strain toward the goal for which God has called us. Another red light - he brought the car to a slow stop. His mother had been unable to forget what lay behind her. They had never really talked about his father and what had happened - never. Would they be able to talk about it now? If they talked about it, would she be able to forget - to forgive? Was it hampering her road to heaven? He should have talked to her at some point. The light turned green. He stepped on the gas and began to drive faster. Was it not also true that, if she had maintained a grudge against him all these years, he had also nurtured a grudge against her? He drove through the next red light. **** The hospital entrance was quiet. The glass doors opened silently under his push. "Can I help you, sir?" The nurse at the desk looked efficient. "My mother was admitted earlier this evening - a heart attack. I've just heard and now...." "What's your mother's name?" "Drooger." She consulted her book and peered up at him from her swivel chair. "She's in intensive care, sir. Fourth floor. You'll have to ask at the desk there." "Thank you." He walked on towards the elevator. “Perhaps it was a blessing” The fourth floor corridor had a red carpet - red, the color of blood. He walked over it quickly and with some trepidation. Two nurses presided at the desk. They both looked up at him and smiled. "Yes?" A unique look at Luther and his times - click the cover for our review. "My mother was admitted earlier this evening with a heart attack. I understand she's in intensive care." He eyed the double doors behind their desk to the intensive care unit with some degree of dislike. They appeared so grim, grey and dismal, as if they only let in and not out. "Your mother's name, sir?" "Drooger." He spoke with some impatience. "Drooger?" "Yes." There was some hesitation on the nurses' part before one of them responded, "Could you wait in the waiting room, sir? I'll ring for the doctor on call to speak with you." "The doctor?" He spoke cautiously, tripping over the word. "Why must I speak with the doctor? I just want to..." "He'll be with you directly. You can sit down over there, sir." They indicated a small lounge behind the desk and smiled at him. "All right." He walked towards the lounge, clumsily scuffing his feet on the red carpet, uncomfortably aware that both nurses were eyeing him behind his back. **** There were three brown chairs and a leather couch. Indecisively he stood for a moment and then sank down heavily into one of the chairs. The table sported magazines - colorful editions featuring smiling men and ladies. The clock on the wall told him it was 12:01. He picked up one of the magazines and then laid it back down. "Mr. Drooger?" A young man had materialized at the entrance of the lounge. Albert stood up. "My name is Tenfold, Albert Tenfold. Mrs. Drooger is my mother." "Please, remain seated. I'd just like to speak with you a moment." "My mother..." Albert was afraid to phrase the question. The young man came closer and bending down, offered his hand. "I'm Dr. Ellis." "Glad to meet you." Dr. Ellis sat down on one of the other chairs and Albert waited. "Your mother was admitted around nine o'clock this evening. I happened to be on duty and so I attended her." "It was a heart attack?" Albert began searching out the pieces of the puzzle that lay between him and a finished picture - pieces that the doctor held. "Yes," Dr. Ellis nodded and queried, "You live in town?" "I live at home with my mother. I was not there tonight when she became ill." Albert's voice was meticulous and short. "Ah." "My mother..." Albert began again. "Yes, your mother did have a heart attack." It was now 12:05. The clock, Albert thought, seemed to move faster than this young man. "How is my mother?" Dr. Ellis reached out a thin and long hand and placed it on Albert's knee. "I'm sorry, Mr. Tenfold. Your mother passed away about an hour ago." Albert sat very still. The doctor removed his hand and regarded him solicitously. "Is there something I can get for you - a coffee?" "No, no, thank you." "It may sound callous, Mr. Tenfold, but perhaps it was a blessing. You see, it was a massive heart attack. There had been extensive damage - several organs were not functioning anymore." "May I see her? May I see the body?" “Perhaps milk and honey” The room in which his mother's body lay was very quiet. The doctor had offered to come in with Albert but he had refused, saying that he wanted to be alone. As the metal door fell shut behind him, he stood leaning against it for several moments, breathing in the nothing odor of the room. His mother’s form scarcely made a dint under the covers of the bed. For a moment he thought he saw the sheet moving, moving up and down as if his mother was still breathing. But it was fool's gold, because when he moved closer there was only stillness, unbroken stillness. **** Might be Christine's best. Click the cover to read our review. He stood at the foot of the bed and held onto the railing. "Hello, mother." Moving to the side, he pulled up a chair and sat down. "I've been gone most of the evening, I know," he went on, "but I didn't know. I really had no idea that you would die tonight." She didn't answer and he looked down at his hands. "You know," he went on, looking up again, "I thought that I might get a chance to talk to you tonight about the past. As I drove down in the car I was thinking about all the things that I would say to you. And now it's too late." He stopped and pulled his chair a little closer to the bed. "But maybe it's not too late, not too late for me, that is. You see," and he looked up again at her dead form, "you see, maybe if I had brought it up, maybe if I had told you that I was sorry, the way I told God that I was sorry, you might have forgiven me. Now you died without forgiving me." His voice caught and he lay his head on the edge of the bed's steel railing. But the words flowed on, the words tumbled out past all the years of stifle, hitting the floor with their vehemence. "Yet maybe this evening you did forgive me. Before you died, perhaps you thought, ah, I should have told my son that I love him. I should have..." His voice broke again but still he went on. "I do not know that you did. I cannot judge that. God will judge that... and this is what I want to say to God and to you - I forgive you, mother. I forgive you for haunting me, for never allowing me to have my own life outside of yours all these years." He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve, before he went on. "... and yet it was my own fault too. Because I let you do it and I could have stopped it." **** He stood up and regarded her face. Smooth and unperturbed, she lay silently. It was almost as if she would open her eyes in a second and say, "Albert, is the tea ready yet?" "No - no tea, mother," he whispered, "but perhaps milk and honey -perhaps that." Then he left the room, not stopping to turn for a last look. “It’s been three days…” Three days later there was a funeral. Although Albert accepted myriad condolences at the funeral home, he was not quite comfortable with the “I'm sorry about your mother...” remarks. Was it necessary, he reflected, as he sat in the left front pew, flanked only by the three church members whom he had asked to be pallbearers, that others knew how he felt? Was it necessary that someone understood? The minister read from John, unperturbed by Albert's thoughts. "When Martha heard that Jesus was coming, she went out to meet him, but Mary stayed at home. 'Lord,' Martha said to Jesus, 'if you had been here, my brother would not have died. But I know that even now...’" **** There was no clock in the sanctuary. The coffin stood directly beneath the pulpit. His mother had always sat in the ninth row from the front. Albert turned his head slightly and almost expected to see her there, smartly dressed in her green summer coat, straight and dignified with her eyes on the minister. There were a lot of people behind him and his gaze passed over them impersonally, passed over them and then suddenly stopped. In the exact place where his mother had been wont to sit, was a slight figure in a blue raincoat. “‘If You had been here,' Martha said to Jesus, 'my brother would not have died.’” The minister's voice rose and fell about his being. "These words of Martha tell us a lot about what she was actually thinking. She was thinking, if you had been here, and you could have been because we sent you a message, then you could have prevented Lazarus' death." Albert turned again and saw that Vicky's face was turned towards the pulpit with studious attention. Why would Vicky be here? He'd given her the address of the church, of course. But it wasn't Sunday and... "Jesus’ direct statement, 'Your brother will rise again,' evoked an earthly response from Martha. 'Yes, I know that he will rise again on the last day.'" Albert eyed the coffin again. His mother would rise again. The lid of the coffin would open and she would climb out, maybe jump out. "Martha wanted an immediate resurrection - she wanted a 'now' answer, brothers and sisters. We all often want a 'now' answer and we forget that God has His own agenda, His own way of working things out for good." Albert shifted his feet and listened, listened with his own ears and also with Vicky's. "‘I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me will live, even though he dies; and whoever lives and believes in Me will never die. Do you believe this?’" A shaft of sunlight fell through the window at the right and a pool of brightness bathed the front section of the church. "The question is not, brothers and sisters, whether Martha believed Jesus' words. The question is, do you believe them?" He walked out behind the minister. The pallbearers walked with him and the people from the funeral home pushed the coffin sedately ahead of them all towards the door and on to the parking lot. The small figure in the blue raincoat reached his side before he reached the hearse. "Albert - wait." Scores of heads turned, turned and listened. "It's been three days - and I've been reading and looking. I just wanted you to know." The pallbearers had stopped walking and Albert smiled broadly as he gestured to them to move on. You can read some of Christine Farenhorst's other Christmas stories here....

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Book Reviews, Children’s non-fiction

The Great Escape

by Christine Farenhorst 2002 / 182 pages Rating: Good/GREAT/Give Christine Farenhorst is a superb storyteller. The Great Escape is a collection of forty short stories about events in the lives of Christians and unbelievers: each story teaches, each tale tells about the role of God in the lives of his subjects. Every story is interesting and absorbing. In about three pages each tells about a person or an event in a manner that teaches solid lessons about victories or failures of people throughout the ages. We read about Houdini, the escape artist, who could not escape from death. We read about the fictitious Lester Green, who convinced many gullible people that a cold car engine could be started by putting two hens on the car hood. We read about the orphan John Sebastian Bach, who ended all his musical compositions with “Soli Deo Gloria” (To God alone the glory). We read about the many Roman emperors who persecuted the believers. We read about princes and paupers, believers and unbelievers, the famous and the infamous, people from our own times and people long dead, and we smile, and sometimes shed a tear. It’s a good book, a good read, a treasure worth acquiring, just based on the well-told stories. But there is more! “The media, with its grasping secularism, has become the main voice in many households as lax fathers and mothers relinquish their holds on the spiritual lives of their children…” As individual family members we “are to speak intimately to each other of the things pertaining to God’s kingdom and of what He has brought about in lives” So writes Christine in her introduction. And so it is that at the end of each story are two questions. Just two! But each is powerful food for thought. Christine prays that her stories and questions “will encourage parents to speak with their children, and children to discuss with their parents, what God’s love and bounty has done in their lives and in the lives of past saints.” “Soli Deo Gloria.” To God alone the glory. But with God’s help these “devotions” will trigger such discussions. The book is a rare treasure, a must for all parents! Caution My only caution is that some stories might be too intense, but only for very young children. Conclusion Without the questions, it’s a fantastic read, but when you add them in it becomes a wonderful tool for parents and children to talk together about what God has done in their lives, and in the lives of saints in the past....

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Book lists, Book Reviews

The RP 52 in 22 challenge

If you're a reader, there's a good chance you have a stack of books somewhere that you've really been meaning to get to. But, what with the busyness of life, that stack might well be growing as it is so hard to set aside the time. How then, can we get to the reading that we really want to do anyway? The answer, for a trio of competitive lads, was to get a challenge going. So a lawyer, a minister, and an editor all agreed that they would read 52 books by the end of 2022. This "52 in 22" challenge was a race of sorts, and to up the motivation, the three kept a public running total of their progress, posting short reviews of each book here on this web page (with selections appearing in each issue of the print magazine). Finally, to add a mildly punitive element to it, each agreed, at year's end, to donate $20 for every book they didn't complete to a charity of their choice. Our hope is that the challenge might spur others on to read more great books, including, perhaps, some of the suggestions listed below. You can also find the results on MeWe, Facebook, Instagram, and Gab under the hashtag #RP52in22 The final tally The lawyer – André Schutten: 50 The minister – Jim Witteveen: 52 The editor – Jon Dykstra: 52 Reviews DECEMBER 31 My pastor gave me (and the other elders of Jubilee Church) a copy of Faithful Leaders and the Things that Matter Most by Rico Tice (2021, 110 pages). This short but punchy book is worth way more than the time it takes to read. When I say punchy, I mean it. Tice does not hold back in challenging pastors and elders (and other leaders within Christian ministry) to take the call to lead very seriously. In four chapters, he urges pastors and leaders to properly define success, to fight your sin, to lead yourself, and to serve your church. The first chapter properly reorients a Christian leader to define success according to Scripture and not the metrics of the world: the number of social media followers, or books published, or conference attendees talked to, etc. What is success but to hear the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant” from the only lips that matter. Second, Tice wants Christian leaders to seriously consider the story of Achan and his sin as a dire warning to put sin to death. It matters to your soul and to your family and church or ministry too. Ongoing sin cannot be tolerated. Third, Tice wants Christian leaders to lead themselves, and this means to ensure appropriate spiritual routines are in place, accountability groups are functioning well, taking proper rest (and so depending on God), and living in the sheer wonder of the gospel. And finally, Tice wants Christian leaders to serve their church instead of the other way around, ensuring that leaders listen well, bend toward the marginalized, and truly serve like Jesus did. I highly recommend this book to be read by Christian leaders in small groups, and then discussed and prayed over together. You will be challenged! – André Schutten DECEMBER 30 Abdu Murray is a Christian convert from Islam, a lawyer and a Christian apologist (formerly with Ravi Zacharias Ministries). His book Grand Central Question: Answering the Critical Concerns of the Major Worldviews (2014, 261 pages) was a helpful look at the major religious questions that all worldviews wrestle with like: Why am I here?, What does it mean to be human? and Why is there evil in the world? Murray argues that not every worldview places equal emphasis on each question. In fact, the three major worldviews that compete with Christianity place a particular emphasis on a particular “grand central question.” Secular humanism focuses on the question of the inherent value of human beings. Pantheism (like Hinduism or new age religion) focuses on the question of escaping suffering. And Islam’s major concern is the greatness of God. Murray carefully and insightfully critiques these worldviews and exposes the main contradictions in each of them in relation to their grand central question, and then shows how Christianity and the gospel answer each of these grand questions in a way that is rationally consistent and satisfies our human need for answers that are both intellectually and emotionally satisfying. Murray’s argument is easy to follow and is punctuated with personal anecdotes that demonstrate his compassionate approach to apologetics. I particularly liked his explanation of the Trinity in response to the criticisms of Islam (Muslims accuse Christians of being pantheists due to the doctrine of the Trinity). I recommend the book, both to better understand the basic worldview of the people living around you and to provide some ideas for conversations with them. – André Schutten DECEMBER 29 Ten years back, anyone who’d said that cultural forces already in play would soon have our public schools teaching boys can get pregnant... well, he would have been dismissed as a nut. What Jim Witteveen shares about an “open conspiracy” among the power-hungry will at first sound so outrageous as to be unbelievable too. But make no mistake, this is fact, not fiction. Chapter by chapter, he highlights ideologies and organizations that would seem to have little in common: global warming catastrophists, sexual hedonists, the public school system, overpopulation proponents, evolutionists, Big Tech, and Big Government. They are united, though, in their arrogance that they know – and God does not – what is best for all the rest of us. While their utopias differ, the route forward is the same for them all: a quest for more and more power so they can implement their vision. And, as Witteveen details, these ideologies and organizations are grabbing hold of the reins of power. If that was all he shared, this would be quite the devastating read, so thankfully the conclusion is all about a way forward for God’s people that explores the many opportunities that exist to faithfully honor and obey our Lord as we contend with the forces marshaled against us. How in the world did we get here? (2022, 183 pages) will be a slap upside the head to the many sleepy Christians who haven’t yet recognized we are in a battle, and who consequently haven’t yet answered God’s call to go out and contend. Timely and much-needed, what Witteveen has given us is made all the more valuable for its brevity and accessibility – everyone should read this, and most everyone will be able to. Contact the author at Dan1132.com to pre-order. – Jon Dykstra DECEMBER 29 While it might seem like a mere children’s story, the original version of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens (1843, 104 pages) is much meatier than you might imagine. I read this one to my kids over the Christmas holidays. My 6-year-old tuned out and my 8-year-old fell asleep during two of the five chapters (though that might have had more to do with late nights during the holidays). Nevertheless, I enjoyed the story very much and I think you will too if you are able to get around the Victorian English. Dickens tells the story of Ebenezer Scrooge, a miserly old man who is visited by the ghost of his former business partner and then three other ghosts on Christmas Eve. Through the visions of his past, present, and future, Scrooge learns the error of his ways and is transformed into a compassionate and generous man. There are clear Christian themes throughout the book, not least of which is the warning of what the love of money does to a person and it can make a person willfully blind to the suffering of others. Scrooge is contrasted with his clerk, Bob Cratchet, who demonstrates love and compassion for those around him, and is thankful for the little he has, thus producing a joy in his family that is clearly lacking in Scrooge’s life. I recommend reading the original version of this very well-known story so that you don’t miss out on the little Biblical allusions throughout (which are trimmed out of most modern, abridged versions). – André Schutten DECEMBER 28 Henry Hazlitt’s Economics in One Lesson (1946, 218 pages) is what its title suggests, just one economic lesson explained in the first chapter – that we focus on the obvious impact of a government program, and don’t consider what otherwise might have happened with those dollars. It’s the seen vs. the unseen. That one lesson is then repeatedly applied to different situations in the 24 chapters that followed. In chapter 4 it is applied to public work projects: when the government builds a new sports stadium we can see the job created by its construction. What’s unseen is all the jobs that might have been created by businesses if they hadn’t had to pay the taxes to build that stadium. Overall, Hazlitt is making a general argument for less government and more economic freedom, but is making it on the basis of practicality: that a free market approach will make us all, overall, more prosperous (download the book for free). But in his Christian Economics in One Lesson (2015, 268 pages), Gary North makes his argument for free market economics on a different basis: obedience. He also thinks the free market is the most effective way of making us all richer, but he sees that, not as a goal, but as a side effect – the fruit – of being obedient to God’s commands do not covet, and do not to steal. He is riffing off of Hazlitt, reworking every one of his chapters, but in each occasion showing that this isn’t simply a matter of math, or some neutral accounting, but that economics is really a matter of ethics. The better way is the way that obeys God’s commands. And, not coincidentally, that is also the more prosperous approach. It is a brilliant insight, and worth the reinforcement that comes in the repeated applications that follow. If this isn’t the most important book I’ve read this year, it is certainly in contention... and it can be downloaded for free here.  – Jon Dykstra DECEMBER 26 I read Herman Bavinck’s Christian Worldview (1913 and translated 2019, 141 pages) a relatively short but quite dense book explaining a Christian philosophy of reality. As Bavinck notes in his introduction: “The problems that confront the human mind always returned to these: what is the relation between thinking and being, between being and becoming, and between becoming and acting? What am I? What is the world, and what is my place and task within this world? Autonomous thinking finds no satisfactory answer to these questions – it oscillates between materialism and spiritualism, between atomism and dynamism, between nomism and antinomianism. But Christianity preserves the harmony between them and reveals to us a wisdom that reconciles the human being with God and, through this, with itself, with the world, and with life” (p. 29). Bavinck is a master philosopher and demonstrates his abilities in contending with the greatest philosophers in the western tradition in especially the first two chapters, showing over and over again why the ideas that raise their fist against the Christian religion are ultimately incoherent and self-defeating and that only the Christian religion truly makes sense – consistently! – of reality. He writes: “Not only does the Christian worldview objectively restore the harmony between the natural and moral order, but through this it also brings about a wonderful unity subjectively between our thinking and doing, between our head and our heart. If the same divine wisdom grants things their reality, our consciousness its content, and our acting its rule, it must be the case that a mutual harmony exists between these three. The ideas in the divine consciousness, the forms, which constitute the essence of things, and the norms, which have been put to us as the rule of life, cannot then struggle against each other but must be related as closely as possible. Logic, physics, and ethics are built on the same metaphysical principia. The true, the good, and the beautiful are one with the true being. And so head, heart, and hand, thinking, feeling, and acting also come together in recognition of their full rights and, at the same time, are protected from all kinds of exaggerations and excesses” (p. 110). Bavinck contends that the Christian worldview is not merely a philosophical system but is true history. Therefore, “salvation does not merely remain as an idea that floats above us, but rather, it is what it wills itself to be, and it brings about what it aims to accomplish. Christianity is not exclusively a teaching about salvation, but it is salvation itself, brought about by God in the history of the world” (p. 115). I felt that the pastor in Bavinck really comes out in the final chapter, which bends away from philosophy and towards a more devotional perspective while writing about sin, salvation, and the end of history. Interestingly, Bavinck concludes that: “the battle today is no longer about the authority of pope or council, of church and confession; for countless others it is no longer even about the authority of Scripture or the person of Christ. The question on the agenda asks, as principally as possible, whether there is still some authority and some law to which the human being is bound.... and in this struggle, every man of Christian profession should assemble under the banner of the King of truth” (p. 129). If you’re willing to do the work, this book will help you assemble under that banner too. The book is worth the effort! – André Schutten DECEMBER 25 Over four and a half years ago, I quit social media (I have a Facebook account but don’t use it.) That was a major spiritual and emotional improvement for me. But I kept reading the news voraciously, until about two years ago, when I started limiting myself to no more than 30 minutes of news a day. That too was of great benefit to me. And so, perhaps with a bit of confirmation bias, I really enjoyed reading Reading the Times: A Literary and Theological Inquiry into the News by Jeffrey Bilbro (2021, 186 pages). Bilbro breaks down his book into three parts – Attention, Time, and Community – which address the questions: To what should we attend? How should we imagine and experience time? How should we belong to one another? Each part has three chapters: the first explains the inadequate answers our “contemporary media ecosystem” offers to these questions, the second proposes a Christian answer, and the third identifies specific practices or “liturgies” by which Christians might cultivate a healthier posture toward the news. I’ve read Neil Postman’s Amusing Ourselves to Death a long while back, and found his critique of the 24-hour news cycle very good, but lacking a distinctly Christian perspective. A reader will get a meaty Christian perspective in this book, which not only spells out the problem, but provides a better way to think and a better way to act. I plan to implement some of Bilbro’s suggestions into my life moving forward. This is a fantastic book and is a necessary read for all Christians who are daily news junkies or social media consumers. I hope to provide a full-length book review to Reformed Perspective later. – André Schutten DECEMBER 22 After seeing Jon Dykstra’s review in November of Paul Murphy’s Stone-Cold Crazy, I pulled Douglas Wilson’s Devoured by Cannabis: Weed, Liberty, and Legalization (2021, 110 pages) off the shelf to give it a read. It’s a short book, and I read it in a single sitting (on a train from Toronto to Ottawa). Wilson argues in the book that recreational use of cannabis is immoral and should not be condoned by the Christian community. While he posits that it is sinful, he doesn’t leap to the conclusion that it thus should remain criminal. However, his discussion on what is and is not legal is a very interesting policy point: if the state legalizes the recreational use of drugs but prohibits employers from firing drug users for being drug users, our governments now force sober-minded employers to support drug users, and that would be immoral. Considering where Canada is at today, from a policy perspective, until employment and tenancy laws were reformed to give employers and landlords the discretion to fire or evict drug users, we shouldn’t be allowing it. I did find that Wilson was too brief and somewhat dismissive of the medical use of cannabis. While I agree that we live in an over-medicalized (and thus over-prescribed) society, I do know of a Godly man who uses medicinal marijuana with positive results. Despite this minor point, Wilson makes a convincing case for the rejection of recreational cannabis use, and any Christian who thinks marijuana use is similar to drinking alcohol should first read this book before making up their mind. Recommended. – André Schutten DECEMBER 21 Perhaps the most famous tale of the French Revolution, A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens (1859, 470 pages) is a gripping story by a master storyteller. Dickens starts by telling what seem to be disparate stories of major and minor characters from London and Paris before and during the Revolution but pulls them all together at the climax of the story. From a Christian perspective, I was particularly struck by the theme of redemption for particularly bad characters: a cruel man who abuses his wife in London ends up risking his life to save a man and his wife from death, and a drunken man who lives for himself is willing to sacrifice himself for another. Another theme is the corruption of power. Dickens shows how both the French aristocracy in their selfish and cruel frivolity and the revolutionary mob in their bloodthirsty violence and vengeance are both to be rejected as dangerous and destructive in their excess. The (English and French) characters that fare best reject both extremes, and instead love and serve others. The message of this novel is still relevant for Christians today, as the spirit of the French Revolution – and the dangers of its excesses – lives on. Will we be swept up in the fervor, or can we live faithfully, willing to love, serve, and sacrifice in a world marked by injustice? – André Schutten DECEMBER 7 The subject of spiritual warfare is not one that appears to receive a great deal of attention in Reformed circles. Of course, we do not deny the reality of spiritual warfare, but it may be that we don’t focus much attention on the topic in order to avoid the kind of unbalanced approach that we all too often encounter in other theological traditions. But our reticence to devote much time to studying the topic of spiritual warfare can lead to a very real neglect of this important aspect of the Christian life and worldview. Clinton E. Arnold's 3 Crucial Questions About Spiritual Warfare (1997, 224 pages) is a good starting point for those who do have questions about this issue. Arnold (who is the dean at the Talbot School of Theology) discusses the following three questions: “What is spiritual warfare?” “Can a Christian be demon-possessed?” and “Are we called to engage territorial spirits?” While the third question may not be as “crucial” as the first two, Clinton’s exploration of the nature of spiritual warfare and the possibility of demonic influences in believers’ lives in the first two parts of the book is very helpful. His conclusions may challenge your own presuppositions on these subjects, but Arnold does an excellent job of basing his responses to these questions on the teaching of Scripture. He avoids speculation, while at the same time highlighting the importance of spiritual warfare in the believer’s life. For Christians who live in a culture which views angels and demons as quaint holdovers from a bygone era, as figures attributed to primitive superstition and little more, it is easy for us to (perhaps inadvertently) neglect the spiritual world in practice, while holding on to its reality in our confession. For this reason, I recommend this book as an effective antidote to the rationalistic tendencies of our age. – Jim Witteveen DECEMBER 6 In 2020 and 2021, GraceLife Church in Edmonton and Grace Community Church in Los Angeles made headlines in the United States and Canada, as they led the fight against government overreach during the Covid-19 era. James Coates was one of several Canadian pastors to be jailed, and Nathan Busenitz was a member of the Grace Community Church’s pastoral team, along with John MacArthur (who wrote the foreword to this book). In God vs. Government: Taking a Biblical Stand When Christ and Compliance Collide (2022, 206 pages), Coates and Busenitz recount how they and their churches took a stand when government mandates came into conflict with God’s commandments, and lay out a series of Biblical principles that governed their churches’ response to those mandates. The final three chapters are adapted from sermons that were preached by Coates and Busenitz at the height of their churches’ struggle with the authorities. Busenitz and Coates outline five important foundational principles that governed their churches’ choice to not comply. First of all, our supreme allegiance is to Christ. When God and government collide, we must obey Christ rather than men (Acts 5:29). Secondly, all human authority is delegated by God. Those in government who exceed the limits that God has placed on their authority do so in violation of God’s law. In the third place, at some point faithfulness in Christ will result in hostility from unbelievers. Fourth, we must have a submissive attitude by default; as a rule, we must obey those in authority over us. But there will be times when compliance is not possible; when this happens, believers must not respond with violence or a desire for vengeance, but with an attitude of respect and grace. Finally, God has instituted various spheres of authority, and while there may be some overlap between these spheres, those who have been given authority in their respective spheres should take care not to overstep their bounds. Those who argued that churches should not comply with the restrictions that were imposed on corporate worship and other vital church activities over the past couple of years will undoubtedly appreciate this book, because it lines up with their own convictions. However, I particularly recommend this book to those who believed that churches should submit to these mandates. It will challenge your conclusions on grounds that are firmly based in Scripture, and I believe Coates and Busenitz’s evaluation of the Covid-19 experience and its historical importance is spot on: “Believers in North America needed a wake-up call. The COVID-19 pandemic served to sound that alarm. The question is how well the church responded to that test. In 2020, politicians were able to shut down churches with minimal pushback. The church was sifted, and the negligence and timidity of some was exposed (cf. 1 Peter 4:17). Whether or not the church will have the backbone to stand up to government overreach in the future remains to be seen.” – Jim Witteveen DECEMBER 4 I enjoyed reading Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder (1935, 352 pages) to my kids and they enjoyed having it read to them. This book is quite well known, most recently because it’s yet another historic novel that is on the modern censor’s chopping block as a politically incorrect narrative. The book is semi-autobiographical, telling the story of young Laura Ingalls and her ma and pa, and her two sisters, as they settle in the prairies. A large part of the novel simply describes the hard work of Pa as he builds a log cabin, installs a fireplace, digs a well and so on. I and my children marvelled at the hard and persistent work a young family was willing to do to build a home and make a life for themselves. While there are objectionable ways that the indigenous people of the plains are spoken of in the novel (one other settler makes a terrible statement that “the only good Indian is a dead Indian”), Pa is a role model (an imperfect one) of treating Indians with respect and living peaceably alongside them. Considering the time the novel was written, the message from the author is not one to be censored but one to be applauded. There are many opportunities for discussion with children on topics such as perseverance and risk, racism, the importance of trustworthy friends, and an appreciation of hard work. I highly recommend this book as a novel to read and discuss with your children. – André Schutten DECEMBER 1 I've been wanting to share a childhood favorite, John Christopher's Fireball (1981, 149 pages), with my own kids, but had to wait a bit until they would be old enough to deal with some of the nuances. As we began I was curious whether it would live up to my memories of it, and I'll say it did, mostly. Two teen cousins – Simon, a Brit, and Brad, an American – get sucked into a strange fireball, and transported to what at first seems to be the past, but turns out to be a parallel world where Rome never fell. After getting separated, Simon ends up enslaved and sent to train as a gladiator, while Brad has a better go of it, using some of his "future" knowledge to equip a small rebel army to stand up to the might of the whole Roman Empire. My kids enjoyed it, but I'd rate it as PG, in need of that parental guidance because the rebels army here is organized by a Christian bishop who wants Christianity to triumph militarily across the globe. I had to explain to my girls that unlike secular ideologies, and other religions, God doesn't care for empty shows, virtue signaling, or doing one thing while thinking another (Ps. 50:8-9, Is. 1:11-17) so the very idea of forcible Christian conversions makes no sense. Talking it through, we noticed that the Church in this book had some similarities to the Inquisition, but not to God's true Church. So we all liked the story, but I was really glad to be able to discuss it with them. It turns out there are a couple of sequels, New Found Land, and Dragon Dance, so we'll have to check them out. – Jon Dykstra NOVEMBER 28 Eric Metaxas has written best-selling biographies of Dietrich Bonhoeffer and William Wilberforce, and while his Letter to the American Church (2022, 139 pages) is not nearly as weighty as those two books in terms of size, it does pack an outsized punch, given its relative brevity. Metaxas does refer often to both Wilberforce and Bonhoeffer in this book, as outstanding examples of men who did not shrink back when confronted with opposition for the sake of their faith. Metaxas doesn’t mince his words in this book, and it is not surprising that it has provoked some strong negative reactions within the evangelical world. However, I believe he hits the nail on the head with his passionate critique of North American evangelical culture, which, he argues, must repent for its silence in the face of evil. Metaxas outlines four areas in which he believes that the Western evangelical church has fallen short in recent decades. The first error, writes Metaxas, is a misunderstanding of the word “faith” and everything that faith entails. The second error Metaxas calls “the idol of evangelism.” While evangelism is an important part of the church’s calling, Metaxas writes, there is a tendency in the modern evangelical church to believe that the church’s only real calling is evangelism; therefore, “we must never say anything that might in any way detract from our pursuing this single goal.” Metaxas sums up the third error as a false commandment: “Be Ye Not Political,” the idea that politics is off limits and beyond the boundary of our faith. The final error that Metaxas includes in his list is the error of pietism - the idea that our Christian faith is lived out “principally by avoiding sin, so that we must place our own virtue and salvation above all other matters.” This is not a perfect book, nor is it an exhaustive study of how Christians should engage with their culture and participate in the public square. That being said, I do think that Metaxas expresses serious concerns that are based in reality, and while his conclusions may offend some, I believe that they deserve to be humbly received, seriously considered, and acted upon. – Jim Witteveen NOVEMBER 25 The Case Against the Sexual Revolution (2022, 216 pages) left me with a bit of a conundrum. On the one hand, it is a strongly-written, powerfully argued book that support a premise that I already know to be true. Louise Perry rightly argues that the Sexual Revolution has been an overwhelming disaster on any number of levels, and that our society continues to pay the price for the “freedom” that was “won” in the 1960s, and will continue to do so unless the tenets of this revolution are abandoned. However, Perry argues from a starting point of evolutionary psychology, which obviously runs counter to a Biblically-formed worldview. The presuppositions that undergird this book form its major weakness. However, the fact that an evolutionary psychologist can rightly argue in favour of monogamy within the marriage relationship, against “hookup culture” and sexual promiscuity, and recognizes the dangers of pornography and various sexual perversions, is fascinating to consider in the light of Biblical wisdom. According to the wisdom literature in Scripture, living wisely means aligning your life with God’s created order. The Lord created the world in wisdom, governs it in wisdom, and his moral law shows us how to live a life characterized by wisdom. To put it very briefly, God’s way works! And because God’s way works, the evidence of history proves that monogamy within marriage is, pragmatically speaking, the basis of a successful, well-ordered society. Restrictions on sexual expression protect human beings (especially women) from abuse and a great deal of pain. Classifying some materials as obscene, and forbidding their production, prevents a great deal of damage to both the user and the producer of pornography. And I could go on. So it’s not surprising that an evolutionary psychologist has also come to these kinds of conclusions. However, Louise Perry’s erroneous starting point can only take her so far; from there, she can’t get to the root of the problem, or discover where the solution that goes far deeper than mere behavioural change can be found. That being said, I would recommend this book to the discerning reader, with a warning that, given the subject matter and the worldview of the author, it does make for some rough reading at times. – Jim Witteveen NOVEMBER 23 Though it was written years before, Connor Boyack's Feardom: How politicians exploit your emotions and what you can do to stop them (2014, 160 pages) is certainly about the COVID lockdowns too. He notes that as US president John Adams once wrote, "Fear is the foundation of most governments" and in recent years we've seen that proven true time and again. Politicians have used voters' fear – of climate change, terrorism, fiscal collapse, and viruses too – as justification for the State to come to the rescue. And at what cost? Well, the measure isn't simple in dollars, but also in lost freedoms. Terrorism and climate change brought government intervention on an enormous scale, which got bigger still with COVID. The bright side? As the author notes, this is nothing new, and it might not even be as bad today as the past, when even a historical luminary such as Abraham Lincoln, would throw some of his critics in jail simply for being critics. Boyack is Mormon, and clearly libertarian, which means he's generally Judeo-Christian, and more hardcore about small-government than most RP readers. But, regardless of where readers stand, the point he is arguing – that politicians and government officials are using fear to push us – isn't a partisan position, but more a matter of verifiable history. So how, then, can we inoculate ourselves against such manipulation? He has a few suggestions, beginning with anticipating the manipulation: "develop a healthy skepticism of those in power" but not simply to doubt everything, but rather to better assess who is worthy of trust. We should actively assess our media sources, and our political leaders, for just how consistently honest they are... or aren't. This will involve reading diverse news sources. It will also means sharing what truth you discover with family and friends. The point he most strongly emphasizes is one we can certainly agree with: to follow the Golden Rule, treating others, including those on the opposite side, as we'd like to be treated, and more specifically that means accommodating them as much as we possibly can. While there were nits I could pick with Feardom, that doesn't stop me from giving it an enthusiastic recommendation for the politically discerning. – Jon Dykstra NOVEMBER 22 I thoroughly enjoyed reading Rembrandt Is In the Wind: Learning to Love Art Through the Eyes of Faith by Russ Ramsey (2022, 256 pages) and not just because my wife is an artist (though the book did spark some great conversations!) Ramsey opens the book with a chapter on the three transcendentals – truth, goodness, and beauty – and how they relate together, how they are attributes of God, and how beauty is essential for applying goodness and truth for the benefit of others (it’s a profound chapter!) He then works through nine great artists, starting with Michelangelo and working his way toward the 20th century. With each artist, he examines their life and their works, with a special focus on a single piece. And in each chapter, either through the artist’s life or work, Ramsey tells us a parable of sorts, a way to see and appreciate their art through the eyes of faith. Ramsey is a great story-teller, and the book felt more like an anthology of short stories than an art history book or theology of art text. Ramsey also includes a couple helpful appendixes for improving the way you can look at art and how you can visit an art museum like you own it. I hope he writes a sequel! I highly recommend this book, whether you are an art aficionado or an art ignoramus. – André Schutten NOVEMBER 20 Way back in the 1990s, when the Internet began to enter public consciousness, and soon thereafter into everyone's daily life, it seemed to most of us that it just sort of came into existence from nowhere. We weren't much aware of the history of the Internet, of where it came from or how it was developed. And even today, after decades of exponential growth, the roots of the Internet are still a mystery for most of its users. In Surveillance Valley: The Secret Military History of the Internet (2018, 371 pages), Yasha Levine's deep-dive exploration of the history of the Internet, is a revealing look into the Internet's roots in the American military industrial complex. In this meticulously-researched book, Levine details the way in which the Internet's history has been shaped by the defense industry, espionage agencies, public officials, and big businesses, with each actor working in concert with the others to achieve its own purposes. Levine recounts the origins of the Internet as a project of the Defense Advance Research Projects Agency, its development in partnership with a number of American educational institutions (where the project was vigorously opposed by many who understood the purpose behind it), and the central role that American military and security agencies continue to play in the ongoing development and growth of the Internet's reach into every aspect of our daily lives. Levine refers to the Silicon Valley, the northern California location whose name has become synonymous with the Internet, as “Surveillance Valley.” Because, writes Levine, while corporations like Google continue to market themselves as companies that “embody every utopian promise of the networked society,” what they are in fact doing is continuing to build out “the old military cybernetic dream of a world where everyone is watched, predicted, and controlled.” Surveillance Valley is an important exploration of the way in which information technology has been “weaponized” in the 21st Century. If you read it (and I do recommend it highly), you will be challenged to rethink your use of the Internet, and you may even be encouraged (as I was) to “de-Google” your life. – Jim Witteveen NOVEMBER 19 When my 13-year-old got a gift certificate to the local bookstore, it was an excuse for the two of us to spend some serious time perusing the shelves. But after an hour we'd discovered there wasn't much there for her that she hadn't already read. The teen books were either silly stories about teen crushes, or weird stuff about witches, demons, and vampires. We finally settled on something with a cover that looked almost liked some 1950s nostalgia, only to later discover one of the key characters had two dads. Another trip to the same story ended up with a decent book, but on the final page the author noted he uses "they/them" pronouns. That's all a prelude to saying that while I didn't love Margaret Peterson Haddix's Found (2008, 314 pages), I do appreciate it as a basically harmless read. It's a time travel adventure/mystery, with a bunch of adopted children trying to figure out where they came from. There's the typical cautions – kids acting behind their parents' backs, along with a couple passing mentions of evolution – but none of the newer cautions needed. Peterson isn't advocating for amputative surgeries on youth or adults (as the fellow with the "they/them" pronouns implicitly is, by pretending that gender is changeable), or for alternative lifestyles. The biggest caution I'd have concerns the fact that this is just the first of Peterson's eight-book The Missing series, and at roughly 300 pages each, even if they all turn out to be mostly harmless, that's a lot of cotton candy for any kid to be ingesting. I'll also add a concern about whether this would be good or bad for adoptive kids to read, as the topic of adoption, and kids searching for who they are, is a big part of the story. Finally, as just a general caution on the author, I do know in another book (Double Identity) a female pastor is a major character. So... one thumb up? While I won't be continuing on with this series, it was good enough to have me interested in checking out Haddix's other books. – Jon Dykstra NOVEMBER 18 Russian author Alexander Solzhenitsyn is best-known for his magnum opus, The Gulag Archipelago, a history of the Soviet Gulag, the system of forced-labour camps for political prisoners that was implemented under Lenin in 1918. The system was (officially) dismantled in 1956, three years after the death of Joseph Stalin, although the practice of political imprisonment did not itself come to an end in the Soviet Union at that time. Solzhenitsyn wrote not only as a historian, but from personal experience; he had spent eight years in the Gulag himself for the crime of speaking ill of Joseph Stalin at the end of the Second World War. While writing The Gulag Archipelago, Solzhenitsyn was also working on a short novel based on his own experience in the Gulag, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich (1962, 143 pagers). Unlike The Gulag Archipelago, which was never officially published in Russia until 1989, One Day made it to publication in 1962 because it had become officially acceptable to criticize Stalin when Nikita Kruschev came to power. As is clear from its title, the book is an account of one day in the life of a political prisoner named Ivan Denisovich Shukhov. A summary of Shukhov's day would be very mundane indeed, and I can imagine that it would hardly compel a reader to seek out this book for a light and entertaining read. Man wakes up. Man has breakfast. Man goes to work. Man comes back from work. Man goes to bed. That, in brief, is Ivan Denisovich's day. And as Solzhenitsyn writes in the book's closing paragraph, Shukhov would live through 3,653 more days just like this one. There is nothing in this day that makes it stand out from the rest, but Solzhenitsyn's account of the monotony of camp life, along with the challenges with which the prisoners were confronted on a daily basis, makes this book a compelling read. Shukhov is resourceful and knows his way around the camp, but he is almost constantly on edge. In the dining hall he manages to find enough food to satisfy himself for the day, despite the meagre rations allotted to each prisoner. While working, he takes pride in his brick-laying skills, despite working conditions that made his job nearly impossible. He begins the day with an attempt to get into the sick-bay, but at the end of the day his illness has disappeared, he has managed to hide a little bit of seemingly insignificant contraband, and he lies in bed with the feeling that the day had been a success, despite it all. Throughout the story of this single day, Solzhenitsyn keeps the reader intrigued, waiting to see what will happen next despite the bleakness of the story. As we get to know Shukhov and his fellow prisoners, we learn about the ways in which they were able to cope with situations that most of us can't even imagine dealing with. In the end, we gain insight into the nature of life in a totalitarian state, we're introduced to the conditions in a 1950s-era Soviet prison camp, but we also are brought into the lives of the novel's characters in an understandably limited but profound way. If you've always wanted to read The Gulag Archipelago but were intimidated by its imposing length, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich may serve to encourage you to take that next step! – Jim Witteveen NOVEMBER 17 David L. Bahnsen's There's No Free Lunch: 250 Economic Truths (2021, 308 pages) is a wonderful primer on economics from a conservative Christian perspective (and the second There's No Free Lunch book I've read this year  – see my Sept. 17 review). Bahnsen is the son of famed Reformed presuppositional apologist Greg Bahnsen, and is famed in his own right as a hedge fund manager for a billion-dollar fund. Here he's collected 250 concise quotes by a host of famed conservative economists, one per page, and then expanded on each point being made. The quotes are grouped under headings like: Crony Capitalism, Minimum Wage, Division of Labor, and Socialism. To give you a taste, here's a couple shorter quotes, this one from Milton Friedman: "One of the great mistakes is to judge policies and programs by their intentions rather than their results." Here's another, this time from Thomas Sowell: "The first lesson of economics is scarcity. There is never enough of anything to satisfy all those who want it. The first lesson of politics is to disregard the first lesson of economics." These are worth chewing on, and both show why No Free Lunch should be read slowly. But as meaty as these thought are, Bahnsen has made them digestible to all by packaging them into one-page, bite-size servings. Well done!  – Jon Dykstra NOVEMBER 16 Rev. Paul T. Murphy is both a Reformed pastor and, as he notes in his introduction, a reformed drug user, both of which add to the credibility of his Stone-Cold Crazy: The Dangers of Legal Marijuana (2021, 29 pages). This is more booklet than book, but it is an important one, highlighting how the four big arguments for legalization all fall short: 1) it isn't medical, in that it has never gone through the same evaluation as other medical drugs, 2) it doesn't need to be made legal to end the mass incarceration of marijuana users as there is no such mass incarceration, 3) legalizing won't eliminate the criminal black market for it since legal weed is much more expensive, and 4) states won't get a tax revenue windfall from legalization because marijuana use also comes with costs for the State. Murphy notes that Christians might be able to support decriminalization – making it a fine rather than a crime – but as he quotes John Stonestreet, "Legalization says a lot about the worldview of our culture – one in which the State wishes to aid and abet the inability of people to deny themselves any pleasure. That's called state sponsored hedonism." This would be an important read for church councils, and its small size make it one that parents could read along with their teens.  – Jon Dykstra NOVEMBER 15 Many Christians have some understanding that the Angel of the LORD, who revealed himself to Abraham, Gideon, Manoah, and others, was the Son of God, appearing visibly before his incarnation. Many theologians throughout church history have recognized this, although in recent years scholars have become increasingly skeptical when it comes to equating the Angel with the Son. In The Angel of the LORD: A Biblical, Historical, and Theological Study (2022, 447 pages), authors Matt Foreman and Doug Van Dorn seek to counter this kind of "minimalistic" interpretation of the Old Testament, and examine the Biblical texts (including many that you may not have considered before) to learn more about how the second Person of the Trinity often mediated God's presence to his people. This book leaves no stone unturned, and is a detailed, comprehensive, and wide-ranging study that digs deep into God's Word and the history of Biblical interpretation before drawing conclusions about how God's people can apply this part of God's self-revelation to their own lives. While the book is not a brief one, its logical organization and the authors' clarity of expression makes it accessible to readers who may not consider themselves to be "theologians" (although every Christian is a theologian)! The authors offer some profound insights into the text of Scripture, and this book will lead the reader to appreciate all the more the way in which God has graciously revealed himself throughout the history of redemption, to strengthen, encourage, and challenge his people. Highly recommended! – Jim Witteveen NOVEMBER 14 Earlier this year I read and reviewed Carl Truman’s heavy but magnificent Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self (see the Aug. 21 review further on down this same article). The ARPA Canada team decided to work through his shorter and more accessible version of that book titled Strange New World: How Thinkers and Activists Redefined Identity and Sparked the Sexual Revolution (2022, 204 pages). It was so good to read this book as a relatively quick refresher on the meat of Rise and Triumph. Truman is a master of the written word and is well known as a powerful communicator to diverse audiences; the complexity and depth of the earlier book is still present in this book, but in a way that is much easier to understand. While Rise and Triumph is essential reading for pastors, elders, teachers, and university students, Strange New World is written to be understood by upper-year high school students and would make an excellent resource for a small group bible study. In particular, Truman’s final chapter is a pastoral plea for how to respond as church to the cultural moment we find ourselves in. He urges us to allow our Christian community to help shape our identity (rejecting the purely individualistic age we are in). But for that to happen, we must commit to our church, through thick and thin, and make it our most important community. Highly recommended. – André Schutten NOVEMBER 13 Bjorn Lomborg's False Alarm: How Climate Change Panic Costs Us Trillions, Hurts the Poor, and Fails to Fix the Planet (2021, 321 pages) is incredibly encouraging. As Lomborg notes in his introduction, "we live in an age of fear – particularly a fear of climate change." As a Christian I'm not as worried about the catastrophic sort (see my article here) but I will say that the constant barrage of panic in all our media outlets can be wearing and worrying, even when I know better. So while I wouldn't agree with Lomborg on much – he's gay, and I believe agnostic, and also far more trusting of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) reports than I am – what I appreciate is that he knows we can't help the planet at the expense of the people on it. Using the very same IPCC reports as the fear-mongers, he shows how they don't speak of the world ending in 12 years, or anything like it. Rather than facing a catastrophic situation, we are facing a manageable one.... but one we can greatly mismanage to the harm of millions if we continue to panic. If you, too, are getting worn down by the constant drumbeat of certain doom, I'd highly recommend False Alarm, though I would also encourage even more skepticism (or, rather, discernment) than that offered by the author.  – Jon Dykstra NOVEMBER 12 I read part of Patrick Lencioni's business book, The Advantage (2012, 205 pages), to my kids on what Lencioni referred to as the fundamental attribution error (FAE). This is "the tendency of human beings to attribute the negative...behavior of their colleagues to their intentions and personalities while attributing their own negative...behaviors to environmental factors." So, for example, in our household, if one little bumps another, the bumped might well accuse the bumper of doing that "on purpose!" while the bumper might point to how narrow the hallway was, or how much mom was asking them to carry, to show how "it totally wasn't my fault." It is the victim accusing the bumper of malice aforethought, and the bumper pointing this way and that to everything except their own carelessness. So we had a fun little chat about how God wants us to "attribute to others as you would like others to attribute to you" (Matt. 7:12). And, it turns out, in addition to the parental applications, Lencioni's lessons have something to offer a workplace setting too. He offers 6 key questions that each organization (business, charity, police department, etc) needs to answer with the first and most important being: Why do we exist? This had echoes for me of both another business book, Simon Sinek's Starts With Why, and the opening question of the Westminster Shorter Catechism, "What is the chief end of Man?"As Christians, we understand that properly understanding our purpose is going to be the driving force behind all else we do. The other questions are: How do we behave? What do we do? How will we succeed? What is the most important, right now? and Who must do what? While I don't know if Sinek is Christian, I wasn't surprised to discover that Lencioni is, as it comes out implicitly throughout the book, like his purpose-driven focus, but also in how he describes holding one another accountable as being a matter of love - as he admits, that's an odd term in a business book, but very true (Gal. 6:1-2, Prov. 25:5-6). I really appreciated The Advantage, with so many good thoughts in it that I'll be rereading it very soon. I'd recommend it not simply to businesses, but as being potentially useful for our Christian schools too. – Jon Dykstra NOVEMBER 11 I read The Tale of Despereaux by Kate DiCamillo (2003, 270 pages) to my eight- and five-year-old over the past month or so. The story is of a castle mouse (the title character), his love for the princess, and his willing self-sacrifice to rescue her from an evil rat and a misled and abused servant girl, despite all the odds stacked against him. While we did find the plot slow at first, the story does pick up toward the end. More than that, there are good moments in the story to pause and ask children about bravery, self-sacrifice, cruelty, honor, disability, revenge and forgiveness, perseverance, and more. There is no obvious Christian perspective in the story (I have no clue if the author is a Christian) but the story is written in a way that a parent can easily apply a Christian perspective in discussion with their children and apply the lessons to real life. I enjoyed the story, though the cruelty shown to the servant girl Miggery I had to tone down for the sake of my five-year-old. There are a few abuses of God's Name, but in French, which made them easy to skip over. – André Schutten NOVEMBER 9 Matthew Rueger’s Sexual Morality in a Christless World (2016, 178 pages) is a Christian apologetic for holy sexuality. What it does differently than any other book on the subject is that it takes pains (the first third of the book) to examine what sex was like before Christ came into the world. This is particularly helpful, and the first chapter on sexual morality in ancient Rome is worth the price of the book on its own. I have interacted with so many people (Christians included!) who fail to understand just how radically the spread of the gospel changed the world for the better, also in relation to sexuality. By examining both the political and the religious climate at the time of Christ, Rueger shows that biblical sexuality is nothing but a beautiful and good design that richly benefits all of society, particularly the vulnerable. The middle third of the book is an examination of what the bible actually says about sex and sexuality. Rueger writes: “Examination of the passages addressing sex shows that there is more to God's Word about sex than just prohibitions and laws. Behind those prohibitions is a concern for the souls of individuals, as well as for their peace and well-being in this life. God cares about human suffering, and sexual immorality hurts a lot of people. The passages of the Bible give voice to a higher form of love that empties itself for the sake of the other, a love that points beyond sexual desire and reminds the world of the saving love of God's Son” (p. 95). This is a great reminder to Christians who focus on the truth of God’s Word, to the exclusion of the goodness and beauty of God’s proscriptions. We can and we must also be able to communicate the latter. The final third of the book works through common objections to holy sexuality and a natural law argument in defence of opposite-sex marriage which may be a helpful tool for Christians entering post-secondary schools. The writer is unapologetically Lutheran in his theology, and on this issue a Calvinist would wholeheartedly agree with what’s written (with perhaps a slightly different emphasis on the natural law argument for opposite-sex marriage). Heartily recommended. – André Schutten NOVEMBER 7 After writing 10 books about rabbits with swords in his Green Ember kids' fantasy series, S.D. Smith has now teamed up with his 16-year-old son, J.C. Smith, to start a new story in Jack Zulu and the Waylander's Key (2022, 292 pages). Jack Zulu is a kid with serious athletic potential, the best at everything he tries. But we learn right off he isn't full of himself, and is best buds with Benny, a decidedly average athlete, whose parents own the local pizzeria. That's where Jack has been spending a lot of his time, after his police officer father was mysteriously killed, and now that his loving mother has been stuck in the hospital slowly losing her cancer battle. If that sounds like a sad set-up, well it is, but this is a kids' story, so the Smiths lighten things up with loads of comic relief, including Jack's crush on the popular, but also level-headed Michelle. I loved the dialogue between the two friends as Jack gets tongue-tied, or caught up in a coughing fit, or just generally does something to embarrass himself in front of her. "'There are,' Benny reasoned... 'different ways we could look at tonight's events. Blame could be passed around. Or, we could just get you out of town on the next bus. You could change your name and join the circus. I think we both know that returning to school is off the table.' 'It was pretty bad,' Jack sighed and rubbed his face. 'It started bad,' Benny said, 'then got much, much worse.'" That's some fun dialogue. And that isn't even when the story gets exciting. Echoing Lewis's wardrobe, Jack Zulu discovers a doorway to another world, the Waylands, and a quirky mentor, and a possible way to help his mom. This book has some real strong points, including when Jack is coerced into agreeing to do whatever the winged evil guy tells him to do (or his friends will be killed). Afterwards his quirky mentor notes that if you promise to do something bad, then it would be bad to keep that promise. Such a simple and straightforward answer - I love it! Another really fun quirk: Benny visits the Waylands, and tells his parents about it - a kid being totally honest with his parents? When'd you last read that in an adventure book? The authors are Christian, which comes out in other ways too, including passing mention of God, and prayers to Him. There is some magic, pretty minimal and on par with what you'll find in Narnia; this story is more about sword fights and bravery and knight-ish type stuff, and friends just being loyal friends to one another. I'll say I didn't love the end - the solution to their dilemma was a total surprise to me, so either I missed some foreshadowing, or that wasn't the best resolution. But the journey was fun and I'll certainly be picking up the sequel! – Jon Dykstra NOVEMBER 6 I read Kevin DeYoung's Taking God At His Word: Why the Bible Is Knowable, Necessary, and Enough, and What That Means for You and Me (2014, 138 pages) over a Saturday and Sunday afternoon. The book is an excellent and easy to read overview of the doctrine of the Word of God, "a book unpacking what the Bible says about the Bible... a doctrine of Scripture derived from Scripture itself" (p. 23) a topic which is usually covered in multi-volume, dense theology texts. DeYoung gives us a simple, straightforward, readable, and still biblical version instead. He opens with a chapter reflecting on the longest chapter of the Bible, which is a love poem about the Word of God. He explains that the purpose of his book is to get us to fully, sincerely, and consistently embrace the attitude of the Psalmist, so that we can say, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" every time we read Psalm 119. In chapters two through six, he works through five attributes of Scripture: 1. it is sure and true and without error, 2. it is understandable and clear such that the saving message of the gospel is made plain on its pages, 3. it is sufficient and contains everything we need for knowledge of salvation and godly living, 4. it is final and authoritative and takes precedence over science, human experience, or church councils and traditions, and 5. it is necessary to tell us how to live, who Christ is, and how to be saved. DeYoung concludes with two chapters, first by laying out what Christ himself thought and taught about the authority and nature of scripture, and ending with an exhortation to embrace the Word of God ourselves. I finished the book with a deeper appreciation for the rich treasure we have free and immediate access to, and a stronger desire to enjoy being in the Word more often. Each chapter opens with a short passage of scripture which provides the launching pad for the subject of the chapter, thus making this book a useful one for a bible study group or personal or family devotions. Highly recommended! – André Schutten NOVEMBER 1 The book of Proverbs was written specifically to instruct young men in the way of wisdom. In Solomon Says: Directives for Young Men (2020, 148 pages), Mark Horne unpacks that instruction in a way that is accessible to both parents, who could use this book to help them to disciple their children, and young people, who could use Solomon Says as a good starting point for a group or personal Bible study. Horne explains that the way of wisdom taught by Solomon involves taking dominion – fulfilling the dominion mandate instituted by God when man was created. The book of Proverbs is training for kings; young men are taught that they must take ownership of their own lives and govern themselves. The warning that is implicit in Proverbs, Horne writes, is that "if you don't learn to govern yourself, you will be governed by others, and your own impulses will be the reins they use to lead you." As young men struggle to grow in maturity, with many caught in a kind of perpetual adolescence, the message of Proverbs becomes all the more relevant. In his review of Solomon Says, author Jerry Bowyer (whose book The Maker Vs. The Takers I reviewed earlier this year)  points out that men like Jordan Peterson have developed large followings because they tap into a need that has been recognized by many. But, writes Bowyer, real solutions won't be found in the writings of Carl Jung (one of Peterson's major influences), but from Solomon: "Horne's book points the lost boys to go deeper into the real answer to their problem: Biblically-defined wisdom." I heartily recommend Solomon Says to parents. It's a book that fathers can read with their sons, and although Horne's main focus is on young men, he does emphasize that Proverbs is "written to young men (and everyone else)." As we seek to raise our children to fulfill their God-given callings in a world that encourages life-long immaturity in many ways, Mark Horne's book serves as a helpful resource that opens the doors to understanding and applying the depths of Solomon's Spirit-inspired wisdom. – Jim Witteveen OCTOBER 31 Uri Brito and Rich Lusk's The Reluctant Prophet: Jonah Through New Eyes (2021, 113 pages) is one of a series of Biblical commentaries in the "Through New Eyes" Biblical Commentary Series published by Athanasius Press. It is a brief commentary on a brief book, more devotional than scholarly in nature, but packed with insight about the book of Jonah and its importance. The commentary itself takes up only 72 pages of the book, with appendices making up the remainder of the book. In the first appendix, the authors provide their analysis of Jonah as a "biography of human maturation," with four distinct stages: the call to obedience, the response of grace, the rituals of sanctification, and the taste of mercy. Appendix B explores the subject of God's unchanging nature, and what Jonah has to teach us about this attribute of God. It can be a difficult topic to wrap your head around, but the authors do an admirable job of explaining the nature of prophecy, divine providence, and God's personality, concluding this discussion by providing a well-argued and clearly-explained answer to the question, "Does God change his mind?" The final appendix is an essay on Jonah and the "Missional Church," a discussion on what Jonah has to say to the Church as it seeks to fulfil its calling in a post-Christian, biblically illiterate society. Anyone looking for a helpful guide to the book of Jonah will benefit from The Reluctant Prophet. While brief and written to be accessible to a general audience, it is sure to lead readers to discover aspects of Jonah that they had never seen before, and appreciate all the more the gracious and powerful workings of the God who sent his reluctant prophet to Nineveh. – Jim Witteveen OCTOBER 29 I've read bigger books on this topic, but I don't know that I've read any better. Barry Cooper's Can I Really Trust the Bible? And other questions about Scripture, truth and how God speaks (2014, 83 pages) nails all of the most pressing questions, whether that's about how the Bible came to be, what the Bible says about itself, whether the Bible is culturally outdated, and whether justifying the Bible using the Bible shouldn't be discounted because, after all, isn't it just circular reasoning? The bigger books  might be the go-to for dealing with hardened skeptics (F.F. Bruce's The Canon of Scripture, Ken Ham and Bodie Hodge's two-volume How Do We Know the Bible Is True?, Neil Lightfoot's How We Got The Bible, etc.) but for the honest enquirer, Cooper's concise overview will be perfect. This is, as another reviewer put it, the book I wish a younger me could have been able to read.  – Jon Dykstra OCTOBER 28 I used to enjoy West Wing, a TV drama about fictional US president Josiah Bartlet, despite the left-leaning nature of his administration. Bartlet was still admirable because he was principled, willing to speak the truth (or, rather, what he thought was the truth) even when it was unpopular, simply because it needed to be heard. How often do we find that in the real world? But then I came across Sofia Warren's graphic novel tome Radical: My Year With a Socialist Senator (2022, 328 pages). The title real-life senator, Julia Salazar, is just as wrong as the fictional Bartlett – she is a self-proclaimed socialist, and seems to oppose what I'd support, and support what I'd oppose. But she is earnest. This is largely a hagiography, only presenting her flaws to make her more likable, but I found it an interesting read to better understand how our opponents see themselves. As opposition research it was worth a peruse, but I won't be passing this on to anyone. That's due to the scattering of f-bombs and abuses of God's name, and also the caricatured presentation of the political issue central to this story. Salazar pushes for various forms of rent control but seems to have never encountered any arguments against it – according to Salazar the only people opposed are greedy landlords. West Wing at its best made the Republicans smart and sincere too, so as to have an actual battle of ideas (even if the left-leaning writers did stack the deck in their direction). But here we have the opposition dismissed as simply one-dimensional villains. So, it wasn't a waste of time, but I'm sure glad I borrowed it from the library and didn't buy it.  – Jon Dykstra OCTOBER 27 Up until relatively recently, the mainstream media, and particularly those on the left of the political spectrum, spent a great deal of time and resources on researching and investigating the activities of multinational pharmaceutical companies and the global health industry. One such investigative journalist is Alan Cassels, a drug policy researcher at the University of Victoria, and past contributor to the CBC documentary program "Ideas." In Selling Sickness: How The World's Biggest Pharmaceutical Companies Are Turning Us All Into Patients (2005, 254 pages), and Seeking Sickness: Medical Screening and the Misguided Hunt for Disease (2012, 177 pages), Alan Cassels investigates two sides of the modern medical industry: the categorization of new illnesses and the development of pharmaceutical treatments for them, and the widespread promotion of medical screening as a diagnostic tool and preventative measure. In Selling Sickness, Cassels explores the marketing efforts that have gone into raising public consciousness about a number of maladies, and the subsequent marketing of their treatments. The book contains a chapter on each of the following conditions and the pharmaceutical industry's role in "selling" them to the general public: high cholesterol, depression, menopause, attention deficit disorder, high blood pressure, pre-menstrual dysphoric disorder, social anxiety disorder, osteoporosis, irritable bowel syndrome, and female sexual dysfunction. Cassels' conclusion? "The pharmaceutical industry is working behind the scenes to help define and design the latest disorders and dysfunctions in order to create and expand markets for their newest medicines." Their aim, Cassels concludes, is to "turn healthy people into patients." In Seeking Sickness, Cassels turns his attention to the world of medical screening. As with his previous book, Cassels devotes one chapter to each of a number of ways in which medical screening is used, including chapters on mammography, cholesterol screening, colon and cervix screening, and mental health screening. Cassels does not deny that screening can be a useful tool, but he brings up a number of questions that must be considered when thinking about medical screening and its utility. The world of medicine has evolved a great deal over the years, both in terms of technology and guiding philosophy. Whereas in the not-too-distant past patients would go to the doctor when they had a problem that they believed needed to be dealt with, it is just as likely today for patients to visit their physician not because they are sick, but because they want to stay healthy. Cassels' important question about all of these "preventative" measures is this: Are all of the advances that have been made in diagnostic technology truly beneficial to those who are well? Or have they instead led to over-diagnosis and over-treatment? These are important questions, and Cassels explains the issues in a detailed yet readable way, so that the reader need not have a medical degree or scientific background in order to not feel completely out of his depth. In an era in which serious investigation into the workings of the pharmaceutical industry seems to be ever rarer, Cassels' work serves as an excellent example of how that kind of investigation should be done. – Jim Witteveen OCTOBER 26 The Singularity is near, declared inventor and futurist Ray Kurzweil in 2006. And today, at least in the minds of the "singularitarians," the Singularity has grown nearer still. But what is this "Singularity," and why does it matter? The Singularity Is Near: When Humans Transcend Biology (2006, 487 pages) goes a long way toward answering the first question, and a look into the life and influence of Ray Kurzweil will answer the second. This is one of those books that I recommend not because I agree with the philosophy it promotes (I couldn't disagree more) or because I believe the author has some wisdom to share. Rather, I believe that it, along with Kurzweil's earlier The Age of Spiritual Machines (originally published in 2000), provides important insights into a movement that has steadily grown in power and influence in the last several decades, the Transhumanist movement. The Transhumanist project is working to overcome the limits of human biology, through physical processes (such as genetic manipulation) and mechanical or electronic means (the melding of man and machine, human and computer). Ray Kurzweil is one of the modern "prophets" of Transhumanism, and his influence goes deep, especially in the world of Big Tech. That being the case, books like The Singularity is Near provide a useful entry point for those who wish to understand the worldview that forms the foundation of this movement. Throughout the book, Kurzweil promotes a worldview that sees the Singularity as the ultimate goal of humanity - a time in which all of humanity, and indeed the entire cosmos, is brought together as a single, united entity by means of the most advanced technology imaginable. Each chapter concludes with an imagined conversation between the author and various interlocutors, who propose objections to Kurzweil's ideas, to which Kurzweil responds in turn. This technique adds some life to the book, but doesn't lead me to revisit my own conclusions about Kurzweil's proposed program - rather than a dream, it sounds much more like a nightmare to me. – Jim Witteveen OCTOBER 25 Eugenics and Other Evils, by G.K. Chesterton (1922, 201 pages) was an interesting read for three reasons: to learn of the historical context in which it was written (exactly 100 years ago), to learn what the brilliant Chesterton had to say about the subject of eugenics, and to stand amazed at his prophetic insight. In 1922, the medical, philanthropic, and political elite were outspoken fans of eugenics. Against this establishment Chesterton was a voice in the wilderness, calling eugenics what it is: a great evil. We can learn from his example. Do we measure the soundness of our arguments against the prevailing winds of our culture or according to sound doctrine rooted in Scripture? Chesterton chose the latter and was (to borrow a phrase) proven to be on the right side of history. Chesterton has a clever and engaging style. This quote gives a taste: “Most Eugenists are Euphemists. I mean merely that short words startle them, while long words soothe them. And they are utterly incapable of translating the one into the other, however obviously they mean the same thing. Say to them ‘The persuasive and even coercive powers of the citizen should enable him to make sure that the burden of longevity in the previous generation does not become disproportionate and intolerable, especially to the females’; say this to them and they will sway slightly to and fro like babies sent to sleep in cradles. Say to them ‘Murder your mother,’ and they sit up quite suddenly. Yet the two sentences, in cold logic, are exactly the same.” This is exactly spot on. And it is a clarion call for us today to speak plainly and accurately, even as some Quebec doctors call on Parliament to extend “the benefits” of “MAiD” to “suffering infants” (by which they mean, they want a licence to kill infants). Another point Chesterton drives home is the totalitarian tendency of “Science.” Chesterton again: “The thing that really is trying to tyrannize through government is Science… And the creed that really is levying tithes and capturing schools, the creed that really is enforced by fine and imprisonment, the creed that really is proclaimed not in sermons but in statutes, and spread not by pilgrims but by policemen—that creed is the great but disputed system of thought which began with Evolution and has ended in Eugenics. Materialism is really our established Church; for the government will really help it to persecute its heretics…I am not frightened of the word ‘persecution’…It is a term of legal fact. If it means the imposition by the police of a widely disputed theory, incapable of final proof—then our priests are not now persecuting, but our doctors are.” Again, this is as true in 2022 as it was in 1922. Think of the passage of so-called “conversion therapy bans,” the killing of pre-born children, or the total shutdown of all of society on the advice of a handful of doctors. And when Christians (and others) are mocked, shushed, or shamed for raising concerns about threats of tyranny, as Chesterton did in 1922 (proved right in the rise of Nazism a decade later), he warns those skeptics, “People talk about the impatience of the populace; but sound historians know that most tyrannies have been possible because men moved too late. it is often essential to resist a tyranny before it exists.” There is so much packed into this book. It is insightful, written by a courageous writer who history has repeatedly proven right. I can’t recommend it enough. One bonus: many e-book versions are free, including on Kindle. One caveat: Chesterton, writing as a Roman Catholic, really doesn’t like Calvinist theology (though it seems he has a bit of a strawman view of predestination). He throws a few barbs our way over the course of the book. Don’t let that detract from the rest of his message. – André Schutten OCTOBER 24 This book's subtitle says it all, and throughout The Victim Cult: How the Grievance Culture Hurts Everyone and Wrecks Civilizations (2021, 316 pages), Canadian author Mark Milke makes a powerful case for his thesis - "grievance culture," the culture in which everyone has become a victim of someone or something outside of themselves, leaves no individual, and no civilization, unscathed. The cult of victimhood is a disaster on a personal and on a societal level, and Milke does an outstanding job of defending his subtitular claim. The grievance culture, Milke writes, is nothing new; in fact, it goes back to time of Cain and Abel, when Cain became the first member of the victim cult, declaring himself to be the victim, despite his role as aggressor and murderer. Adolf Hitler's political program was built on victimhood; the Rwandan genocide was the poisonous fruit that grew from grievance culture roots; and, writes Milke, the victim cult cannot be limited to only one side of the political spectrum. Milke makes the compelling argument that Donald Trump has himself ridden the wave of the victim cult mentality in his own political career. How has the cult of victimhood become so entrenched in our day? Milke offers three possible answers to that question. First of all, many people have indeed been victimized, leading "victim thinking" to become entrenched. The second argument makes the claim that European imperialism and colonialism are largely to blame for the growth of grievance culture. The third explanation is that elites often seek to divide people and lead populations down the path of the victim cult in order to serve their own agenda. Milke argues that, in the end, none of these arguments can completely explain the "why" of the entrenchment of grievance culture. The explanation that Milke offers is compelling; grievance culture has become so powerful because of the widespread belief in man's perfectability (which Milke traces back as far as the Greek philosopher Plato) and the belief that civilization itself is the problem (which goes back to French philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau), combined with a third pernicious influence: "the suicidal self-loathing of a mainly Western class of intellectuals and academics (and others who follow them), who breathe in the assumptions of Western guilt." The Victim Cult does not only focus on the problems of the grievance culture (which are many). Milke also proposes solutions, and offers positive examples of groups that have refused to fall victim themselves to the victim cult, as well as positive steps that all of us can take to avoid being taken in by this powerful and destructive ideological movement. As the culture of victimhood becomes an ever more pernicious influence on our cultures throughout the Western world, we need to be equipped to understand and counter it. For this reason, I highly recommend The Victim Cult as a work that not only points out what's wrong with the world, but also will provoke healthy reflection and self-examination on the part of the thoughtful reader. – Jim Witteveen OCTOBER 23 In 1971, when Richard John Neuhaus wrote In Defense of People: Ecology and the Seduction of Radicalism, (1971, 315 pages) he was a young, liberal-leaning Lutheran pastor working in one of New York City's poorer neighborhoods. Over the years, Neuhaus's ecclesiastical vision changed quite radically (he would go on to become a Roman Catholic priest), as did his socio-political views. But In Defense of People shows that, even as a young, idealistic, and left-leaning pastor, Neuhaus was an often profound thinker who was not afraid to challenge his own thinking and worldview. In Defense of People makes for very interesting reading for anyone interested in Neuhaus and his development as an influential Christian public intellectual (he would also go on to found First Things magazine and to serve as an unofficial advisor to President George W. Bush). But even more, this book is an important historical work because of the first-hand account that it provides of the origins of the modern environmentalist movement. Neuhaus was there when the very first Earth Day celebrations were held in New York City on April 22, 1970, and his evaluation of the event, and the movement behind it, is astute and often very revealing. Neuhaus shows that, far from being the grass-roots movement that it is often painted as being, the ecological movement was, from its very beginnings, the product of aristocratic impulses, guided and formed by big money interests and the political establishment. Neuhaus focuses on the anti-human philosophy of the environmental movement and its wealthy and powerful backers, arguing that the very history and structure of the ecology movement contains "a bias against the poor, if not against people." Some five decades on, Neuhaus's book remains relevant and just as applicable (if not more so) than when it was written. The book is out of print, and used copies aren't cheap, but it is very much a worthwhile read. – Jim Witteveen OCTOBER 22 I enjoyed reading the book No Apologies: Why Civilization Depends on the Strength of Men, by Anthony Esolen (2022, 204 pages). This book will be unpopular with most readers in our current cultural moment as many critics will dismiss it as a form of “toxic masculinity” without actually reading it. It’s those critics who really should read this book. I’ll be honest with you: there were times reading this book that I felt a bit uncomfortable, where I wondered if Esolen was going too far. But when I stopped to think why I felt uncomfortable, I couldn’t disagree with him from a biblical/creational or historical perspective; my emotional discomfort was due to cultural factors or pressures. Indeed, Esolen does not hold back: men build civilizations, and men should not apologize for that. This book is a say-it-as-it-is, courageous, passionate defense of men as men. Men are created very differently from women. There are many differences, but the biggest (and most obvious) difference is that of physical strength. We should celebrate and not loath that difference! He shows with a multitude of examples how men built buildings and transportation networks, cleared ground and explored continents, created great works of art and invented great technological developments. But the book is not a defense of machismo: men ought not to swagger and boast. But neither should they cringe and cower. Esolen tears down many modern feminist denigrations of masculinity and calls men to use their strength for the common good. I recommend it to high school aged men. I dare women who are wary of toxic masculinity to read it too, and after completing it, to let me know what you think. – André Schutten OCTOBER 21 Perhaps it’s bad form or poor taste to include a book here that I co-wrote, but I did read this book this year (many times!) and so I’ve decided to include it. A Christian Citizenship Guide: Christianity and Canadian Political Life, by André Schutten and Michael Wagner (2022, 256 pages) is a readable book, written with a grade 10 student in mind. The first chapter of the book covers Christian influences in Canada’s history, often overlooked or taken for granted today by most political commentators. The second chapter covers our constitutional history in England from the time of Robin Hood and bad king John to the Glorious Revolution of 1688 (and why that matters to Canada and the government we have). The third chapter covers some more legal history in Canada, and explains how the government in Canada (the judicial, executive, and legislative branches) works at the federal and provincial level. The fourth chapter covers the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms and explains some of the more significant sections in it, particularly as it relates to issues and concerns that Christian citizens might have. The fifth chapter covers the issue of human rights, and shows how Christians should reclaim this concept. The sixth chapter explains how the big idea of sphere sovereignty can help us think through political issues, and the seventh (and final) chapter encourages the reader to be politically engaged as a faithful citizen. The book will be available for the first time on ARPA Canada’s fall tour. – André Schutten OCTOBER 19 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson (1886, 110 pages) is a classic work of fiction, and there’s a good reason why it’s a classic. I quite enjoyed reading it for the first time, even though (due to many popular references to the book) I knew how it would turn out. The book is a murder mystery written from the perspective of a lawyer named Utterson. He is investigating peculiar events that occur between his friend Dr. Jekyll and a creep of a man, Mr. Edward Hyde. The reader is left sharing Utterson’s confusion as to what in the world is going on with Dr. Jekyll until the end of the book. There are two reasons I’d recommend this book. First, the book is very well-known, and there are many cultural references to it. To better appreciate those types of references, you should read the original work. It is a classic, after all. But it’s also worth reading from a Christian perspective. The novel wrestles with the question of good and evil as found within us and whether these are two opposing spirits or an infection or fallenness of one. Stevenson seems to embrace a dualism in his novel (which a Christian should reject). I also appreciated the discourse with Dr. Jekyll at the very end of the book and the picture of what sin in the form of addiction is like. Evil personified in Mr. Hyde is voracious and cunning and demanding. Dr. Jekyll cries out with the helplessness of Paul in Romans 7:21-24, but he completely despairs without the hope of 7:25. These biblical themes are worth discussing with Christian and non-Christian friends. Recommended. – André Schutten OCTOBER 18 If you have ever wondered why people who claim that "tolerance" is the virtue that trumps all others are themselves so intolerant of dissenting viewpoints, you need go no further than Robert Paul Wolff, Barrington Moore, Jr., and Herbert Marcuse's A Critique of Pure Tolerance, (1970, 123 pages), and especially Herbert Marcuse's contribution to this collection of essays, "Repressive Tolerance." Marcuse was perhaps the best-known member of the Frankfurt School of Critical Theory, one of the leading lights in the 1960s "New Left," and among the most influential public intellectuals in mid-Twentieth Century America. As a cultural Marxist, he exerted his influence in the academic world, following in the footsteps of Antonio Gramsci, an Italian Marxist imprisoned under Benito Mussolini. Gramsci had argued that the Marxist vision for society could best be implemented by a process of "cultural hegemony" in which the Marxist philosophy could infiltrate every sphere of society by means of a "long march through the institutions." In "Repressive Tolerance," Marcuse argued that there can only be tolerance of opinions and ideas that challenge the "repressive" status quo. There are certain activities and expressions of opinion that should not be tolerated, Marcuse wrote, "because they are impeding, if not destroying, the chances of creating an existence without fear and misery." Marcuse argued that concepts like freedom of speech and freedom of expression were instruments of the dominant class, used to maintain, promote, and excuse the rampant inequalities of American society, and the continued exploitation of the underclasses by the powerful. Reading Marcuse in an era in which his ideological descendants have themselves become a dominant force in academia, the media, and politics, it is striking to see how his philosophy spread from the realm of higher education through all levels of society. While his writing style is dense, often difficult to decipher, and, in the end, logically incoherent, Marcuse's writings remain important reading for anyone seeking to understand the spirit of the age in which we live. – Jim Witteveen OCTOBER 17 Francis Schaeffer’s No Little People (2021, 304 pages) is a collection of 16 of his sermons on a wide range of passages and topics, originally published in 1974. The collection has been nicely republished by Crossway just last year. I originally bought the book as a farewell gift for my friend and former colleague Mark Penninga because the title of the book corresponds to a point Mark has made many times to me and my colleagues at ARPA Canada: God is pleased to work with the weak and foolish and lowly, so that if anyone boasts, we boast in the Lord (1 Corinthians 1:26-31). Schaeffer’s point in his opening sermon is that, if God is working through us and in us, then there are no little people – we are instruments in the hands of the living God! I found all the chapters encouraging (I’d recommend not reading more than one a day). The chapter on the Ark, the Mercy Seat and the Incense Altar was particularly moving, opening my eyes to see what God was showing his people about himself through the particular details of the design of the tabernacle. My only caveat is the chapter on Revelation might not align with your eschatology. Otherwise, highly recommended as a devotional book for private worship or for group study. – André Schutten OCTOBER 16 If you’re looking for a cheeky spoof of pretentious literary critics, you’ll enjoy Frederick Crews’ The Pooh Perplex (2003. 164 pages). This book was first published in 1963 and has become a classic piece of satire. It is written as a casebook for a university English class and contains 12 chapters, each written by a different adherent to a particular school of literary criticism, all of whom evaluate or critique “one of the greatest literary works ever written” that being, Winnie-the-Pooh. The short bios of the fictional authors, as well as the footnotes and study questions, add to the humor. The fictional chapter contributors include a committed Freudian, an angry Marxist, an overzealous Christian, an Aristotelian, and more. Crews’ book – in a funny and exaggerated way – shows us an important truth: that most critics (and all of us really) have biases. Some with the strongest biases are the most blind to them. Recommended! – André Schutten OCTOBER 15 I pulled John Piper’s Don’t Waste Your Life (2003, 191 pages) off my shelf after a young man in my congregation decided to start a young men’s bible study group with this as their first book. In it, Piper begs Christians in America (and this applies to Canada just as much) to take risks and make sacrifices for the glory of God. His book is punchy and includes various stories of sacrifice and service which are inspiring and keep the reader’s attention. The book is easy to read in its style (much more so than Piper’s magnum opus Desiring God), and as such makes a good book for a high school student to read. But it is certainly not only for high school students. Piper also challenges Christians in their careers and in their retirement years to ask the question, “Am I wasting my life?” I appreciate how Piper is not shy in challenging us to live fully for the glory of God while remaining encouraging. He wants us to see that “pursuing God's glory virtually the same as pursuing my joy… millions of people waste their lives because they think these paths are two and not one.” Instead of proposing a how-to list or a multi-step program, Piper urges us to be single-mindedly passionate for glorifying Christ above everything else in our lives. Considering our cultural placement, I heartily recommend this book for North American Christians to read, consider, discuss, and apply. – André Schutten OCTOBER 13 Christianity and Social Justice: Religions in Conflict (2021, 146 pages) is author Jon Harris's followup to his 2020 book Social Justice Goes to Church, a history of the origins of the progressive movement in the American evangelical church. In Christianity and Social Justice, Harris begins with a much briefer overview of the history of the social justice movement, before moving on to a more in-depth evaluation of the ideology behind the social justice movement in the light of current events. While Harris covers much of the same material that can be found in other books on this subject that I have read and reviewed over the past year, he does offer a very helpful perspective on subjects like social justice epistemology and social justice metaphysics – subjects that may sound complicated, but that Harris manages to explain at a level that an average reader should be able to understand. I found Harris's explanation of "Standpoint Theory" – the theory that makes the claim that only certain groups can have a genuine understanding of certain issues, while those who do not share their experience cannot truly understand – to be particularly helpful. Harris's discussion of the dangers of unquestioning acceptance of the dominant narrative is also particularly insightful; his explanation of many evangelicals' immediate reaction to the 2019 Nicholas Sandmann incident (in which a young man who was participating in the March for Life was unfairly characterized as being a racist and subsequently exonerated after the whole story was revealed) is but one example of many in which prominent evangelicals have jumped on media-propelled bandwagons, only to be proven wrong when the truth was brought to light. Harris explains his purpose in writing on these issues as follows: "The first step in fighting against the social justice movement is understanding what it is. That is the primary purpose of this book. The second step is loving others and telling the truth." Christianity and Social Justice certainly meets the goals that Harris set out to achieve. – Jim Witteveen OCTOBER 11 "There are ultimately only two alternatives in the intellectual life: either one conforms desire to the truth or truth to desire." So writes E. Michael Jones in his introduction to Degenerate Moderns: Modernity as Rationalized Sexual Misbehavior (2012, 237 pages). In this work, Jones examines how many very prominent public intellectuals have in fact done the latter - "conforming truth to desire," or arguing for positions that seek to justify their own behavior, creating a version of "truth" that justifies their own lifestyles rather than seeking to lead lives in accordance with THE truth. Jones uses a number of case studies to support his thesis, including the stories of anthropologist Margaret Mead, "sexologist" Alfred Kinsey, and artist Pablo Picasso. The most extensive chapter, however, deals with the two fathers of psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung, and the ways in which their own personal sins, struggles, and guilt were formative in the development of their theories of human nature and psychology. The way in which Freud's personal pathologies influenced his conclusions, which have proved over the ensuing decades to have a lasting influence, despite being largely debunked, is clear; and the way in which his theories were so widely accepted in the intellectual world reveals that many scholars, who theoretically should know better, are easily swayed when the conclusions drawn by researchers serve to support their own worldviews and resulting lifestyles. Jones writes as a Roman Catholic of a very traditionalist bent. He likes to cite Augustine, the church father whose writings are treasured by both Roman Catholics and Protestants. However, Jones's staunch Roman Catholic views, combined with an obvious lack of deep understanding of the issues that led to the Protestant Reformation, led him to include a chapter on Martin Luther which many reviewers have noted is much weaker than the rest of the book. Thankfully it's a brief chapter, and it does not take away from the quality of Jones's work in the rest of the book. With that reservation, I do recommend Degenerate Moderns as a helpful exploration of the way in which many modern intellectual trends have been shaped by the errant desires of their originators. – Jim Witteveen OCTOBER 10 In his graphic novel tome, Joseph Smith and the Mormons (2022, 456 pages), author Noah Van Sciver presents a sympathetic portrayal of his subject even as he seems to doubt Smith's claims. What former Mormon Van Sciver doesn't understand is that Smith was either the prophet he claimed to be, or a liar and blasphemer, demon-possessed or manufacturing his lies all on his ownsome. I picked this up because I have a long-time Mormon friend, and was disappointed that it didn't prove to be the useful historical overview I was hoping it'd be. The problem is the lack of clarity over which portions of it would be accepted by Mormons, and which parts they'd dispute. So, for example, is it accepted among Mormons that Smith lied to his suspicious wife Emma, even as he was secretly "celestially sealing" himself to more and more women? Or would they dismiss that as mere rumors? Van Sciver doesn't make it clear, which limits his book's value. – Jon Dykstra OCTOBER 9 Frances Stonor Saunders' The Cultural Cold War: The CIA and the World of Arts and Letters (1999, 424 pages) is considered a classic work of investigative history, and it certainly deserves the accolades it has received. Saunders has dug deep into the history of the relationship between the American Central Intelligence Agency and the movers and shakers in the world of literature, music, fine arts, film, and even religion, and the results of her research are eye-opening to say the least. The CIA founded and promoted European literary magazines that were staffed by people you would least expect to be working to produce pro-American and anti-Soviet propaganda; the organization's connections with the Museum of Modern Art and the Abstract Impressionist movement shows that politics and money can indeed make for some very strange alliances. Of particular interest to Christian readers will be the influence that the CIA exercised in the theological world, to the point of having its own favored theologians. This is a fairly heavy tome, packed with information on a number of different subjects and historical figures. Saunders's research included personal interviews with a number of people who were involved in the CIA's cultural adventures, either knowingly or unwittingly, and the book is heavily footnoted. I recommend it as a revelatory account of the ways in which seemingly "organic" cultural movements may be anything but. It will perhaps lead readers to wonder what future historians will be writing about the ways in which our modern culture has been shaped and moulded in similar ways, and will certainly help to build a healthy skepticism about the messages and worldviews that are being promoted in the various wings of popular culture today. – Jim Witteveen OCTOBER 1 In Thea Beckman's Crusade in Jeans (1972, 275 pages), Dolf is a modern-day Dutch teen accidentally teleported back in time to the 13th century. He appears right in the middle of thousands of German children marching their way to free Jerusalem from its Muslim conquerors. But before they can get there, this "children's crusade" will have to cross the Alps... and who will help the littlest ones find food, and keep warm in those barren peaks? Dolf discovers that his schooling has given him tools and knowledge that could save lives, and his modern diet has given him a stature that gets him a hearing. While he doesn't share the Christian faith of the children, Dolf joins the crusade anyway, both to help as many of the children as he can, and because he doesn't know where else to go. It's a fish-out-of-water tale that introduces us to another time, and treats us to the clever ways that Dolf and his medieval friends employ to solve all the problems they encounter. I've been reading this with my three pre-teen girls, and while the youngest at 9 hasn't found it too scary, my wife, overhearing, was surprised by how matter-of-factly brutal the story sometimes is – hundreds of the children die along the way, from sickness, or in battles. But some of that is softened by the story arc of each chapter: each time Dolf is shocked by the time's poverty, its cut-throat politics, or the general disregard for life, the chapter will ends on rescue, or some other encouraging note. It's a great story that is marred by a single misuse of God's name. Another caution: the Children's Crusade was a real historical event, but young readers should be told we don't really know what's fact and what's simply legend. – Jon Dykstra SEPTEMBER 27 One of my bookshelves is home to a very nice-looking collection of about fifty little books – the "Puritan Paperbacks" series published by The Banner of Truth. I purchased the series with good intentions, knowing that it offers some of the best writing of the Puritans, offered in a more readable form than many of their lengthier, unedited works. But despite my good intentions, most of these books have not yet been cracked open. But looking on the bright side, that means that I have a lot of good reading to look forward to! Christian Love (2004, 106 pages) by Hugh Binning was first published in 1735, nearly a century after the author's death at the age of 26. Beginning with John 13:35  –"By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another" – Binning explores what true Christian love really is, and how we are called especially to love our brothers and sisters in Christ. Binning goes through the attributes of love as laid out in 1 Corinthians 13, and provides practical advice on how we can show our love for one another, in imitation of Christ. I found Binning's chapter on humility and meekness as prerequisites to Christian love to be particularly insightful. Binning emphasizes that true humility doesn't mean denying the specific gifts that we have received, or denigrating our own strengths. "Humility," he writes, "does not exclude all knowledge of any excellency in itself, or defect in another it can discern; but this is its worth, that it thinks soberly of the one, and despises not the other." Wise words from a young man who wrote them while still in his early twenties! Christian Love is not a book that you will want to read in one sitting. It is not long, but it is densely written, and although modernized, the language and sentence structure is still more challenging than most modern writing. But I would highly recommend this book as devotional reading, perhaps taking a chapter a night to read, digest, and apply. I'm sure you'll find it to be worth the effort. – Jim Witteveen SEPTEMBER 25 One of four books in the "Theopolis Fundamentals" series published by Athanasius Press, Peter J. Leithart's Theopolitan Reading (2020, 116 pages) is a concise, readable, and fascinating guide to the most important reading we'll ever do - Bible reading. Peter Leithart, a prolific author who has written a number of books on Biblical interpretation, church history, and literature, has a knack for helping Bible readers get the most out of their reading. He also understands how important it is for Christians to have an intimate familiarity with God's Word, emphasizing that Scripture speaks to all of life as "the ultimate authority for everything, in all circumstances." Here Leithart offers himself as a mentor and model of the "Spiritual reading" of Scripture - not just reading the Bible, but reading the Bible well. A Spiritual reader, Leithart writes, demonstrates the fruits of the Spirit in his reading. The first fruit of the Spirit mentioned in Galatians 5 is love, and Leithart makes a connection between that fruit of the Spirit and the definition of love in 1 Corinthians 13 to show how we should approach Scripture. Approaching the text of Scripture with love first of all means being patient – reading, re-reading, and re-re-reading in the patience of the Spirit. In the second place, it means coming to the text with an attitude of humility. In order to truly understand God's Word, we need to humble ourselves before its Author! In theological terms, Theopolitan Reading is a primer in Biblical Hermeneutics – a study of the interpretation of Scripture. Leithart is not impressed with much modern Biblical scholarship, and argues that the best mentors and guides for reading Scripture are the Lord Jesus and his apostles. His approach has been called "interpretive maximalism" and "symbolic interpretation," but Leithart argues that the Spiritual reading that he advocates is more of an art than a "mechanistic process." And while this discussion may seem a bit heavy for a general audience, Leithart takes pains to explain his approach to Scripture not only to "specialists," but to the average "Theo and Thea," the names he gives to the typical Bible reader. After introducing the concept of Spiritual reading, Leithart spends the majority of the book discussing Scripture's central themes, imagery, types, and themes that are found on every page of the Bible. He begins by discussing the Biblical view of the world, spends a chapter on Adam (and the last Adam), moves on to discuss Eve, before concluding with an exploration of Eden. Leithart's work evidences a high regard for God's Word, and his literary and interpretive skills are impressive. He knows his Bible, and he explains its message well. Despite its brevity, Theopolitan Reading is packed with insight into the Word and how to read it, and my appreciation for the profound depth of the Word only grew. For those who want to plumb those depths, it will be a very useful aid. – Jim Witteveen SEPTEMBER 20 Over the course of this year, I've read and reviewed several books on Critical Race Theory (CRT) and the Social Justice movement. There are a number of excellent resources out there that deal with these issues, but if I would be forced to recommend only one of them to an interested Christian reader, it would be Fault Lines: The Social Justice Movement and Evangelicalism's Looming Catastrophe (2021, 251 pages) by Voddie T. Baucham Jr. Currently serving as the dean of the School of Divinity at African Christian University in Lusaka, Zambia, Baucham has written several books on other issues that I would also highly recommend. As a Reformed Baptist, his work evidences a high regard for Scripture as well as an informed and critical eye on culture and its impact on the church. In Fault Lines, Baucham addresses Critical Race Theory (and, more generally, Critical Social Justice) as a movement that has created a dangerous divide in the evangelical and Reformed/Presbyterian world. Some Christians have knowingly and deliberately adopted the tenets of CRT and CSJ, while others, Baucham writes, have naively begun to use the language and categories of these movements, without being fully aware of what they stand for. A good part of this book is autobiographical in nature, as Baucham describes his own experiences as an African-American, from growing up in a single-parent family, to his educational experiences, to his conversion to Christianity and his life as a pastor, writer, and speaker. Countering the conclusions drawn by Critical Race theorists, Baucham points to his own personal experience, and the experience of many others like him, to emphasize the importance of good parenting in children's lives. While he emphasizes the centrality of God's grace in leading him to where he is now, he acknowledges the importance of the role his mother played in his life: "I thrived in large part because, by God's grace, my mother protected me, sacrificed for me, advocated for me, and disciplined me," he writes in the conclusion of his chapter on his childhood. Fault Lines is much more than an autobiography, however. Baucham also goes into great detail about the religious nature of Critical Race Theory, a movement that has its own cosmology, its own version of original sin, a new law (the work of antiracism), a new priesthood, and a new canon. In the end, Baucham argues, CRT is a false religion that is absolutely incompatible with the Christian faith. There is much more that could be said about this book, but I hope this brief review will suffice to encourage you to pick up a copy of this book yourself. As CRT continues to make inroads in the Reformed and Presbyterian world, we must be prepared to "rise to the challenge," as Baucham writes in his conclusion. Baucham writes with passion, and his arguments are based in sound theology and a good understanding of Scripture. This book not only reveals the fault lines that exist in the church, but also provides encouragement and good counsel on how to find a way forward, remaining on solid ground. – Jim Witteveen SEPTEMBER 19 In 1971, under the leadership of Pierre Trudeau, Canada became the first country in the world to officially declare itself to be "multicultural." This declaration became the law of the land in 1988, when the Canadian Multiculturalism Act was passed during Brian Mulroney's tenure as Canada's Prime Minister. Over the past fifty years, multiculturalism has spread to many countries of the world, particularly in the West. Over time, it has become more and more difficult for people in the public square to question the wisdom of multiculturalism, to ask whether it is possible for multiculturalism to be successful, or to suggest that multiculturalism will inevitably lead to a nation's decline and fall. Salim Mansur is a Canadian academic who has dared to put himself in the sights of multiculturalism's proponents by confronting it head on. Mansur is a columnist and author, and professor emeritus of political science at the University of Western Ontario who ran as a candidate for the People's Party of Canada in the 2019 federal election. He is also a Muslim. In Delectable Lie: A Liberal Repudiation of Multiculturalism (2011, 183 pages), Mansur argues that multiculturalism is inherently destructive to a liberal society (using the word "liberal" in its classical sense, not to describe the political ideology also known as progressivism or democratic socialism). The dreams of multiculturalism, and the promises it makes, Mansur writes, are nothing more than a lie. As an ideology, multiculturalism holds a certain appeal to many people – thus the word "delectable" in the book's title – but ultimately, the cultural relativism of multiculturalism is its fatal flaw. Ultimately, Mansur writes, "the worm inside the doctrine of multiculturalism is the lie that all cultures are worthy of equal respect and equally embracing of individual freedom and democracy." While proponents of multiculturalism argue that cultural relativism is the result of open-mindedness and tolerance, Mansur argues that just the opposite is the case; political correctness has led to the stifling of free speech and the expression of differences, has led to shallow thinking about cultural issues, and discourages reflection and debate about the qualities of different cultures. Mansur writes from the perspective of a Muslim classical liberal, and his liberal ideals appear to be the guiding principle behind his political and social philosophy. He rightly recognizes that the foundations of classical liberalism can be found in what he calls its "faith tradition anchored in Judeo-Christian ethics," and while his arguments are based more on the primacy of liberal ideals than on the Christian principles that undergird those ideals, he puts forward a strong challenge to the accepted wisdom that has all but excluded every other opinion from public debate. The book does not make for the easiest reading, but it is a worthwhile contribution to what has become a very one-sided debate, not only in Canada, but in many parts of the world. – Jim Witteveen SEPTEMBER 17 Every now and again I'll hand out a book to any nephews or nieces willing to give it a go. And with Caleb Fuller's No Free Lunch: Six Economic Lies You've Been Taught And Probably Believe (2021, 138 pages), I've found the next book I'm going to pitch to them. While Fuller addresses six lies, there is one truth he's trying to present: that every opportunity you pursue, comes at a cost. What cost? The time and money you put into it – and here's the important part – which can't then be spent on other opportunities. This "opportunity cost" could be known as the "you-can't-have-your-cake-and-eat-it-too principle" or, as the book title puts it, "there's no free lunch." So, then, when a government jobs program funds summer work for students, what we see is all the students getting jobs. But what we don't see is the opportunity cost to this program – we don't see all the other jobs that companies might have started on their own – and maybe full-time even – had the government not taxed them to fund their summer jobs program. Fuller shows how much damage is done by the well-meaning, but economically ignorant, and highlights how there is on many issues a consensus among economists on both the Left and Right, that politicians on the Left will simply defy. My only disappointment with this punchy book is that this Christian professor never makes plain why the Left fails, and the free market works. He never mentions how the foundation for the free market – private property rights – is simply obedience to God's command, "Do not steal" (Ex. 20:15). In fact, God is not mentioned in the whole book.  – Jon Dykstra SEPTEMBER 15 I really enjoyed Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales (2013, 448 pages), the third Randy Singer novel I've read for this challenge. But I would place it as the third of those three, simply because of how it started. The prologue doesn't describe it in any detail, but the reader is made aware that in this Syrian jail a woman is being raped and killed in the cell next door. That's a grim beginning for a book I'm reading only for enjoyment. Fortunately, the story heads in a completely different direction starting with Chapter 1. Landon Reed found God in jail and found a good woman and daughter still waiting for him when he got out. The disgraced former college quarterback, indicted for point shaving, spent his time in prison studying. Now that he's out he wants to be a lawyer, to help others make the same life-turn. It is hard for a convict to get a job though, particularly in the legal field. So when he does land a position, and the law firm's other employees start getting murdered, Reed's too grateful to leave. He's going to find out who's murdering his colleagues... even if it kills him. The book's brutal start had me almost quitting before I started, and also had me wondering how far Christian authors can go in depicting evil, and having their characters contend with evil, without making light of the warning in Ephesians 5:12 that "It is shameful even to mention what the disobedient do in secret." To be clear, I don't think Singer crossed a line here – he might even be the example of how to speak of vile deeds in a restrained manner since he kept the details sparse. But I still didn't like the beginning, though the legal twists and turns that followed were intriguing indeed.  – Jon Dykstra SEPTEMBER 12 In 1984, George Orwell envisioned a world in which "every record has been destroyed or falsified, every book rewritten, every picture has been repainted, every statue and street building has been renamed, every date has been altered." This process has been unfolding before our eyes, and the evolution (or devolution) of the academic discipline of history over the past forty years has been rapid, and drastic, exemplifying the rewriting of books and falsification of records that Orwell foretold. In The Killing of History: How Literary Critics and Social Theorists are Murdering Our Past, (1996, 372 pages) historian Keith Windschuttle explains the disastrous results that have resulted from the wholesale takeover of historical studies by literary criticism, social theory, and various postmodernist movements. Studying a number of historical events and their re-interpretation by contemporary historians, Windschuttle clearly shows how "truth" has been lost as efforts have been made to re-interpret and re-imagine the events and developments of history. Windschuttle focuses his attention on modern reinterpretations of the conquest of Mexico, the mutiny on the Bounty, the first arrival of Europeans in Hawaii, as well as on Australian history, which is the subject of several of his other works. Readers without a history background will likely find Windschuttle's discussions of academics like Tzvetan Todorov and Michel Foucault difficult to wrap their minds around; but as Windschuttle himself says, if you find this stuff hard to understand, you're not alone: "One of the reasons the humanities and social sciences have been taken over so quickly by the sophistry described in this book is because too few of those who might have been expected to resist the putsch understood what its instigators were saying." So although the appeal of this book would probably be limited to those who have studied history in post-secondary settings, I highly recommend Windschuttle's work as a trenchant critique of the current state of historical study. The importance of this subject goes far beyond the halls of academia, as the postmodernist reinterpretations of history have had a serious influence on political decision-making, especially in the area of aboriginal studies and the world of Identity Politics. Windschuttle is a rare bird in the academic world, a scholar who is willing to challenge the "consensus," despite the costs associated with non-conformity. The Killing of History is an important work, and Windschuttle offers a valuable critique of modern historiography that deserves to be heard. – Jim Witteveen SEPTEMBER 9 On occasion, I have described myself as a "libertarian Christian," meaning by it that I was for a much much smaller government. How small? Don't know, but we could cut for a long long time before we'd run the risk of going too far. But libertarians can often be moral libertines seeing little to no role for the government in restricting prostitution, pornography, drugs, and even abortion. That's what prevents me from embracing the term. Still, I was curious to read Faith Seeking Freedom: Libertarian Christian Answers to Tough Questions (2020, 142 pages). It's an FAQ-style book by a group of writers who are not at all reluctant about describing themselves as Christian libertarians. The work's strength is in the unique ideas being expressed. Have you ever considered whether, in this Internet Age, the government should be funding libraries (and using your tax dollars to buy all sorts of inappropriate children's material)? Where else would you get hit with a question like that? The book's weakness comes in the divide the writers make between God's law as revealed in the Bible (his special revelation), and natural law which is the portion of God's law that's evident even to people who have never read the Bible (God's general revelation). On the issue of abortion, they basically elevate natural law to a position on par with or even above biblical law. The result is that they take an issue that is clear in the Bible – don't kill image-bearers of God – and waffle on it because, based on natural law alone, there might seem more room for arguing either position. They are choosing their libertarian values over their Christian ones here, and it's wrong. That's why, even as I remain a small government proponent, reading Faith Seeking Freedom has made me more hesitant about labeling myself a "Christian libertarian." – Jon Dykstra SEPTEMBER 5 Over the last ten years hyperinflation has wiped out the Venezuelan currency, reducing it to 1/40 billionth of what it once was, and for years now I've been wondering, aren't we in danger of heading in the same direction? Isn't it just a matter of math that if our governments keep printing more money, that money will be worth less – if they double it, shouldn't each bill end up being worth half as much? And if that's so, what with Western governments' stimulus handouts, quantitative easing, and COVID emergency spending, why haven't we become Venezuela already? That's the lead question that Pastor Douglas Wilson asks financial manager David Bahnsen in Mis-inflation: the truth about inflation, pricing, and the creation of wealth (2022, 140 pages). The book is a series of back-and-forth emails, with Wilson the interviewer, and Bahnsen (son of Reformed presuppositional apologist Greg Bahnsen), giving his best replies. The short answer is, that we probably don't need to worry about Venezuelan-type hyperinflation (and, consequently, don't need to start buying gold), but stagnating like Japan is a real danger. More important still was a connection made between economic worries and the Parable of the Talents. The unfaithful servant fearfully buried his talent, but we are called, even in economic downturns, to take what God has given us and seek a return on it to His glory. Now, if economics is not your interest, this will be a tough read - it took me about three chapters to begin to understand what Bahnsen was explaining (though Wilson's questions did help unpack Bahnsen's answers). However, if you are interested, this has some helpful answers that don't seem readily available anywhere else, which makes it worth the effort! – Jon Dykstra SEPTEMBER 3 Matt Walsh's recent documentary, What is a Woman? was released earlier this year to coincide with Pride Month, and it is not surprising that it met with mixed reviews. On the one hand, Walsh was accused of being a hateful transphobe, while on the other hand his documentary was praised as revealing the incoherence of the "trans" movement and its inherent dangers. Those who are familiar with Walsh know that he has a rather acerbic style, and that he pulls no punches when it comes to questions of culture and morality. While that style may rub some people the wrong way, I believe that it suits this subject perfectly, because it reveals the absolute absurdity of this cultural phenomenon. His book What is a Woman? (2022, 253 pages) is basically a recapitulation of the documentary of the same title. Walsh sets out to answer what he refers to as "the question of a generation" - a question that many seem to be unable to answer. His journey takes him to various "experts" on the subject, medical and psychological professionals, as well as a transsexual who regrets her sex change surgery. Walsh also goes into some detail about the history of the transgender movement, revealing the often sordid history behind the ideology and its promotion, and details the forces that are behind the spread of transgenderism today. In the end, the simplicity of the question (and its correct answer) is revealed through an account of Walsh's discussion of the issue with a group of Massai people in Kenya, whose response to Walsh's titular question reveals that it's not so hard to answer after all. What is a Woman? is a well-written and engrossing book, an informative and interesting read. It does include some foul language (albeit lightly censored with the use of asterisks), mostly in direct citations of Walsh's interviewees. With that proviso in mind, I do recommend this book as a revealing look at the true nature of the transgender movement, which reflects a worldview that cannot maintain itself, because it rejects the wisdom and truth of God himself. – Jim Witteveen SEPTEMBER 2 If your concern over the state of our society has been growing in recent years, you probably have a list of culprits in mind when you consider who is actually responsible for the negative developments that have seemed to overtake us so rapidly. Regardless of the kind of problem we're considering, one question always seems to be close at hand: Who is to blame? Generally, our response is this: "Someone else." This has been true since the fall into sin, when the blame game was first played. But as the subtitle of David L. Bahnsen's Crisis of Responsibility: Our Cultural Addiction to Blame and How You Can Cure It (2019, 170 pages) says, our culture is addicted to insisting that everything negative is someone else's fault, and we as individuals cannot be held responsible in any way. It is this addiction to blame that Bahnsen takes on in this interesting and challenging book. Bahnsen, who is the son of the well-known Reformed apologist and theologian Greg Bahnsen, is a Christian financial manager who has become a respected figure in the world of finance and investment. While this book largely focuses attention on political and financial matters, its thesis is broadly applicable to all of life. Bahnsen leads the reader to consider his own responsibilities, and to examine the areas in his own life that need to change, and reminds us that we must take responsibility for our own actions and the results that those actions have. While not denying that "the usual suspects" (big government, big business, the media, and the educational system) have all played an important role in leading us to where we are today – socially, politically, economically, and culturally – Bahnsen emphasizes that "what we need now is to end our addiction to blame and accept the responsibility that comes from being part of a society governed of, by, and for we, the people." I believe that Bahnsen shows a tendency toward under-emphasizing the deliberate work that has been done to undermine our culture by ideologues in the mass media, the political sphere, and the educational establishment. But at the same time, this book offers a healthy corrective to those who are tempted to neglect their own responsibilities and cast the blame on one of the various institutions that he refers to as "the bogeymen." It's an important message that needs to be internalized by every generation of God's people, and for this reason Bahnsen's book is a worthwhile read. – Jim Witteveen SEPTEMBER 1 I grew up reading and re-reading the "Little House" books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I loved those books - both the stories themselves and the iconic illustrations by Garth Williams, which made the story come alive for me. By the time I finished reading the series of books, the Little House on the Prairie television series had already been running for several seasons, and it became "must-watch" TV in our home. I knew that the TV series took liberties with the content of the books, but the overall focus of the story remained the same – one family's experience of making a life for itself on the American frontier. Fast-forward a few decades. The naivete of childhood long past, I was aware that the "Little House" books could not be an exact account of what had actually occurred in the lives of the Ingalls family and young Almanzo Wilder in 19th Century America. So it wasn't a shock for me to learn in Christine Woodside's Libertarians on the Prairie: Laura Ingalls Wilder, Rose Wilder Lane, and the Making of the Little House Books (2016, 259 pages) that the driving force behind the "Little House" books was actually Rose Wilder Lane, Laura Ingalls Wilder's daughter. A successful author herself, Rose Wilder Lane took her mother's writing (which itself took some liberties with the actual events upon which they were based), rewrote the manuscripts, polishing them up and shaping them into the best-selling series of books that they became. What is particularly interesting, however, is the way in which the political convictions, both of mother Laura and daughter Rose, shaped the stories that they told. Rose Wilder Lane is known as one of the mothers of American Libertarianism, and her book The Discovery of Freedom (first published in 1943) is still considered a must-read in libertarian circles. It was Laura and Rose's emphasis on personal freedom, personal responsibility, and self-reliance that shaped the message of the Little House books, as well as the events in the Ingalls family history that they chose to include, as well as exclude. Libertarians on the Prairie is a well-written account of the writing of the Little House books, an honest yet sympathetic look at the lives of the Wilder family and the books that made them famous. The author's original research into the lives of Laura, Almanzo, and Rose is presented in a readable and engrossing way, and the result is an enjoyable book that captured my interest and held it from beginning to end. Libertarians on the Prairie, beyond being an interesting read, also reveals how an author's worldview shapes his or her work, and how effectively good authors can influence the thinking of their readers. I highly recommend this book to anyone interested in the history of the Little House books, or for anyone who enjoys history and biography.  – Jim Witteveen AUGUST 27 You don't want to get between a mama bear and her cubs - every hiker knows that! A mother bear will do whatever is necessary to protect her young when she believes that they are in danger. And the authors of this book (whose blog and podcast can be accessed at MamaBearApologetics.com) understand that their role as Christian mothers is to protect their children from spiritual harm, just as the mama bear protects her cubs. Their goal is to prepare mothers to "learn how to raise kids who think critically, love biblically, and stand firm against the cultural tide." In Mama Bear Apologetics (2019, 287 pages), they address the issues of self-helpism, naturalism, skepticism, postmodernism, moral relativism, emotionalism, pluralism, the "new spirituality," Marxism, feminism, and progressive Christianity, covering almost all of the bases when it comes to the numerous "ism's" that seek to lead our children astray. Each chapter concludes with helpful advice on how to use the chapter's content with children and young people through discussions, discipleship, and prayer, as well as a list of discussion questions that are well-formulated to contribute to an engaging and useful group study of the material. On a whole I found that the book addresses the ideological challenges that confront our young people in a way that is helpful and encouraging. At times I found myself wishing that the authors were a bit less gentle and a little more "mama bear-ish," but the end result of their work is a book that will certainly serve to equip mothers (and fathers!) to understand the spirit of the age, and apply that understanding to their God-given task of leading their children along the way of truth. The enemy uses many means to get at our children, and we need to recognize those means, and how they are being used, in order to withstand them ourselves, and prepare our children to do the same. Mama Bear Apologetics will certainly help parents to do just that! – Jim Witteveen AUGUST 26 I enjoyed making my way bit-by-bit through Darwin on Trial by law professor Phillip E. Johnson (the 2010 20th anniversary edition, 247 pages). I’ve followed the evolution/creation debate since my undergraduate years with interest and have always felt that the evolutionary position rests on many unproven assumptions. This book proves that hunch correct. Johnson is no amateur when it comes to testing evidence to see if it holds up to scrutiny. He taught law and evidence at a prestigious American law school for decades and approaches the claims of Darwinism with courtroom rigor. He exposes huge gaps in logic or evidence when it comes to things like the irreducible complexity of the eyeball or other organs or organisms (an irreducibly complex organism can’t evolve – all of the working parts need to be there, at the same time, for it to work). He exposes the gaping hole in the fossil record for any transitional organisms (Darwin himself predicted there would be millions of such organisms, but today there are as yet none found) and he highlights over and over again the circular logic and tautologies of leading evolutionary advocates which would never hold up as evidence in court. Though the book is at times a bit technical when discussing some scientific concepts, it’s still a highly recommended read, especially for any Christian science students and teachers. – André Schutten AUGUST 25 Over the last couple weeks I read Lois Lowry’s Number the Stars (1989, 137 pages) to my eight-year-old son. Lowry’s short novel is set in Denmark during World War II. It tells of two friends, Annemarie and Ellen, aged 10, who need to deal with the ravages of war and, particularly, the cruelty of the Nazi occupiers towards Jewish Danes. Ellen is Jewish. The narrative is told from Annemarie’s perspective, and is built around trying to protect her friend from the soldiers looking for her. Two of the themes in the book provide great fodder for discussion with an 8 to 12 year-old: truth-telling versus preservation of life is a tension throughout the book (Annemarie must lie to a German officer to protect her friend, for example), and another theme is simply the difficulty of living during war. The name of the book comes from Psalm 147:4 (which is referenced in the book) and also ties to the Star of David, worn by Ellen at first, and then hidden from the Nazis, and then worn by Annemarie in anticipation of Ellen’s safe return. While this book does not have nearly as many explicit Christian or biblical references as Dutch children’s stories set in World War II might have (see Piet Prins books, for example), the story is still highly recommended for Christian children aged eight and higher. – André Schutten AUGUST 24 In his Christian fantasy novels The Seraph’s Path (2019, 476 pages) and The Seraph’s Calling (2020, 729 pages) Neil Dykstra has shaped a world with not only exotic creatures and nations to discover, but layer upon layer of legend and history shaping the events. There’s quite the cast of characters, but this is mostly the story of Dyrk, a young horse trainer who can’t please his family, so he sets out to make his own fortune. Through courage and luck he wins a combat competition – the last man standing – and gains entrance into the king's military college. But his career gets stolen from him when he's kicked out of the school without explanation. To Dyrk it seems he's at the whim of the fates. Or is it the Seraphs? In this world the god Arren is served by seven Seraphs, and each night Dyrk sends up his prayers via these Seraphs because, so he has been told, Arren is too holy for common man to approach directly. If that strikes you as Roman Catholic, I think you're on to something. The author is Reformed (and despite sharing a last name, not related to me) and this sort of prayer life is one of the many reasons that Dyrk feels distant from his Maker. And, as noted, the other reason Dyrk feels abandoned is that for every good thing he experiences, bad soon follows. As with all good fantasy fiction, the author is using his made-up world to teach us a little something about our own – Dyrk is wrestling with why bad things happen to good people. The first answer he gets to this question is along the lines of, you're not so good as you think: Dyrk gets caught up in sexual temptation (this event isn't lurid, but is sad and realistic enough that pre-teen readers might find it distressing). The second answer he gets is of the sort that Job was given – Dyrk finds out that his Maker doesn't have to answer to him. I suspect that, along with Dyrk himself, some readers might not find that as complete an answer as they'd like. The Bible does offers another, much more satisfying, answer to this question in the life and death of Jesus Christ. In Christ we learn, not simply that God is God and we are not (the Job answer) but that God loves us, and so much so that He gave His one and only Son to die for us. Job and. Jesus. Both answers are true, but the second far more complete... even as we all can't help but wonder still, when we're faced with suffering. So why didn't the "Jesus answer" show up in the book? It's because, with one notable exception, Christian fantasy can only offer the "Job answer." Why? Because as connected as any Christian author's fantasy world will be to the real world, it can only offer, by necessity, a reflection of God as he revealed Himself in the Old Testament. C.S. Lewis is the exception, offering up the New Testament "Jesus answer" by having Aslan the Son of the Emperor-Over-the-Sea show his love by dying in Edmund's place. But if another Christian author were to now try to give their own version of this answer, they'd be copying Lewis copying the Bible, and it couldn't help but be horrible. And that's why we get only the Job answer here. So who would like this book? Well, if you never made it through The Lord of the Rings, then this might be too intense a read for you. But if you're looking for a book you'll ponder as you read, and for weeks after, you'll love it. – Jon Dykstra AUGUST 23 A classic American novel, The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne (1850, 178 pages) was an interesting read, if only to make myself familiar with the classic and the many cultural references to it. The story is set in a Puritan Massachusetts village in the 1600s. The young Hester Prynne, after giving birth to her daughter Pearl out of wedlock, is accused of adultery and made to wear a scarlet letter “A” on her front for the rest of her days as punishment for her sin. The book is obviously a critique of the (exaggerated) harshness of Puritan moral codes, but more than that, an exploration of public shame and guilt. In fact, Hawthorne’s characters in this book are very complex, and his wrestling with these themes of evil, sin, shame, guilt, and forgiveness or redemption are artfully done. While Hawthorne’s theological position is unclear, his writing shouldn’t be dismissed. I also appreciated that there are no salacious details despite the novel being premised on adultery (Hollywood – it can be done!). Recommended. – André Schutten AUGUST 22 Why Lord? That's the question 12-year-old Julian van Popta, his parents, and his siblings had to contend with when this young man was diagnosed with leukemia. Only When It's Dark Can We See the Stars: a father's journal as his son battles cancer (2022, 194 pages) is an account of the four years that followed, as written by his father, Pastor John van Popta. The chapters are made up of the regular updates Rev. van Popta sent out to friends and family during the rounds of Julian's treatment. What's striking, and what makes this such a valuable read, is the trust the author demonstrates in God, even as the van Poptas struggled with why God would bring such sickness. As the author shares, it is one thing to face cancer as a pastor comforting parishioners, and another thing to do so as a parent seeing their child too weak even to eat. The question Why Lord? is made all the more urgent when, during Julian's repeated hospital stays, they meet other children also battling cancer, and the van Poptas share in these families' hopes and their losses – Julian does eventually recover, but many others do not. While this is a deeply personal account, the struggle to trust God in the face of death is one that we'll all have to face, and this then is an example of how to struggle well. It is a father writing, but there's no missing this is also a pastor who wants to feed the sheep with what he knows we need: to understand that my only comfort is that I am not my own but belong with body and soul, both in life and in death, to my faithful Saviour Jesus Christ. That truth, powerfully delivered, makes this not simply a good book, but an important one. – Jon Dykstra AUGUST 21 It took me all summer, and an encouragement from a friend to see it through, but I finally took up and finished The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self: Cultural Amnesia, Expressive Individualism, and the Road to Sexual Revolution by Carl Truman (2020, 432 pages). The genesis of the book was Prof. Truman’s desire to answer the question of how our entire culture came to accept the statement, “I’m a woman trapped in a man’s body” as true or reasonable. It's a dense read, especially in the first quarter, where Truman explains some important cultural theory from three modern philosophers. However, the concepts like “political man, religious man, psychological man” and “the social imaginary” explained in this first part are helpful to understand our cultural moment. In part 2, Truman covers the philosophical and cultural impact of thinkers like Jean Jacque Rousseau, the three English poets Shelly, Blake, and Wordsworth, and the philosophers Marx, Nietzsche, and Darwin. All of these thinkers shifted the understanding of who man is inward, Rousseau particularly with his ideas of the “authentic self”, and all attempted in their own way to tear down various institutions like the family and the church as oppressive. In part 3, Truman explains the impact of Freud’s thinking on our culture: Freud asserts that to be human is to be a sexual creature from birth. Marcuse and others combined these ideas with the themes of oppression from Marx and Nietzsche, producing a sexual revolution that saw moral (sexual) codes as not merely outdated but oppressive to the authentic self. Truman’s book was enlightening for me, stitching together various parts of history, philosophy, and cultural analysis to make a compelling case for how we got to where we are: the dominance of the LGBTQ+ alliance and the triumph of transgender politics. He does so while remaining quite objective throughout (though his postscript adds the necessary pastoral perspective and an encouragement for the church as she moves forward in this new reality). I recommend this book particularly for pastors and teachers to make sense of the times. Tip: while reading, when you come across a name of a person or a term that Truman explains, write it out with a brief description at the back of the book. One improvement to the book would be a glossary of characters and terms. Truman has since published a simplified version of the book covering the same material in just under half the number of pages, called Strange New World (2022). – André Schutten AUGUST 20 After finishing my second time through Rebekah Merkle's Eve in Exile, and the restoration of femininity (2016, 205 pages) my copy might now have more sections highlighted than clear. I'll have to give it a longer write-up another time because there's just too much gold to unpack in a short review. The bare bones? Eve in Exile is a feminism takedown with its idea that men and women are identical, and women should be evaluated by how well they match up against the men. It is also an exploration of what it means for a woman to be both her husband's equal and his helpmeet. And it corrects the notion that freedom is found only outside the home, and it does so, not with the 1950s caricature of womanhood, but with the Proverbs 31 sort. Finally, it is a celebration of childraising. As Merkle writes: "...a woman raising her children is not only shaping the next generation, she is also shaping little humans who are going to live forever. The souls she gave birth to are immortal. Immortal. And somehow, our culture looks at a woman who treats that as if it might be an important task and says, 'It's a shame she's wasting herself. She could be doing something important – like filing paperwork for insurance claims." Merkle pairs wit with insight in a book that's so encouraging you'll want to buy extra copies to hand out. There's also a documentary version now, and while I haven't seen it, I've heard good things - you can find out more at EveInExile.com. – Jon Dykstra AUGUST 15 The first half of Steven W. Mosher's Politically Incorrect Guide to Pandemics (2022, 343 pages) is an overview of pandemics of the past – the Black Death, bubonic plague, the Spanish Flu, the Swine Flu, etc. – and the various responses to them. This history was new to me: Mosher outlines how the Roman Empire's demise was likely due to a devastating smallpox outbreak, and how the feudal system ended when the Black Death killed off so many serfs the remaining men and women gained some leverage. He shares how the Church's response to the outbreaks – believers risking death to help the sick even as doctors were fleeing – was a powerful witness to Christians' security in God. Moving forward in history, Mosher recounts how the Japanese weaponized the bubonic plague in World War II, killing tens of thousands by dropping plague-contaminated fleas and food over China. The chapter on "The Great Swine-Flu Hoax of 1976" had me consulting the Internet to see if it was actually true 45 million Americans had been vaccinated for a flu that only infected 4 people. Might Mosher's strong and obvious bias – he opposed the COVID lockdowns and mask mandates – have led him to make an utterly ridiculous claim here? But it turns out, it did happen. Some reports put it at 200 soldiers initially coming down with the flu, but others note that only 2 of these were found to have this unique new strain. Whatever the exact number, a vaccine rollout happened without an outbreak to prompt it. The second half of the book is devoted just to COVID-19, and particularly criticisms of governmental responses. Though this is recent history, it was still a shock to recall "two weeks to flatten the curve," encouragements to wear two masks, the characterization of ivermectin as "horse-dewormer," and people being prevented from worshipping even in their cars. In this second half Mosher also defends his premise that "The China Virus turned out to be the most effective weapon in history." While he provides enough evidence to show it is a reasonable premise – the Chinese have an interest in biological weapons, the Wuhan lab was involved in coronavirus research, and China lied about the virus' impact which allowed it to more easily spread to the rest of the world – I don't know that he would convince anyone not already sympathetic. – Jon Dykstra AUGUST 12 At the midpoint of my reading challenge, I read the best book on my list yet, The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom (1971, 272 pages). Though a type of autobiography, the book is nevertheless a page-turner. It tells the true story of a Dutch 50-year-old spinster, her sister Betsy, and her 80-year-old clockmaker father and how they came to hide several Jews from the Nazis in their home during World War II, and to coordinate the escape of dozens and dozens of others. Eventually their work is discovered, though the Jews they are hiding are not. Corrie and her sister and father are arrested and interned in a concentration camp, where both Corrie’s father and sister Betsy eventually die. What moved me most profoundly, and multiple times throughout the book, was the total and complete faith of these three in the sovereign goodness of God despite the horrific evil all around them, and also their humble service to Him by loving their Jewish neighbors, their commitment to persevere in faith and to love even their enemies, and how God sustained them through his Word and Spirit (and not a few miracles!). A recurring theme that I found particularly important is the centrality of the reading of the Bible in their lives before the Nazi occupation. While today we might dismiss the habitual readings as pietistic or legalistic, it was their familiarity with the Word of God that sustained them through their suffering and trials. The Hiding Place put my life into perspective. And if you or someone you know thinks life is too hard, that God is not being fair to you, that you are more a victim than anything else, read this book! Let Corrie tell you how she could count it all joy to suffer for the sake of the gospel. To rejoice and give thanks for a flea-infested hut in a concentration camp, to love and forgive a Nazi officer, or to share incredibly scarce food and vitamins with others, as Corrie and her sister do over and over again, is a reminder of just how radical the call to love your neighbor as yourself is, and how rewarding it can be. – André Schutten AUGUST 8 While unsuccessfully trying to track down an audio version of The Screwtape Letters read by John Cleese (sadly only available on audiotape) I came across Cleese's Creativity: a short and cheerful guide (2020, 112 pages). It was a small book, but had some really useful tips and encouragements worth sharing. Two main differences between creative architects and their less creative contemporaries were 1) creative sorts still knew how to play with, and consequently enjoy, their work for the activity it is, rather than trying simply to get 'er done, and 2) creative sorts "always deferred their decisions for as long as they were allowed" which left them more time to use any great, but late, ideas that might come up. Cleese also encourages his readers to make full use of their unconscious brain's impressive problem-solving abilities by putting in the time when you are awake, but then feeling free to sleep and see what might pop to mind in the morning. There's no big huge idea that will revolutionize your creativity, but there is some good small thoughts, and, as the subtitle says, they are cheerfully presented. – Jon Dykstra AUGUST 1 In Gladiators Arising: Blood-Bought vs. Blood Sport (2022, 138 pages) Trent Herbert begins with a look at how Christians opposed the Roman gladiator games. Whether it was Christians or slaves being forced to fight, or even willing combatants, Christians were against it, eventually helping put an end to these games because of the abuse done to these Image-bearers of God. With that point made, Hebert then draws parallels to modern-day Mixed Martial Arts (MMA), boxing, and even football. This extensively footnoted, yet still slim volume, has got lots of stats and stories about the damage these sports do. One example: "American footballers sustain a blow to the head equivalent to a severe car crash in every game." My one critique would be Herbert's inclusion of his belief that the growing popularity of MMA has some End Times implications. Other than that, no space is wasted – this is a good quick read that forcefully argues what Herbert calls a "pro-life case" that "Christians should... not be supportive of any sports that intentionally attack the image of God."  – Jon Dykstra JULY 31 This summer I tackled a modern classic Christian book that has been highly recommended to me by a few Christian friends over the years. And Knowing God, by J.I. Packer (1973, 286 pages), was, in my opinion, worthy of its high accolades. The book is theologically rich, and intellectually engaging. But if that’s all you walk away with, you’ve completely missed the point. Packer is a pastor first and he wants his Christian readers to not just know about God, but to truly know Him. And the best way to know God is to know his Word which reveals God’s character. Chapters in the book are topical reflecting their origin (it was originally a series of articles for a Christian magazine), but they build on each other, growing in the Christian a love and reverence for our awesome, triune God. I found the book’s culmination particularly beautiful. Packer makes the case for why adoption is the best paradigm or illustration for understanding God’s love for us and our response to Him (his explanation on this point also gave me a fresh and compelling way of understanding the relationship between law and grace), and his concluding chapter on the book of Romans is absolutely magnificent: it would make a riveting hour-long sermon to introduce a series on the book. I highly recommend Knowing God, and plan to re-read it within a year or two. – André Schutten JULY 28 Linnet is a five-year-old Dutch girl who, we discover, knows absolutely nothing about God. Her ignorance is so profound that when the Nazis invade, and an occupying soldier tells little Linnet about the wonderful family that "God has given" him, she wonders, Who is this God he is talking about? and Is God German? For our own children, who may take always knowing God for granted, it will be eye-opening to follow what it's like, and how wonderful it is, for someone to be introduced to God for the first time. Linnet has the same wonderings any kid might have, but her wartime experiences also have her asking deeper questions, including a child's version of "God are you really there?" Christine Farenhorst's The New Has Come (2022, 262 pages) is that rarity that will appeal to all ages: the World War II setting and charming protagonist will grab your children; moms and dads will appreciate Linnet's questions and the opportunities they present to talk about God with our kids, and grandparents will get more than a little misty-eyed at just how beautifully this tale is told. I could not recommend it more highly! – Jon Dykstra JULY 21 I love love loved Jonathan Rogers' Wilderking Trilogy, a children's fantasy series that echoes the story of David and Saul, though without ever mentioning it, and is set in a kingdom made up of sheep farmers, nobles, castles, and swamps populated by "feechie" creatures that might be men or might just be myth. It was great fun, and when I was done reading it to my daughters, we all wanted more so we were happy to learn that Rogers has also written a stand-alone set in this same universe called The Charlatan's Boy (2010, 305 pages). But as much as I enjoyed the story, my girls did not. One reviewer described it as "C.S. Lewis and Mark Twain rolled into one" and while my girls love Lewis, they aren't about Tom Sawyer-type hijinks. Twain is simply too nasty for their liking. I stopped reading it to them, but kept on myself and really quite liked it. Floyd is the title charlatan, Grady his boy, and the two of them travel from village to village trying to trick folks into believing that a mudded-up Grady is one of the fearsome and fabled feechies. But when time passes and villagers stop believing in feechies – it's been so long since anyone's seen one out in the wild – they stop paying to see feechie acts. So it's up to Floyd and Grady to make them believe once more. If this was just a tricky Twain story, I don't know that I would have liked it either, but it wraps up with a Lewis-esque moral to the story that is equal parts justice and mercy. This, then, isn't a kid's tale like Wilderking, but something intended for a slightly older crowd. For teens and up, so long as Lewis/Twain is an intriguing combo to you, you'll really enjoy it. – Jon Dykstra JULY 20 Consulting a book written by a minister of the United Church of Canada on the subject of "homosexuality and the church" may seem to be an odd choice to make. Today, the website of the United Church of Canada "affirms the value and dignity of all people and rejects any therapy or practice that labels LGBTQIA+ and Two-Spirit people as abnormal, broken, or otherwise not whole individuals" and "strongly condemns the practice of conversion therapy or any efforts that attempt to change a person’s sexual or gender identity through treatment that is hostile to a person’s identity, unethical, spiritually and psychologically damaging, and not supported by evidence." But in 1989, the UCC was only taking its first steps down the path of officially affirming sexual behavior and lifestyles that had been universally rejected by the Christian church throughout history. There were still voices within the United Church like that of Rev. Donald L. Faris, who argued strongly against allowing the "Trojan Horse" of homosexual ideology to enter into the church. Sadly, some 33 years later, such voices are no longer heard. For this reason alone, Faris's Trojan Horse: The Homosexual Ideology and the Christian Church (1989, 80 pages) is a little book that is well worth reading, if only as a cautionary tale. It serves as a warning about the speed at which serious deviations from the teaching of Scripture can overtake a denomination when its Biblical foundations are destroyed and the prevailing ideology of the surrounding culture is allowed to take the place of God's Word. However, this is not the only reason why I would recommend this book. Faris lays out solid Biblical, psychological, and factual arguments against the church's acceptance of homosexuality in the name of "social justice," "acceptance," and a skewed definition of "love." He presciently argues that this ideology is like a Trojan Horse, which, if approved, would bring a wider sexual ideology, "grounded in the self-regarding relativistic individualism which is the ideology of the liberal middle class in North America," into the church. Over the three decades that have passed since this book was published, his insight into the inevitable results of this movement have been proven true. What's more, the last chapter of the book outlines ways of helping homosexuals leave the lifestyle – ways that have now been made illegal in Canada. In the end, while Donald Faris's call to faithful obedience to God and his Word was not heeded by his own denomination, his work remains a valuable and useful resource for 21st Century Christians seeking to defend the truth in their own ecclesiastical and cultural contexts.  – Jim Witteveen JULY 14 I've been reading a three-book series, Matthew Christian Harding's The Peleg Chronicles, as a bedtime read with my daughters for months now, and we've all really enjoyed it. It's quirky Christian fiction, with a fantasy feel (though there isn't any magic) set in biblical times. I'm not normally wild about biblical fiction because I don't want to get confused between what a novelist presents and what the Bible actually says. But Harding has picked a time – the days of Peleg (Gen. 10:25) after the Tower of Babel and before Abraham – when the Bible doesn't say much, and that eliminates any chances of confusion. He depicts a post-Flood world in which the followers of Noah's God are few, dragons exist but are rare too, and a sect of Dragon Priests is gaining power. In the first, Foundlings (256 pages, 2009), we're introduced to Lord McDougal a hero who is as graceful and deadly in battle as he is awkward around ladies. This is just such a fun flaw, but it's more than just a foundation for comic gold - McDougal's social bungling might be what keeps this mightiest-of-all-warriors a humble servant of all in need. Dimwitted giants and a cowardly-lion type warrior add to the comedy. But what makes this a book worth reading is the Christian depth. I was so struck by how deep the dialogue could get – when the going gets tough, different characters struggle with doubt, and the answers offered by the followers of "Noah's God" aren't pat or simple. It's that depth that had me reading chunks to my wife; this a teen series that could also encourage adults. That said, I'll also note it could have done with one key edit: when characters praise God, or speak a prophetic word, they do it in King James language. Fine for an older guy like me, but I had to "translate" as I read it to my kids. I also wish that cover photos were more attractive because we do still judge a book by its cover. So this will be best suited for teens who have already shown an ability to tackle bigger books that require an attention span. For them, I'd give two thumbs up to Foundlings and its two sequels, Paladins (2010, 272 pages) and Loresmen (2014, 278 pages). And to offer up a taste, the author has made the first book available for free as an ebook on Amazon.com. (The author also has a fantastic picture book, only available as an e-book, called Ebenezer's Bedtime Adventure, which my kids have repeatedly begged me to read.) – Jon Dykstra JULY 10 Maria Keffler's Desist, Detrans & Detox: Getting Your Child Out of the Gender Cult (2021, 233 pages) is a book that would seem to have a very limited audience - parents of children who have been deceived into believing that the "sex they were assigned at birth" does not align with who they really are. Sadly, the number of such children has grown exponentially in recent years, which means that books like this one have become all the more necessary. Keffler is a co-founder of Partners for Ethical Care, which describes itself as a "watchdog group which works to safeguard parents' rights and children's safety in public education." Desist, Detrans & Detox is a manual for parents of children who have been tempted to transition to the opposite sex, or who have actually gone through with such a transition. The book provides much helpful information on what Keffler refers to as the "gender cult," including some history, and details of practices and techniques that are being used by those who are promoting the agenda of what another author refers to as the "gender industrial complex." Keffler, a teacher with a background in educational psychology, does write from a Christian point of view. So while I would take issue with some of her terminology (which at times echoes the jargon of secular psychology) and with some of the means that she recommends to deal with struggling children, on the whole this book offers good counsel to parents who may be unsure about what steps they should take and how they should respond in the midst of a very difficult and challenging experience. I would recommend this book to Christian parents of children who have been seduced by the gender cult, and to others who are interested in learning more about the dangers and destructiveness of this movement and how to challenge it.  – Jim Witteveen JULY 7 Every so often I'll pick up a book on writing and whenever I do, without fail, I always benefit. This time, to put that trend to the test, I decided to read Gail Carson Levine's Writing Magic: Creating Stories that Fly (2006, 168 pages). The author writes fiction for teens, with most of it being of the fractured fairytale or fantasy type. So...not really what I do. And despite that – or maybe because of it – I once again learned a lot of useful nuggets. The one that'll most stick with me is Levine's encouragement to not simply "show rather than tell" (that's a common bit of writing advice) but to recognize that telling has its place too. Showing draws readers in, but takes time and space to do it, so the strength of telling is that it can be a lot quicker and shorter than showing. There is then a time to show and a time to tell. – Jon Dykstra JULY 1 Dated to something like 500 BC, Sun-Tzu's The Art of War is probably the second oldest book I’ve read, exceeded only by portions of the Bible. It is a military stratagems book, with many of the outlined principles applicable to today’s “fields of combat” like business, politics, and even love. An example: “When surrounding an army, leave a passage free. Do not press a desperate foe too hard.” To paraphrase: someone with nothing to lose is dangerous indeed, so don’t back a person into that kind of corner. That’s both common sense, and not necessarily so common, which is the value of this ancient classic. I’d previously read a couple of different translations, but when I saw a comic version was available I had to check it out. Pete Katz’s Sun Tzu’s The Art of War: A Graphic Novel (2018, 128 pages) seems to contain all the original text. But now there are pictures, and a story arc of an old general teaching Sun Tzu to a boy, which ties everything together. That’s a fun wrinkle, and allows the general to offer a little commentary on Sun Tzu’s wisdom, making this a really accessible version. One caution would be that the pictures are occasionally a bit gory – arrows in necks, swords coming through someone’s chest – but aren’t too bad considering the topic matter. Another caution would just be the need to evaluate this ancient general’s common sense in light of the Bible.  – Jon Dykstra JUNE 30 Chances are high that you are reading this review on your phone. Perhaps you are even in the presence of other people, who are scrolling through one news feed or other on their particular mobile device. Smartphones have become a near-permanent fixture in the lives of many, a companion, a lifeline, or even an obsession. In Reclaiming Conversation: The Power of Talk in a Digital Age (2015, 436 pages), Sherry Turkle explores the ways in which our ever-present electronic gadgetry has influenced our culture, often in a negative way. Turkle, a clinical psychological, spent five years researching the effects that our attachment to our electronic devices have had on the way that we relate to and interact with one another, and this book is a result of that research and what is clearly a great deal of serious consideration of the issue. She structures the book using 19th Century American poet and philosopher Henry David Thoreau's image of "three chairs" to examine how the lives of so many have been seriously impacted when they are alone, when they are interacting individually with another person, and in their relationships with broader society. Our phones leave us unable to enjoy quiet solitude, they get in the way of in-person communication with family and friends, and drastically change the way in which we relate to the world around us. Using a multitude of examples (some of which could probably have been excluded to make the work more concise), Turkle reveals what many of us already know from our own personal experience – we need to control the technology that we use, or that technology will end up controlling us. If you're at all like me, reading this book will lead to some healthy self-examination (if not serious guilt feelings) that should itself lead to deliberate consideration of the place that technology has on your life, and then to change. Silence and solitude (that is beneficial and not unbearable), genuine moments of conversation (especially in the home) in which all of the participants' attention is focused on the other parties in that interaction, and an upbuilding and positive way of relating to the broader "on-line world" are possible if we seriously and carefully consider the place of technology in our lives, and whether that technology has become our idol. I highly recommend this book as a useful tool for those who are already concerned about this issue, and also for those who aren't, but should be!  – Jim Witteveen If you’re looking for some meatier Christian fiction this summer, I recommend the novel Fatherless, by Dr. James Dobson and Kurt Bruner (2013, 448 pages). Dr. Dobson is the founder of Focus on the Family and of Family Research Council, and as such he is a natural fit to co-write a dystopian novel (the first of a trilogy) on what the future looks like if our social and political trends continue. The novel is set in 2042, and the elderly outnumber the young, leading to massive economic disruption. Euthanasia (called “transitions” in the novel) are applauded as heroic by policymakers and the public, women who have more than one child are derisively referred to “breeders,” and children with disabilities are routinely terminated in utero. Sexual liberation has allowed men to take very little responsibility, leading to mass fatherlessness. The plot to the novel is engrossing, making the book a page-turner. And what makes this novel well worth reading is how it animates important policy issues (demographics, euthanasia, selective abortion, economics, the role of the press, and more), showing the true human cost if Christians remain ignorant or apathetic around issues of public importance. – André Schutten  One question that I have been seriously considering over the past several years is, "How did we get here?" It's a question that informs many of my reading choices, as may have become obvious from the list of books that I've reviewed so far this year. How did our society get to a place in which Biblical morality has been largely rejected, issues which concern tiny minorities (such as transsexualism) have seemingly become vitally important, relationships between ethnic groups have seemed to worsen instead of improving, human life (both before birth as well as in its final stages) has been so badly devalued, certain individual "rights" have taken centre-stage at the expense of the God-given rights that were so highly valued by previous generations, and our culture has been subjected to such rapid and negative change? In 2020, Christopher Caldwell, senior fellow at the Claremont Institute, set out to answer this question. In The Age of Entitlement: America Since the Sixties (342 pages), Caldwell focuses on the effects of the civil rights legislation of 1964 as an important turning point in the history of the U.S. He examines the way in which the Civil Rights Act became a kind of "second constitution," and how it impacted not only race relations, but also relations between the sexes, economic policy, international relations, and issues such as abortion, marriage and family, crime, and drug abuse. In the final two chapters Caldwell deals with the "winners" and the "losers" in this struggle, and although writing as a conservative, and presumably a Republican, his work is not a hit piece on the Democratic Party; one of the strong points of this book is his unflinching examination of where the so-called "conservative" movement has failed to actually "conserve" much at all, and why that failure seems to be a constant in the American political landscape. While I write this review from north of the border, and this book focuses specifically on the country to the south of us, a famous quotation by former Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau shows why this American focus does not at all make a book like this irrelevant for non-Americans: "Living next to you is in some ways like sleeping with an elephant. No matter how friendly and even-tempered is the beast, if I can call it that, one is affected by every twitch and grunt." In the end, these are movements that, in our shrinking world, affect us all. And while Caldwell's focus is limited, he provides some very helpful answers to the question that many of us have: "How did we get here?"  – Jim Witteveen JUNE 29 For any reader who adores C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia, particularly if you love the allegorical aspects of the children’s novels, let me recommend to you Planet Narnia: The Seven Heavens in the Imagination of C. S. Lewis, by Michael Ward (2008, 400 pages). This was a fascinating (though at times academic) read. For decades, critics of the Chronicles (including J.R.R. Tolkien) have argued they are disorganized or lack coherence. Ward makes a very convincing case that the unifying theme to the seven books of the Chronicles is medieval cosmology. C. S. Lewis was always fascinated by medieval astrology, and wrote about it in his academic writings, his poetry, and his fiction (the Space Trilogy is explicit). Ward shows that each of the seven books corresponds to the seven medieval planets: Jupiter, Mars, Sol (the sun), Luna (the moon), Mercury, Venus, and Saturn. Each of these planets have characteristics and symbols which play out in each book’s plot, in various ornamental details, and in how Aslan (the Christ figure) is portrayed. I won’t give the direct connections away here, because the joy of reading about each planet’s correspondence to which book is like unwrapping seven presents. There were moments reading this where I wondered if Lewis was dabbling with syncretism but, on further consideration, I think the concern has little merit. Rather, the cosmological elements work well to highlight different aspects of reality, and different aspects of the person and work of Christ, accentuating those aspects in different ways. Having finished this book, I’m now eager to revisit the Chronicles to see it with new eyes. For those considering picking up Planet Narnia, I recommend first reading the entire Chronicles (ideally multiple times), as well as Lewis’ Space Trilogy to better appreciate this academic work. – André Schutten  JUNE 28 To find a series for kids that's actually worth recommending involves starting, and then stopping, a lot of unworthy contenders. But every now and again, you find gold, like Dawn L. Watkins' Medallion (1985, 213 pages). This will be a fun one for Grade 4/5 boys. Young Trave plans to be king one day, but in the meantime, the current king of Gadalla, his uncle, won't even let him learn to ride a horse. Trave's life takes a turn when a rider comes to warn his uncle of an impending war, and tries to recruit him as an ally against the "Dark Alliance." His uncle dismisses the warning, but allows Trave to head off with the departing rider, happy to be done with this annoying boy. But why does the rider have any interest in Trave? Because the rider turns out to be the king of the neighboring nation of Kapnos, and he knew Trave's father back when he was the fighting king of Gadalla. This King Gris is eager to help Trave become the king that the neighboring nations need him to be, so that together they can stop the Dark Alliance. And while Trave appreciates being rescued from his uncle, he doesn't like being treated like a schoolboy in need of lessons. He mistakenly believes that being a king means fighting and giving orders, rather than serving. And that makes him susceptible to the flattery of the Dark Alliance's leader, who wants Trave on his side. While the author is Christian, that's more notable in the lack of any new age or woke weirdness, rather than the presence of any spiritual dimension to the book. Boys, 9-12, will love the story, and appreciate the twenty or so great pictures, including one of the evil king riding what looks like a miniature T-rex, which is reason enough to get the book! Another highlight is the curious creature Nog, who lives under a bog, and his every line, is always spoken in rhyme. This works well as a stand-alone, but a prequel, Shield, is also quite good, even as the sequel, Arrow, is not. – Jon Dykstra JUNE 22 They say that the three most important rules of Biblical interpretation are "Context, context, and context." In The Maker Versus the Takers: What Jesus Really Said About Social Justice and Economics (2020, 141 pages), Jerry Bowyer examines the Biblical, historical, geographical and political context of the life and ministry of the Lord Jesus. Bowyer is an economist, and this is specifically an "economic" commentary, focusing on the economic and political implications of the message of the gospels. Bowyer's thesis is that Jesus' approach to economics placed him at loggerheads with the Judean authorities, who were oppressing their Jewish brothers and sisters, exploiting the poor, and blatantly disregarding God's law. It was specifically this element of the Lord Jesus' ministry that led to his betrayal and crucifixion. Bowyer takes pains throughout the book to emphasize the fact that he is not attempting to replace the theological interpretation of the gospel story with his economic interpretation. He argues that a false dichotomy between the two kinds of interpretation can lead to a hyper-spiritualization of the gospel message, a one-sided emphasis on the "eternal truths" of the gospel that neglects the historical realities that the Lord used to bring his plan to fruition. The gospel story is rooted in history, and the atoning work of Christ is the historical outworking of God's eternal plan of salvation. Bowyer makes a very important point when he highlights the necessity of taking every part of the Biblical text seriously, including the inspired authors' choice to use particular words and include specific geographical and historical details. He seeks to avoid the kind of interpretation that seeks to discover "some vague, subjective 'main idea' of the text," a process that often leads interpreters to limit their focus to a self-defined central thought, rather than dealing with every aspect of what the text actually says. In his effort to study the text in this way, Bowyer provides the reader with helpful and often surprising insights into the economic parables, the Sermon on the Mount, the story of the Rich Young Ruler, Jesus' cleansing of the temple, as well as the overarching story of the gospels. This is not a technical commentary, and Bowyer has done his best to make his work accessible to non-specialists. Those who are looking for a deeper insight into the message of the gospels, or who may have specific questions about what the Bible has to teach us about the issues of social justice, business, and various political systems and theories will find much food for thought in The Maker Versus the Takers. – Jim Witteveen JUNE 20 The Christian social critic Os Guinness has delivered a punchy defence of liberty in his book A Free People’s Suicide: Sustainable Freedom and the American Future, (2012, 224 pages). While the book is focused on the American context, it is applicable for Canadians too. Christians should give Guinness’ argument serious consideration. He begins by outlining a paradox: the greatest enemy of freedom is freedom. Freedom needs to be both protected by a constitution and cherished by the population. If either fail, freedom is lost. He explains the difference between “negative freedom” (freedom from government intrusion), and “positive freedom” (freedom to accomplish particular goals) and is emphatic that we need both. The core of the book is built around his golden triangle of freedom: freedom requires virtue, and virtue requires faith, and faith requires freedom, and freedom requires virtue, etc. While I concur with nearly all of what he writes, I did feel that the author clouds the issue around which faith in particular is needed to inculcate the type of virtue that sustains freedom. From my perspective, it’s not just any faith or religion that will produce the virtue required for freedom to flourish. Nevertheless, I do recommend the book. – André Schutten  JUNE 18 "An original and mesmerizing book." "This book amounts to a kind of key to the times we are living in." "A tour de force." "The sort of book that forever changes the way one looks at the subject." So say the reviews printed on the back cover of Joshua Mitchell's American Awakening: Identity Politics and Other Afflictions of Our Time (2020, 255 pages). It's not unusual for the writers of back-cover blurbs to use hyperbole to promote the work that they're praising - after all, that's why they're there on the back cover! But in this case, the effusive praise is entirely warranted. This is the twentieth book that I've reviewed for RP's "52 in '22" challenge this year, which means that I have 32 to go to reach the goal that we've set for ourselves. And I have to say that one of those next 32 books will have to be truly exceptional to dislodge this book from my "Best book of the year" category. In America Awakening, Joshua Mitchell, professor of political theory at Georgetown University, makes the argument that the ascendancy of identity politics in the United States (and the West in general) is the result of a new religious movement that is supplanting Protestant Christianity as a dominant force in society. As he writes in his preface, "Americans have not lost their religion. Americans have relocated their religion to the realm of politics." Mitchell describes identity politics as a kind of Christian heresy that distorts Biblical concepts of sin, judgment, substitutionary atonement, and salvation in an attempt to achieve a twisted version of "justice" in this world. According to identity politics, an individual is either a transgressor or an innocent; the ultimate transgressor is the white heterosexual male, while the category of "innocent" is more flexible. People are defined by their identity with a homogeneous group, and their assumed level of "purity" depends on the nature of the group with which they identify. The transgressor becomes the scapegoat, the source of all ills, and the purpose of politics (which comes to encompass all of life) is to purge society of his stain. Mitchell concludes by examining two of the "other afflictions" mentioned in the book's title. "Bipolarity" is the first affliction, and Mitchell uses this word to describe a state of affairs in which the individual is at the same time "selfie man" (the centre of the world, deserving of attention and craving recognition and praise) and a faceless interchangeable member of "management society." The second affliction is addiction; while Mitchell's examples of the addictions that plague our culture are probably not what you would expect, they reveal a deep understanding of the nature of our society. In conclusion, American Awakening is a profound examination of one of the defining issues of our time, theologically and culturally astute and very well written. While it may not be an easy read, the effort required to digest everything that Mitchell has to offer will certainly pay off in the end. – Jim Witteveen JUNE 17 For anyone looking for a relatively short, and yet comprehensive, Reformed Christian articulation on the role of the civil government, I highly recommend Ruler of Kings: Toward a Christian Vision of Government, by Joseph Boot (2022, 211 pages). The book is both a necessary critique of the government’s encroachment into areas of life where it ought not to, as well as a positive vision of what the civil government ought to be, as an entity instituted by God, under the lordship of King Jesus. I found Boot’s historical approach to the philosophies behind the expansive state helpful for understanding how we got to where we are today. He is rigourous in his defence of the absolute authority of Jesus and what that means practically for government and society. I also found his discussion about the difference between the kingdom of God and the church as institute very helpful and clarifying and, once grasped, it does away with the straw man argument from fellow Christians that too readily dismisses his thesis as “theocracy.” I highly recommend this book for anyone who wants to better understand what a reformational view of the place of the state in society is. – André Schutten JUNE 14 If you've heard Neil Postman's name, it was probably in connection with his best-known (and excellent) book Amusing Ourselves to Death, published in 1985. Postman, who passed away in 2003, was known as an insightful social critic, and his work continues to be cited by Christian theologians and authors, despite the fact that Postman himself was not a Christian. Upon his death, one commentator argued that the reason for Postman's popularity among Christians (especially confessional Reformed believers) is the fact that "he knew a golden calf when he saw one." In Technopoly: The Surrender of Culture to Technology (1992, 222 pages), Postman takes on one of the most influential golden calves of the modern age, technology. He begins with his outline of the historical developments that have led to our becoming a technopoly, a society in which technology is no longer a tool to be used, but a master to be served. He examines the impact of technology on medicine, on the widespread use of computers in every part of life, and also discusses what he calls 'invisible technologies" – things like language, statistics, polling, and intelligence testing – all of which have only grown in importance with the technological advances of recent decades. In his chapter on scientism, which in my view is particularly important, Postman examines the claims of the social sciences, which have themselves become another of the most influential idols of our age. Postman was not "anti-technology," and does not argue that technological advancements are inherently negative. However, he rightly concluded that modern society has not given sufficient attention to the inevitable downsides that accompany every technological development. Because of our lack of critical reflection, we are becoming the slaves of technology instead of its masters. The technopoly is an impoverished society, and will remain so until our dedication to technological progress is re-evaluated and successfully challenged. I highly recommend this book, especially for the insight it offers into forms of technology that often go unconsidered because they have become so embedded in our culture. It's an eye-opener, and well worth reading. – Jim Witteveen JUNE 9 The God Who Is There by Francis Schaeffer (1968, 226 pages) is a must-read for any Christian teacher, pastor, parent, elder, post-secondary student, entrepreneur, artist, or journalist! I have been tracking and reading about cultural developments from a Christian perspective for well over a decade and had a decent grasp on the religious-cultural problems in the West. This book just turned the bright lights on in a big way. Schaeffer explains how the ideas of philosophers, then visual artists, then musicians, and then theologians all devolved into postmodernism, falling below the "line of despair." He traces the problem back to a break in the concept of truth, that for some intellectuals there are things that require "a leap of faith" – things like purpose or morals – thus breaking any unifying sense of knowledge. His discussion on antithesis is simple and brilliant (A is A, and A is not non-A), and he works this basic theme throughout the book. His explanation of faith versus faith was also helpful: is faith a leap of belief into the irrational (the modern conception of faith) or is the value of faith dependent on the object towards which the faith is directed? Christian faith is the latter, and depends on the God who is there, the Christ in history who died upon the cross, rose from the dead in space and in time. The Christian faith is open to discussion and verification. There is much packed into this volume and I wholeheartedly recommend it. – André Schutten JUNE 8 In 2021, as Canada's federal government promised $9.2 billion in annual spending on child care programs, Ahmed Hussen, Minister of Families, Children, and Social Development, was quoted as saying: “Child care is not a luxury, it’s a necessity. The past year has made it abundantly clear that we need affordable, accessible, inclusive, and high-quality child care, and we need it now. Leaders in the private, social, and labour sectors all agree that a Canada-wide early learning and child care system will drive economic growth, help women get back into the workforce, and give every child across Canada the best start in life. Together, I know we can get this done.” In his book Day Care Deception: What the Child Care Establishment Isn't Telling Us (2003, 222 pages), Brian C. Robertson explains the forces that are at work behind the decades-long push for universal, government-subsidized child care, and why this movement is so destructive to families and society in general. Robertson describes the coalition of interests that are hard at work promoting the institutionalized care of children, and what their motivation is. He argues that the impetus behind the universal day-care movement comes from corporations (which serve to benefit from having more women in the workforce), governments (which benefit politically and also financially via the taxes paid by working mothers and growth in GDP), social scientists (whose ideology devalues the importance of stay-at-home moms and the "traditional" family structure), the day-care industry, and professionals in all of these fields who are seeking to justify their own choice to subject their children to institutionalized care. Forces which emphasize economics have united with ideologues to pressure women to enter the workforce and "contract out" the care of their children, and, Robertson argues, the resulting trends have been disastrous. Day Care Deception presents a detailed, well-supported case for abandoning the "social experiment" that has brought so many mothers into the workforce at the expense of their children's well-being. While the book is somewhat repetitive and could have benefited from some judicious editing, it is a valuable resource that I wholeheartedly recommend. – Jim Witteveen JUNE 7 If you're looking for an easy, fun summer read for the campfire, beach, or cottage, let me recommend The Inimitable Jeeves, by P.G. Wodehouse (1923, 224 pages). The book is a collection of mini-escapades centered on Bertie, a clueless aristocrat in British society, and his clever butler Jeeves. If you enjoy British humor, a clever turn of phrase, some right rummy characters, and poking playful fun at the pomposity of the upper class in early 1900s Britain, this book will have you chuckling in no time. If you need to save a penny, the benefit of reading older books is that they are in the public domain: a free version is available here: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/59254. – André Schutten JUNE 6 In our "connected" world, we are being bombarded with more advertising than ever before. A multi-billion dollar industry uses increasingly sophisticated techniques to convince us that we desperately need any of a vast array of products or services. And those techniques work. But how do they work? Answering that question is an important part of "propaganda-proofing" ourselves and our children. Vance Packard's 1957 book The Hidden Persuaders (223 pages) is a classic investigation of the psychological techniques that the marketing industry had only recently begun to employ to impact consumer decisions. Packard explores subjects like motivational analysis and subliminal techniques that are used to sell products from soap ("The cosmetic manufacturers are not selling lanolin, they are selling hope") to political figures and their platforms. While this book is 65 years old and its examples are dated (Packard's references to cigarette advertising may confound younger readers who have never seen such a thing!), the techniques he describes and the ways in which they were used form the foundation of an industry whose influence and reach has only grown astronomically over the intervening years. Packard argues that we are being manipulated (often without our knowledge) to become cogs in the consumerist machine, and that codes of conduct should be implemented to govern the use of "depth manipulation" techniques. It is difficult to imagine how such a code of conduct could ever be developed, let alone enforced, so the onus is on us, the objects of the advertisers' work, as Packard admits. His conclusion is an apt one, and explains why I'm reviewing and recommending this old book: "We still have a strong defence available against such persuaders: we can choose not to be persuaded. In virtually all situations we still have the choice, and we cannot be too seriously manipulated if we know what is going on." It was Packard's hope that this book would contribute to the general awareness; it does, and we would do well to learn its lessons and put them into practice. – Jim Witteveen JUNE 5 I feel a little sheepish reviewing this book, but it's worth talking about. Piet Prins' Scout: The Mystery of the Abandoned Mill (1982, 127 pages) is a book for all ages. It's the sixth in a series of seven Scout books written by the Dutch author soon after World War II. It tells the story of three teen boys and their trusty canine Scout, a smart, loyal, and strong companion. In this particular story, the boys are trying to find a lost treasure, hidden from the Nazis during the occupation of the Netherlands, in order to return the treasure to its rightful owner. But they are competing with a ruthless villain who wants the treasure for himself. What I love about reading the Scout books (I read it aloud to my eight-year-old son, who begs me each night to please, please, pretty please keep reading just one more chapter?!) is that not only are they great page-turning adventures, they are also saturated with Christian references: going to church on Sunday, praying at mealtimes, thinking about God's oversight and providence, praying to God when afraid, being ashamed for prideful actions, etc. Each of these references become an easy opportunity to pause and discuss with my son these concepts. So, I recommend this book to dads or moms who want a good book for – and good discussions with – their 6-12-year-old children. – André Schutten JUNE 4 Fredrik Backman's A Man Called Ove (2015, 304 pages) is a touching novel about a neighborhood curmudgeon, whose backstory is slowly revealed over the course of the book. The author skillfully flips back and forth in Ove's timeline, making the reader fall in love and sympathize with this cranky, stubborn man. The book drew out different emotions in rapid succession: I found myself on more than one occasion choking back a lump in my throat in one instant and then chuckling out loud the next. However, I wrestled with whether to recommend this book due to a major downside: there are about a half dozen instances of blasphemy in the book, as well as multiple cuss words. There is also a short (and approving) reference to a same-sex marriage at the end of the book. That said, the themes of the book are timely for our cultural moment and worthy of consideration by a Christian reader: our society's increasing problem with social isolation, suicidality, and fragmented neighborhoods and communities, as well as a bureaucratic state that pushes aside family to make life and death decisions for elderly or sick citizens (think government long-term care homes, or euthanasia), what does this look like from the perspective of a senior citizen? The examples of the various characters in this novel - especially the pregnant Iranian living next door to Ove - provide a good launching point for critical self-reflection: are we ready to do the uncomfortable but necessary work of loving our (senior and crotchety) neighbor as ourself? And can we see their love, purpose, and dignity despite their unlovable qualities? For this reason, I recommend the book to a Christian audience with the caveat that, as you will likely encounter in your neighborhoods, so you will encounter in this book objectionable language. – André Schutten MAY 25 This was so good I had to share bits of it with my wife as I worked through M.I. McAllister's Urchin of the Riding Stars (2021, 299 pages). This is an animals with swords tale, the hedgehogs, otters, moles, and squirrels all living together in the same island kingdom under the good King Brushen. But all is not well in the kingdom of Mistmantle – there are "cullings" being done to the newborn handicapped children. This is quite the somber subject for a children's book, and as the culling are considered for the elderly too, it's clear that the author is speaking to both abortion and euthanasia. The young Urchin is very much opposed, but his heroes, Captains Crispin and Padra, don't seem to be doing anything to stop it, and the third captain, Husk, seems to be enjoying it! So who are the good guys then? Who can Urchin turn to for help to save these children? It turns out some of the good guys are indeed good, but, on the other hand, some turn out to be really, really bad. This a fairytale that takes seriously the Chesterton quote about dragons: "Fairy tales, then, are not responsible for producing in children fear, or any of the shapes of fear; fairy tales do not give the child the idea of the evil or the ugly; that is in the child already, because it is in the world already. Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon." There is evil in this book, and the might even turn off some of its target preteen to early teen audience. But it gets to be quite the rollicking adventure soon enough, full of courtly intrigue, conspiracies, and heroes being heroic. I think the author is Christian, and the God of this story is referred to as "the Heart." This spiritual element isn't huge, but it is persistent, and doesn't stray into anything weird or wacky. I know this will be a book I'll enjoy reading to my kids. An otherwise entertaining second book in this Mistmantle Chronicles series is marred by an agenda-pushing, albeit passing, mention of a female priest. The first book stands well enough on its own, so in our house I think we're going to start and stop with number one. – Jon Dykstra MAY 19 Mary Eberstadt is a former research fellow for Stanford University's Hoover Institution, and currently serves as senior research fellow at the Faith and Reason Institute, a conservative Roman Catholic think tank based in Washington, D.C. In her first book, Home-Alone America: the Hidden Toll of Day Care, Behavioral Drugs, and Other Parent Substitutes (2004, 218 pages), Eberstadt sought to answer a series of what she called "obvious, if necessarily blunt" questions: Why are millions of children being prescribed drugs to change their behaviour? Why are depression, anxiety, and behavioral disorders becoming more and more common among young people? Why has childhood obesity become an epidemic in America? And what is behind the epidemic of sexually transmitted diseases among American teenagers? Issue by issue, Eberstadt explores these questions thoroughly, and the answer she provides is well-reasoned, based in common sense, despite being roundly rejected and criticized by social scientists and public intellectuals who she refers to as "separationists." Eberstadt's thesis is that there is a definite connection between decreased parental presence in children's lives and the severity of the problems that children face, problems that begin in childhood and often lead to negative repercussions throughout their lives. I very much appreciated the way in which Eberstadt honestly addresses challenges to her thesis. She examines studies done in the social sciences, deals with the argument that "correlation does not equal causation" (which says that just because absentee fathers, working mothers, daycare, and divorce are often realities in the lives of troubled children, that doesn't mean that these things actually cause the problems children face), and emphasizes that long-term studies ask the wrong questions, and therefore come to erroneous conclusions. For example, while studies of adults who spent a good part of their childhood years in daycare may show that the majority have become successful, contributing members of society, these "results" say nothing about the suffering caused by institutional care and separation from parents and other family members while that separation is actually being experienced by the child. Eberstadt presents a solid and compelling case for the vital role that parents have in the lives of their children, and for the necessity of self-sacrifice on the part of parents. While this book is now nearly twenty years old, it speaks loudly and clearly in a culture that has continued to follow the same destructive path, and is very much worth reading. – Jim Witteveen MAY 18 Having worked in the mental health field for several years prior to entering the ministry as well as having personal experience with members of my extended family who were diagnosed with mental illnesses, the subject of mental illness and psychiatry has long interested me. This interest (and a desire to explore the trends of the past century which have shaped our modern culture) recently led me to explore several of the works of American psychiatrist Thomas Szasz. Throughout his life and work in the field of psychiatry, Thomas Szasz was one of the discipline's most controversial (and outspoken) critics. His best-known work, The Myth of Mental Illness, was published in 1961, and from its publication until his death in 2012, Szasz continued to do battle with the psychiatric establishment, with limited success. While Szasz may be accused of overstating his case, and thus alienating his opponents, many of the arguments that he made throughout his career have proven to be prescient, as the scope of mental illness has grown to such an extent that nearly all of us can be described as "mentally ill" in some way. In Schizophrenia: The Sacred Symbol of Psychiatry (first published in 1976 and updated in 1988, 237 pages), Szasz returns to many of the same themes that he addressed in his earlier works: the abuses of involuntary institutionalization of people diagnosed with mental illnesses, the use of psychiatry as a means of social control, the dangers of the "therapeutic state," and the religious nature of psychiatry itself. Szasz's work is challenging and thought-provoking, and his argumentation is supremely logical. However, as a professed atheist, his most serious shortcoming is his failure to acknowledge the role that people's spiritual lives play in dealing with the mental health challenges that they face. That being said, I can only echo one of Szasz's reviewers, who put it very well when he described Szasz as "a valuable critic and agent provocateur," someone who "has much to say which requires answering." – Jim Witteveen MAY 17 On Character (1995, 234 pages) is a collection of essays written by James Q. Wilson between 1967 and 1993. The common thread that ties these essays together is the theme of character, and the important role that personal character plays in numerous public policy issues, from crime to education to business and beyond. Wilson's focus on the importance of personal character led to him being classified as a conservative, although he only reluctantly accepted that label. As he writes in his introduction, "Now I confess to being conservative, at least by the standards of contemporary academia." The essays themselves reveal that while Wilson had some "conservative" tendencies, it was only the leftward shift in the political landscape that left him in that position. Where Wilson hits the target (and where he faced his most serious opposition), is in his refusal to go along with the dominant narrative (which has only become stronger in the twenty-seven years since this book was published) that blames high rates of drug abuse, criminality, and family breakdown on social inequality, unemployment, and political oppression, without taking into account personal character and personal responsibility. Wilson's essays make for interesting and often insightful reading, particularly his influential work on "The Problem of Broken Windows," an article originally published in 1982 that led to positive policy changes in cities like New York under the leadership of Mayor Rudy Giuliani. In the end, however, I can only give this book a qualified recommendation - while Wilson appeared to understand the nature of the problem, the solutions he offers are often less than satisfactory. – Jim Witteveen MAY 16 John Piper packs a lot in this slim volume: Preparing for Marriage: Help for Christian Couples (2018, 86 pages). In 6 chapters and 2 appendices, he covers headship and submission, hospitality, sex, making the most of our engagement, weddings that don't break the bank, and how our spouse should be second, though only to God. While the target audience is couples intending to marry, the first appendix includes 50+ questions that'd be of great use to a young man or woman still evaluating whether or not their beau is marriage material. Questions include: What is the meaning of headship and submission in the Bible and in our marriage? What makes you angry? What are your views of daycare for our children? Will there be one checkbook or two? Should we have a television? Would we consider adoption? How will we distinguish between punishment and discipline? Those questions would make for great discussions for the recently married too. Overall, this would be a great one for engaged couples to read together and discuss. And you can find it for free at DesiringGod.org/books. – Jon Dykstra MAY 12 Concerns with In Vitro Fertilization (IVF) include the fact that the children created in these laboratory settings are routinely killed, some because they have (or seem to have) defects, and others because the parents simply no longer want them. Many are frozen, which comes with its own harms, but also leaves them in an indeterminate state, facing eventual death. But what if a couple was willing to adopt and rescue one of these babies? This involves the implantation of the fetus in the adoptive mother’s womb, giving the child a chance to be brought to term. But Christians aware of the death-dealing nature of the IVF industry might wonder if they should have anything to do with it. Justina Van Manen and Jonathon Van Maren have written Life Under Glass: the ethics of embryo adoption (2022, 80 pages) to ease these concerns, making it clear that it is completely different to get involved in a rescue than it is to make such a rescue necessary. These children already are, and while they should never have been frozen, it is most certainly an act of God-glorifying grace to adopt these tiny orphans. – Jon Dykstra MAY 11 Reverend Kornelis Sietsma pastored a Reformed church in Amsterdam before and during World War II. In 1942, he was arrested for preaching against the lust for power, and for supporting Jews with the collection, and praying for the Dutch royal family. He died a year later, aged 46, in the Dachau concentration camp. Before the war, he wrote a treatise on the idea of office. It has recently been republished in English as The Golden Key for Life and Leaders: The Idea of Office (2019, 123 pages). It is a short, readable, and understandable book that helps Christians think through office, calling, authority and responsibility. It will likely correct some misperceptions about the office-bearers in church, but also expand the readers' understanding of the idea and role of office as a calling from God that every believer has. Because we share in Christ's anointing as prophet, priest, and king (see Lord's Day 12), every believer holds the office of believer with the corresponding duties and authority to carry out that task. But there are also other special offices: in the home (office of parent), church (minister of Word, minister of mercy, minister of the rule of Christ), civil sphere (civil magistrates), and other spheres (teachers, employers, etc.). Submission is owed to every office instituted by God, unless the office-bearer acts outside of his office and authority or compels action or non-action that makes it impossible for other office-bearers to carry out their office and calling. I found this book helpful to think through the tensions within the church during the Covid era and highly recommend it for all deacons, elders, and pastors, as well as others who want to better this concept. – André Schutten MAY 10 You may never have heard of Ignaz Semmelweis, but his story is an important one for two reasons. First of all, it is largely due to Semmelweis's medical discoveries that the rates of death in childbirth (of both mothers and their newborn children) decreased substantially in 19th-century Europe. Secondly, the story of his life, work, and death is a cautionary tale in an age in which we are constantly being warned against accepting the findings of scientists who challenge the "scientific consensus." Semmelweis was a Hungarian obstetrician whose best-known work was done in Vienna, Austria in the first half of the 19th century. At that time, a disease called puerperal fever, or "childbed fever" led to the deaths of up to 10% of new mothers who gave birth in institutional settings. The medical establishment had developed many theories about the causes of such a high mortality rate, but it was Ignaz Semmelweis who finally solved this mystery. After several years of study, he concluded that puerperal fever was being spread by the doctors themselves, as they went from dissecting cadavers in the morgue to assisting in childbirth, often without any concern for their personal cleanliness. Semmelweis argued that doctors should make every effort to ensure that both they and the environment in which the deliveries took place, should be disinfected to stop the spread of a disease that had proven to be so destructive for so many years. It may seem like common sense to us today, but at the time Semmelweis's conclusions were a novelty that ran counter to long-standing and widely-accepted theories. Thus Semmelweis's contemporaries were very difficult to convince, and his theory was rejected out of hand by the majority of his colleagues. The "scientific consensus" was wrong, and Semmelweis ended his life in a mental hospital, never having experienced the widespread acceptance of his findings. In Genius Belabored: Childbed Fever and the Tragic Life of Ignaz Semmelweis (2016, 249 pages), Theodore Obenchain tells the story of the life, work, and death of Ignaz Semmelweis. His well-researched and engaging account is at the same time fascinating and frustrating, reminding us how important a knowledge of history is to our understanding and interpretation of current events. – Jim Witteveen MAY 7 I love the first question and answer of the Westminster Shorter Catechism ("What is the chief end of Man? ...to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever") but didn't know anything about the assembly that crafted it, the Larger Catechism, and the Westminster Confession of Faith. I have a Dutch Reformed heritage, whereas these were birthed by the English Reformation. That's why I was happy to discover that United Reformed pastor William Boekestein had teamed up with Heritage Reformed professor Joel R. Beeke to give us Contending for the Faith: the story of the Westminster Assembly (2022, 40 pages). It's for kids, but a great presentation for adults who want to know a little, but aren't interesting in diving all that deep. This Assembly is worth at least a dip, to get an understanding of all God wrought in the lives of kings and queens, and pastors and persecutors that resulted in these documents. The book is really well done, with wonderful pictures and clear text, but it isn't the sort that kids are going to pick up on their own. This would be best as a homeschool or institutional Christian school resource. Boekestein has also done three books, all very good, on the confessions which make up the Three Forms of Unity: The Quest for Comfort: the story of the Heidelberg Cathechism (2011, 40 pages), The Glory of Grace: the story of the Canons of Dort (2012, 40 pages), and Faithfulness under Fire: the story of Guido de Bres (2010, 40 pages), who authored the Belgic Confession. All are recommended! – Jon Dykstra MAY 2 There are a number of psalms that have been the subject of controversy in the Christian church for many years. These are the "imprecatory psalms" in which the psalmist expresses a strong desire that God's vengeance be unleashed against those who persist in doing evil. The question arises again and again: can we as Christians make words like those found in Psalm 137:9 our own in our prayers and in our worship? Can we say, "Blessed shall he be who takes your little ones and dashes them against the rock," or is this sentiment unworthy of a New Covenant believer? In his book Crying For Justice: What the Psalms Teach Us About Mercy and Vengeance in an Age of Terrorism (2005, 199 pages), John N. Day argues that the imprecatory psalms must continue to be used by Christians today, and he explains why people like C.S. Lewis (who believed that the imprecatory psalms are "sub-Christian" expressions of a sinful desire for revenge) are wrong in rejecting them. Day deals with apparent contradictions between the Old and New Testament, examines several of what he calls "unsatisfactory solutions" to the problem, provides detailed analysis of three of the harshest imprecatory psalms (Psalms 58, 109, and 137), and concludes with a sample sermon on Psalm 83. Day's conclusion is that these controversial psalms, which can seem to be so problematic in our 21st Century Western cultural context, must continue to form an integral part of Christian worship. I highly recommend this book, especially for anyone who has struggled with the idea that these psalms should be prayed and sung by Christians today. – Jim Witteveen APRIL 29 Children of the Reformation that we are, we understand our will is in bondage to sin. But that presents a conundrum of sorts, because if we can't help but sin, then how can we be held responsible by God for our sin? C.S. Lewis once noted that the act of turning to God wasn't something he chose to do, but that he was instead, the most reluctant of converts. So, again, if only God can enable us to choose for Him, how can we be held responsible for acting against Him? Calvinists answer this by humbly holding onto two seemingly conflicting ideas: we are responsible for our sin, and yet God is sovereign over all. How can both be true? Well, as Dr. Bredenhof has put it, human beings are always "free to do what is according to their nature," though as an unregenerate creature, that will always involve sin. In his book Free Will (2012, 82 pages), atheist, and materialist Sam Harris attempts to offer a different sort of resolution. His is a godless answer, of course, and so the dilemma for him is a godless one as well: he wonders how mere chemicals in motion that we are (according to his evolutionary worldview) could have any responsibility for our actions. We are, he argues, merely the sum of our inputs, no more responsible for our output than a computer would be. He wants us to acknowledge our lack of free will so that we'll be kinder to murderers who, meat robots that they are, shouldn't be held responsible for their "bad programming." But if they shouldn't be held responsible for their actions, then why is Harris holding us responsible for our actions towards them? Whether we torture or tickle them, no condemnation would be possible, since no one bears responsibility for any actions...ever. Harris ably demonstrates that his materialist worldview doesn't allow for responsibility, so when he argues we have a responsibility to treat criminals better, he proves a different point: that materialism falls short. – Jon Dykstra APRIL 20 Over the past several years we have been hearing more and more about Klaus Schwab and his World Economic Forum (WEF). For those of us who are very concerned about his brand of globalism and the influence that the WEF is exerting throughout the world, what we've been hearing has not been reassuring. But in order to truly understand where people like Klaus Schwab really stand, it is always preferable to go to the source itself rather than relying on second-hand information and the interpretations of third parties. In 2019, Schwab and his co-author Thierry Malleret published Covid-19: The Great Reset. The Great Narrative: For a Better Future (2022, 253 pages) builds on the foundation of that previous work, and is the fruit of a series of interviews with "fifty of the world's foremost global thinkers and opinion makers." The Great Narrative, as its title suggests, presents the WEF's understanding of the state of the world, the problems that must be addressed, and the goals which the nations of the world should be working to achieve. "Narratives," Schwab (or Malleret) writes, "shape our perceptions, which in turn form our realities and end up influencing our choices and actions. They are how we find meaning in life." In a brief review it isn't possible to delve into the many aspects of the narrative that Schwab and his compatriots are promoting. But the very definition of "narrative" that they provide already says a great deal about what they are attempting to accomplish in this work. Our perceptions are shaped by narratives, the stories we use to explain our worldview. And, Schwab says, it is our perceptions which form our realities. In other words, it's all a matter of interpretation. Reality, given this definition, cannot be something absolute, unchanging, and definable. It is something that we create, not an objective state of affairs to which we must adapt ourselves. We are shapers of reality, and it is the narrative that we hold to that shapes how we live. Despite Schwab's mistaken notion about the nature of reality, he is correct in understanding the importance of the "grand narratives" that form our worldviews, and the way in which our actions find their source in our worldviews. He understands that narrative is vitally important, and thus he attempts to create a narrative that will lead people to accept his prescriptions for the government of international society and the lives of individuals. Throughout this book, whether speaking about pandemics or climate change or geopolitical issues or the place of technology in society, Schwab often makes assertions that are not backed up by evidence, but are clearly meant to shape people's thinking according to the "accepted wisdom" of this prevailing narrative. The book demands careful reading because the serious errors that Schwab commits are sometimes subtle, but have serious repercussions, especially because they have been echoed by so many on the world stage. The WEF may not have legislative power, but its "great narrative" has become the prevailing narrative, and expressions of dissent are being marginalized and even silenced in many corners. The Great Narrative attacks the true narrative, the Word of God, the only place that the true meaning of life and true wisdom can be found. In so doing, it constructs a worldview that could only lead to disastrous results if put into practice. For this reason, while there's no way I could recommend this book as a fount of legitimate wisdom, I believe that we need to familiarize ourselves with works of this type because of the influence that they have in shaping the attitudes and actions of many influential figures on the world stage. – Jim Witteveen APRIL 19 On July 29, 1994, Paul J. Hill, at one time an OPC pastor, shot an abortionist, his wife, and their bodyguard. The abortionist and the bodyguard both died. Hill had been arguing for years that such action was biblical, and had been excommunicated for making his arguments publicly. In Lone Gunners for Jesus: Letters to Paul J. Hill (1994, 47 pages), written after the shooting, Gary North responded to Hill, explaining how his actions weren't biblical or effective because: Hill was never called to be judge and jury and God doesn't endorse vigilante justice, Hill's acts only moved the public in a pro-choice direction costing more unborn lives, and while we are called to a public witness against the slaughter of the unborn, non-violent resistance - being beaten rather than being the beater - is the better witness. This slim volume is an important book to calm Christian whose love for the unborn is in danger of being misdirected, but it is also a good read for those who, whether in ignorance or a lack of compassion, don't stand up for the unborn at all. Download the e-book for free. – Jon Dykstra APRIL 18 The brilliant economist Thomas Sowell's Wealth, Poverty, and Politics: An International Perspective (2015, 320 pages - a newer and expanded version is available too), is an excellent, well researched, readable book that makes understandable the politics surrounding issues of social justice, poverty and wealth disparity. Sowell (pronounced "soul"), grew up in Harlem, New York in a very poor, black neighborhood and thus is not writing as an elitist out of touch with the reality on the streets. Yet he pushes back against the dominant narratives about race, oppression, social justice, the welfare state, and more in this book, relying on careful research of the empirical data to show that income inequality is determined by the production of wealth, and not the distribution of wealth. Furthermore, he shows just how complex the factors are that bear on wealth production, including geography, demographics, and culture. His use of historic and global examples make the book a fascinating read and he demonstrates just how much the civil government in the modern west is actually exacerbating the problems for disadvantaged groups. I recommend the book for college/university age and up, to anyone interested in politics, social justice themes, and/or economics. – André Schutten APRIL 13 C.S. Lewis’s The Pilgrim’s Regress (1933/2020, 255 pages) is an enjoyable allegory that loosely traces Lewis’ own path to conversion (though he insists in an afterword that it is not autobiographical). It tells the story of John, who is seeking an island he saw and is intensely longing to reach. In trying to reach the island, John has many adventures and runs into people like Mr. Enlightenment (their conversation made me chuckle), Mr. Mammon, Mother Kirk, and others. Most of the allegorical elements are easy enough to pick up on, with the result that Lewis packs an incredible philosophical and theological course into a thoroughly entertaining adventure. Even so, I probably missed some allegorical references. Perhaps I’ll read the annotated version soon? Highly recommended! – André Schutten APRIL 12 I read A.W. Tozer’s The Pursuit of God, (1948/2020, 98 pages) in a single sitting on a Saturday afternoon. What an afternoon! It is short, sweet, and an incredibly powerful call to put aside comfortable Christianity and put God first, to pursue God with every part of you, to know God as He desires to be known. It challenged me and made me squirm at times. Yet, as each chapter ends with a prayer, it called me to lay it all before the throne. While Tozer does not come from a Reformed tradition, there was nothing in this book that caused me any concerns. On the contrary, I felt the book was an excellent wake-up call to the 21st-century, North American church. This book would be great to read aloud as a small group and pray over. – André Schutten APRIL 11 Conn Iggulden is my favorite historical fiction writer. I’ve read three four-book series by him already and am starting a fourth one. The first book of the series is called The Gates of Athens, (2021, 464 pages) and tells of the battle of Marathon (where 10,000 vastly outnumbered Athenian hoplites push off the invasion of Darius’ Persian army) and of the battle of Thermopylae (the famous 300 Spartans who hold the pass against the 300,000 Persians for three days, and the less famous but equally crucial naval battle occurring at the same time). Iggulden also paints a picture of the political dance between Themistocles, Xanthippus, and other statesmen of Athens. This book was a page-turner and difficult to put down. An added benefit is that I refreshed my ancient history lessons. A fun fact not mentioned in the book: it’s very likely that the Persian king Xerxes who led the invasion of Greece and saw the 300 Spartans was the same King who later married the Jewish Queen Esther. If so, on reading this book you will get a better appreciation of just how perilous it was for Queen Esther to approach this king with her requests. – André Schutten APRIL 8 John Taylor Gatto won multiple top teaching awards during his stint as a public teacher. But in Dumbing us Down (1992, 120 pages) he makes his case for blowing the whole system up. The book's small size is what makes him worth hearing, but this was not quite what I was expecting. Gatto features prominently in Indoctrination, a fantastic documentary on public school education, by Reformed filmmaker Colin Gunn. I thought Gatto might be Christian too, and while he identifies as Catholic, this is primarily a secular and libertarian case against institutionalized schooling (the author even seems to have some knowledge of, and dislike for, Calvinism). Public schools are a problem, he argues, for doing just what they were designed to do: create a compliant and dependent citizenry. His solution? More parental direction in their children's education, blowing up the government monopoly on education, and having students do less school overall, to create more room for them to explore their own interests. I appreciated much of what he said, but found this only a good, not a great read. – Jon Dykstra APRIL 4 Though very short (some might call it a mere pamphlet) Of AntiChrist and His Ruin (1692, 2015, 68 pages) by John Bunyan (author of the enduringly popular The Pilgrim's Progress) was a challenging read that took time to understand and digest. Bunyan describes the anti-Christ as being those forces that arise throughout history against Christ and his church and are sometimes found cloaked as Christian or as good government. The language is still in the style of 1692 which was an impediment to my reading speed. More than that, Bunyan's concept of who (or what) is the antiChrist was also challenging to me; I hadn't heard his perspective before. Something that stands out in this piece is the sheer number of scriptural references Bunyan uses throughout to make his argument. A free version of the book is available here in PDF format. – André Schutten APRIL 2 Richard Mouw's Uncommon Decency: Christian Civility in an Uncivil World, 2nd edition, (2010, 187 pages) is a timely book for a church frayed after a controversial few years, and facing an increasingly hostile culture. As the title suggests, Mouw urges his Christian audience to do all we can to remain civil in all discourse, without giving up our convictions. Mouw pushes me further than I'm comfortable going, and he's probably right in doing so. That said, I do note that I strongly disagree with one anecdote in his book where he describes an abortion for a 15-year-old rape victim as "the least evil alternative" (p.52) contrary to the clear teaching in Scripture that a child should not be put to death for the sins of her father (Deut. 24:16). While Mouw's point here is to emphasize having sympathy for such a horrific and tragic situation (which I absolutely agree with), our sympathy should not be blind to what abortion actually does to its first victim. With that exception, I found the book to be a pleasant read and gave me much to think about in how I dialogue about issues I am passionate about. – André Schutten APRIL 1 Christians regularly forget that Jesus is Lord of every square inch of creation, but in her slim volume, A brief theology of periods (yes, really) (2021, 128 pages) Rachel Jones clearly gets it. She is speaking to women but shares information about periods and menstruation that will be helpful for men, and especially husbands. She touches on hormonal contraceptives and the trend to call women "people who menstruate" but the majority of the book is specifically on God's thoughts on periods, including what it says in Leviticus about a women's "uncleanliness," and how we are to take this passage today. Jones asks lots of good questions, even if she isn't able to answer all of them (Did Eve have periods in the Garden of Eden?), and is an orthodox guide on this seldom discussed area of women's life. – Jon Dykstra MARCH 29 During the presidency of Donald Trump, there was a lot of talk about the dangers of the “Deep State.” We all remember the chants of “Drain the swamp!” and promises of a grand house-cleaning that would soon take place in the U.S. government - a house-cleaning that never seemed to become a reality. Wikipedia refers to the idea that a “Deep State” exists as a “discredited conspiracy theory,” but Michael J. Glennon’s National Security and Double Government (2015, 234 pages) provides plenty of evidence for its existence, and the danger it poses to the American republic. Published in 2015 by Oxford University Press (note: before Trump, and by a reputable academic publisher), his book seeks to answer a question which is indicative of a much broader trend: Why was it that Barack Obama’s foreign policy not only did not differ from that of George W. Bush, his presidential predecessor, but actually doubled down on a number of the policies implemented under Bush’s leadership, including a sixfold increase in the number of covert drone strikes in Pakistan? Beginning with this specific question, Glennon seeks to explain why American national security policy remains constant even when one President was replaced by another, who as a candidate repeatedly, forcefully, and eloquently promised fundamental changes in that policy. His answer follows the approach of 19th Century British essayist Walter Bagehot, who described the British political system in the Victorian era as a “double government.” In the US, this double government is made up of two distinct groups, referred to by Glennon as the Madisonians (public political figures who fill positions in Congress, the Senate, and the Presidency) and the Trumanites (those who work behind the scenes in governmental organizations largely established during the presidency of Harry S Truman). It is the Trumanites who make the vast majority of the decisions when it comes to foreign policy, Glennon argues, and the Madisonians who must follow. Therefore, in the arena of foreign policy, it actually makes very little difference which political party or individual wields the apparent power; it is the hidden half of the double government which is pulling the strings. Glennon’s analysis is clear, well-written, and heavily supported by documentary evidence (the page count is inflated by over 100 pages of notes). His explanation of a phenomenon that many do not understand or cannot explain is eye-opening, as well as cause for deep concern. For anyone interested in learning why the “swamp” remains undrained until this very day, this book is required reading. – Jim Witteveen MARCH 22 I’m sure I’m not the first reviewer to describe Glenn McCarty’s The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson (2019, 327 pages) as Mark Twain-esque. This is a tale of two very different boys, living out frontier life in 1876, and equally matched as both friends and rivals. Tumbleweed Thompson is a shyster and the son of a shyster, blowing into Rattlesnake Junction as father and son peddle miracle medicine from the back of their wagon. Eugene Appleton, a good son of the town’s pastor, is in the audience, watching as the peddlers are shown up and run out. But when Tumbleweed reappears on his ownsome, he pulls Eugene into a whole summer’s worth of getting chased by smugglers, trailing train robbers, and trying to outdo each other for the attentions of the mayor’s daughter, Charlotte Scoggins, a misadventurous lass herself. It’s evident the author is Christian, though that might not be apparent to the 10–14-year-old audience this is intended for because, even as Eugene means well, he doesn’t always act well (and Tumbleweed often enough doesn’t even mean well). That mostly gets sorted out at the end, when both boys do the very best thing, acting in defense of a widow and a man falsely accused. Loads of fun! – Jon Dykstra MARCH 16 Bertrand Russell (1872-1970) was the Richard Dawkins of his time – one of the most prominent academic atheists of the twentieth century. Apostolos Doxiadis and Christos H. Papadimitriou's Logicomix: an Epic Search for Truth (2009, 350 pages) is a graphic novel that serves as a biography of the man, as well as an account of his, and others', ultimately futile quest to use mathematics to arrive at certainty. As a child, Russell was raised by his grandparents. He was made to read the Bible, but his grandfather died early on, and his grandmother didn't seem to show him love. Then, when a tutor explained the logic and power of math, he came to reject the religion of his grandmother, seeing in math a way to live life without the need for any faith. In math, he thought, he could have certainty. But math itself is built on axioms - assumptions, that, while logical and even obvious, are unproven. So it became Russell's life's quest to prove these axioms - he wanted to give math a firm foundation. But as an old man he discovered that the quest for certainty that he had given his life to – that he had rejected God for – was unattainable. It was in 1931 that a young mathematician, Kurt Gödel proved, to the satisfaction of other mathematicians, that not everything can be proven. Logicomix is an entirely secular presentation, marred by at least one instance of God's name being taken in vain, and written at a level that would limit it to adults. But you don't need to understand all the math being discussed (I certainly didn't) to appreciate the moral of Russell's life's story: like many a rebel, he claimed his rejection of God was grounded in something valid, but we can see that even as Russell rejected God for requiring faith, he wasn't willing to reject math for the same "fault." – Jon Dykstra MARCH 15 Both my 10-year-old daughter and I enjoyed Jason Lethcoe’s No Place Like Holmes (2011, 210 pages), a steampunk detective story set in the London of the late 1800s. Our hero is Gilbert, an American boy of an unusually observant nature. Gilbert, we are told, will one day become “the world’s most secret detective.” But for now, he has been sent to live with his detective uncle, Rupert Snodgrass, just one story down from “the world’s most famous detective” Sherlock Holmes. Gilbert’s uncle is quite jealous of Holmes’ notoriety, as he too is a detective, though much less successful, and eschewing intuition in favor of detecting machines, which he himself invents. What sort of machines? All sorts: a robot butler, a metal detector, and a question-answerer that is hooked up to telegraphs lines from around the world – it’s basically a steam-powered computer with Internet. It’s wonderfully silly. The story is also wonderfully Christian: Gilbert’s love for his Lord is woven in throughout. So, for example, his uncle is not a church-goer, and quite obnoxious at the start, leaving Gilbert feeling lonely. But he knows he can ask his heavenly Father for courage. While this is a standalone story, it does have a cliffhanger lead-in for the sequel, The Future Door (2011, 210 pages), which I wouldn’t recommend. It’s a time travel adventure that ends on a sour note when an older Gilbert from the future kills the bad guy, and not in self-defense. Older Gilbert says that he used his time travel machine to explore every other option and all of them ended worse. But this is where the author failed to understand that even granting his character a form of omniscience doesn’t justify disobeying God’s clear command “Thou shall not kill.” If the author didn’t understand that, it’s very likely to go over the head of children readers too, which is a reason to give the sequel a miss. – Jon Dykstra MARCH 14 I read Wilson Rawls' novel Where the Red Fern Grows (1961/2016, 289 pages) to my eight-year-old son over the course of three weeks, and we thoroughly enjoyed it. It tells the story of a very poor boy who is determined to get a pair of coon-hunting hounds, how he achieves his goal, and the adventures he has with his dogs. While I did employ some careful censorship of the gorier details of coon hunting (for the sake of my son's maturity level), I nevertheless highly recommend the book, especially for dads to read to their eight to twelve-year-old boys. It is helpful for teaching the ethic of hard work and persistence, and the lesson that life isn’t always about happy endings, and yet being thankful for the wonderful things we have for the seasons God gives them to us. I found the references to God, Scripture, and prayer always respectful even if the theology is slightly off. Warning: If you're the emotional type, you might start crying through the second-last chapter. I had to pause a couple times to wipe away tears and swallow a persistent lump in my throat. That too, is a teaching moment. – André Schutten MARCH 9 I picked this novel up mostly because it shared a title with a non-fiction book André Schutten read earlier this year. It helped, also, that I’d read another by the author and loved it. Rule of Law (2017, 473 pages) is a legal thriller, and this time the action also includes a SEAL team storming an Arabic jail to free an imprisoned American journalist. When that mission takes a tragic turn, the fallout ends up in front of the Supreme Court. Author Randy Singer uses his fictional story to examine the real-world way in which the US government, and particularly the executive branch, has been acting as judge, jury, and executioner in placing foreign nationals on a “kill list,” and then taking them out, and those near them, via drone strikes. Singer doesn’t seem to be arguing against all drone strikes. But the title he has chosen certainly references the idea that we all need and benefit from accountability, so we all – including even the president – need to be under the law. Our leaders must not act like they are above it, as dictators do. This is well written, with a great balance of action, some romance, unexpected courtroom twists, and some realistic, subtly woven in, wrestlings with God. Singer is rapidly becoming a favorite author. – Jon Dykstra MARCH 3 When Prophecy Fails: A Social and Psychological Study of a Modern Group that Predicted the Destruction of the World (1956, 249 pages) is the story of Dorothy Martin and her small group of followers, and how their lives were impacted when her apocalyptic prophecy failed to come true. Martin believed that she had received messages from aliens revealing that a devastating natural disaster would destroy much of the world on December 21st, 1954. Through the process of automatic writing, in which the writer serves as a conduit for messengers from “beyond,” Martin had been informed that she and her group of true believers would be rescued from the cataclysm by spaceships which would deliver them to safety on another planet. Leon Festinger, Henry W. Riecken, and Stanley Schachter, the authors of When Prophecy Fails, had been studying the historical results of failed prophecy when they read a newspaper story about Martin and her followers. Recognizing this as an opportunity to test their theories personally in a real-life situation, they inserted themselves into the group of “Seekers,” and chronicled events immediately leading up to December 21st as well as the disappointing aftermath of the failed prophecy. This is a very sad story from beginning to end, and the authors’ account often reads like a tragic novel and not as a sociological study. Martin herself believed fervently that she had been chosen to serve as a messenger of truth, and her followers were looking for hope and purpose in their lives. They were willing to grab hold of anything, no matter how ludicrous and self-contradictory, because they desperately wanted to believe. And when the forecast disaster failed to happen, the true believers didn’t abandon their trust in Martin and her message; instead, they searched for explanations that fit into their already-developed worldview, explained the failure away, and continued along the same path. In a world in which forecasts of impending doom, both scientific and religious, are commonplace, When Prophecy Fails helps us to understand why failed prophecies often lead to beliefs being held more strongly rather than abandoned completely. – Jim Witteveen One of the most accomplished judges in English history, Lord Tom Bingham, wrote this short but helpful book The Rule of Law (2010/2011, 213 pages). Lord Bingham explains that the book "is not addressed to lawyers… It is addressed to those who have heard references to the rule of law, who are inclined to think that it sounds like a good thing rather than a bad thing, who wonder if it may not be rather important, but who are not quite sure what it is all about and would like to make up their minds." The book opens with some interesting legal history, outlines eight aspects of the rule of law (the chapter on human rights is particularly good), before closing with some modern application to the war on terror. Some post-COVID readers may be happy to apply the warnings of this book to violations of the rule of law over the last two years but may also be appropriately challenged to rethink their position on certain government actions during the “war on terror.” An accessible read, I highly recommend this book for all lawyers, politicians, government workers, and any citizen who has used the term "rule of law" recently but is not 100% sure they know what the term really means. – André Schutten MARCH 2 Richard Pollak's The Creation of Dr. B: A Biography of Bruno Bettelheim (1997, 456 pages) is the story of a man with an invented past and fictional credentials, who wrote fabricated stories about the amazing successes of the Chicago school for mentally ill children that he took over in 1944. Along the way, he published several popular books on parenting and other subjects, worked as a university professor and magazine columnist, and influenced a generation of parents in his role as “public intellectual.” This book is a well-written and fascinating account of one man’s life, and makes for captivating reading on that basis alone. But on a deeper level, the story of “Dr. B.” reveals a great deal about how one person can fool even the “best and brightest” when he tells them what they want to hear. Bruno Bettelheim was not the only intellectual fraud who was active in 20th Century academia, so the example of his life and work, and the way in which he managed to become an important figure in the academic world, functions as a cautionary tale. Even among the “experts” of the world, things are not always as they seem. – Jim Witteveen FEBRUARY 22 I’ve recently been reading a few children’s versions of Pilgrim’s Progress. I’m not normally one for abridgments, but John Bunyan’s classic is also almost 350 years old, so the original wasn’t going to work with my daughters. I checked out the three most popular children’s editions and was pleasantly surprised with them all. The most loyal to the original was Dangerous Journey (1985, 127 pages). Editor Oliver Hunkin has carefully abridged, rather than rewritten Bunyan’s story, and done so in a way that makes it easily understandable for the teen audience it is aimed at. He’s edited out the obscure terms, and paired it with pictures that do a lot of explaining, but which are scarier and darker than my preteen listeners would have been up for. Hunkin also includes a much-abridged 16-page version of Bunyan’s sequel, about the pilgrim’s wife Christiana going on her own journey. For younger children, the most authentic version is Tyler Van Halteren’s Little Pilgrim’s Big Journey (2020, 223 pages). It has somewhat cartoonish pictures they’ll enjoy, and the principal character, Christian, is now a boy, rather than a man. I appreciated that Van Halteren’s rewrite still contains most of Bunyan’s theological challenges and lessons, though on a kid’s level. He’s also written a second book, Part II, that covers Christiana’s journey, though now instead of being the pilgrim’s wife, she is his little sister. The one I read to my children is Helen L. Taylor’s adaptation, Little Pilgrim’s Progress (1946, 336 pages). This text was the most readable of the three (Halteren’s version is very close) and also includes Christiania’s journey, though she is now Christian’s friend. A little of the theological heft was lost, but I think that’s okay, so long as kids understand that they should really check out the original when they’re older. There are many versions of Taylor’s adaptation, some with lavish pictures and others with only simple line drawings. – Jon Dykstra FEBRUARY 21 If the news has you feeling antsy, then you might be interested in a book that calmed and encouraged me. To celebrate 50 years of Canadian Reformed involvement in the mission work in Brazil, editor Harold Ludwig and the Aldergrove Brazil Mission Society, have given us God Gave the Growth (2021, 144 pages). Dozens of contributors, including past and present missionaries and all sorts of workers, take turns sharing how God greatly blessed their work. There are challenges – a different language and culture creates barriers that have to be overcome – but maybe the greatest challenge is one we pray we could experience in Canada too: such a hunger for the Reformed truth that there are more opportunities to preach and teach than can be met. As one missionary shares: “The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few, therefore pray earnestly to the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest” (Matt. 9:37-38). I really loved that there were so many contributors, as they gave very different glimpses at what God has been up to. This, then, is a book that’ll give you a boost – our God reigns and He is busy! Purchase the sturdy oversized hardcover for $30 CAN plus shipping at MissionBoardBrazil.org. – Jon Dykstra FEBRUARY 18 Christians are right to be skeptical of an environmental movement that sees Man as a problem for the planet, rather than the steward of it. But, as Gordon Wilson explains in his A Different Shade of Green (2019, 189 pages), Christians can’t simply be contrarians – we won’t arrive at the biblical position simply by being reactionary and anti-Green. Instead, our foundation has to be God’s Word, starting with the dominion mandate in Genesis 1:28, and then God’s own evaluation of His creation as is expressed a few verses later: “and it was very good” (Gen. 1:31). We are to value His Creation and the creatures in it because He values it, and we are to take charge of its care because He has made us responsible for it. What Dr. Wilson has gifted us with here is a challenging and engaging Biblical Environmentalism 101 – he hasn't worked it all out for us, but he is pointing us in the right direction. For more of Wilson's creation care thoughts, be sure to check out his nature documentary series, The Riot and The Dance. – Jon Dykstra FEBRUARY 17 There are lots of layers in Randy Singer’s courtroom drama Directed Verdict (2002, 486 pages). When the Saudi religious police uncover a secret church, Charles, the American pastor, is tortured and killed, and his wife Sarah is beaten and deported on trumped-up drug charges. From there the action takes place both in an American court where lawyer Brad Carson helps Sarah bring suit against her torturer, and in Saudi Arabia, where the small church struggles to continue, their members fearful and shaken. The large law firm defending the torturer is willing to cheat, so what might their murderous client be willing to do? Sarah Reed’s team is growing to admire her courage but none of them share her Christian scruples, so what might they be willing to do behind her back to help her get justice? This was a quick read, and sure has me interested in what else Singer has written. – Jon Dykstra FEBRUARY 16 Written as a critique of Leo Tolstoy's pacifist ideology, Ivan Alexandrovich Ilyin's On Resistance to Evil by Force (1925, 216 pages) provides a passionate and often insightful defense of the legitimacy of physical opposition to evil. Ilyin writes from a distinctly Russian Orthodox perspective which informs his conclusions (and leads to some of its shortcomings). From this perspective, he critiques not only the pacifism of Tolstoy and the ethics of the Roman Catholic Jesuits, but also what he calls "the most naive and elementary attempts to give the sword an absolute justification" of Martin Luther. While Luther wrote that the legitimate use of "the sword" in service to secular governments is a work done on behalf of God Himself, and that it, therefore, is absolutely righteous, Ilyin argues that the use of force in countering evil is actually an unrighteous act, but an act that must be performed by righteous men. We need, he writes, both the warrior and the monk - the warrior to do the necessary work of combating evil, and the monk to do the work of absolving the warrior of that evil. This is where Ilyin's argument goes off the rails, and does not align with Scriptural teaching. However, along the way, Ilyin argues powerfully and logically against Christian pacifism and quietism as ideologies which run counter to Biblical teaching. He makes a cogent case for the necessity of standing up against evil in this world, to the point of physical resistance, on the basis of love for God, for our neighbor, and for righteousness itself. This book was written in Russian in 1925, and is neither an easy read nor a book which I would endorse without reservation. That being said, Ilyin's overarching message is very relevant for our current situation, and provides much food for thought as we consider how and why Christians should actively combat evil in this world. – Jim Witteveen FEBRUARY 15 According to its afterword, “few books have been so widely debated, quoted, excerpted, and also used for teacher education, graduate and undergraduate courses, and in some high schools” as Paulo Freire’s Pedagogy of the Oppressed (1970, 219 pages). There is no denying the influence that Paulo Freire’s educational philosophy has had, not just in his native Brazil, but around the world. And as I read this book, Freire’s best-known work, my only conclusion is that this influence has been resoundingly negative. Replete with citations of such luminaries as Lenin, Mao, Che Guevara, and Fidel Castro, Pedagogy of the Oppressed proudly proclaims its Marxist basis, building a system of education on a very flimsy foundation indeed. I have little good to say about this book, although I believe that Freire’s characterization of government educational systems as tools of the elite used to control and form society according to its desires is entirely accurate. His “solutions,” however, are disastrous - as the results have continued to show. While I wouldn’t recommend this book as a handbook of pedagogy, I do recommend it particularly for anyone involved in education who would like to learn more about why public and higher education has become what it is today. – Jim Witteveen FEBRUARY 9 Anne Hendershott is a rare bird - a sociologist who believes that the concept of "deviance" must be reaffirmed in order to avoid a complete societal collapse. The classification of some behaviors as "deviant" was once understood by sociologists as the means by which societies defined what is right and good, maintaining good order and harmony by stigmatizing deviant behavior. Since the 1960s, the sociological study of deviance has become a historical study only, as sociologists question why "deviance" was ever an important concept in the first place. This doesn't mean that there is no longer any such thing as behavior that is considered "deviant." But it does mean that what is now considered deviant behavior is often the exact opposite of what previous generations believed. In The Politics of Deviance (2002, 194 pages), Hendershott examines the subject of deviance by discussing the issues of pedophilia, sexual orientation, sexual promiscuity, drug abuse, mental illness, and rape. Throughout, she demonstrates how the academic and media elite have "shaped discussion and dramatically influenced public perceptions." What is needed, Hendershoot argues, is a return to the traditional categories of deviance. And this, she says, requires a moral awakening, and not merely a change of laws. Her concluding words are worth quoting: "A society that continues to redefine deviance as disease, or refuses to acknowledge and negatively sanction the deviant acts our common sense tells us are destructive, is a society that has lost the capacity to confront evil that has a capacity to dehumanize us all." While this book is now twenty years old and therefore somewhat dated, the trends that Hendershott examined in 2002 have only continued, and indeed worsened. This study remains relevant as our society continues to overturn traditional categories of deviance, and as deviance is redefined as a result of emotional appeals of advocacy groups, public intellectuals, and in the halls of academia. – Jim Witteveen Beloved philosopher Peter Kreeft’s Beyond Heaven and Hell (1982, 115 pages) is a short book patterned after a Socratic dialogue. (Kreeft has written a few of these entertaining and illuminating dialogues, a particular favorite of mine being The Unaborted Socrates). In Beyond Heaven & Hell, Kreeft imagines a conversation between President J.F. Kennedy, writer and philosopher Aldous Huxley, and professor and Christian theologian C.S. Lewis, in some space immediately after their death (all three died on the same day, November 22, 1963). C.S. Lewis takes on the modern humanist in Kennedy and the Eastern pantheist in Huxley while discussing and debating the existence of hell, the place of authority, and Scripture as trustworthy, the reality of Jesus Christ and his divinity, and more. I highly recommend the book. It can be read in a single sitting on a Saturday afternoon or Sunday evening. It might be fun to read it aloud with two others, each taking a voice of the three characters. – André Schutten FEBRUARY 8 Aldous Huxley's Brave New World (1932) and Brave New World Revisited (1958) (combined edition, 2005, 340 pages) are modern classics. The former is a dystopian novel, predicting future tyranny not through violence, pain, and terror but through pleasure and technological and medical planning and psychological conditioning. The latter is a nonfiction piece in which Huxley compares modern human relations in 1958 with what he prophesied in 1932. While Huxley was not a Christian (he blended certain Christian ideas with Eastern mysticism and pantheism), some of his criticisms – though certainly not all – are spot on. Huxley's prophesy of control through pleasure – evaluated in the 21st century – is more accurate than his student George Orwell's prophesy of societal control through pain and terror in Nineteen Eighty-Four (published in 1949). The ethical/political issues surrounding IVF and surrogacy, the redefinition of the family to include up to four parents, none of whom need to be biologically related to the child (see Ontario's All Families Are Equal Act, 2016), the ubiquitous nature of pornography, the dramatic shift of divorcing procreation from sex, the state-control of vast swaths of the education system, and society's desire to prefer safety and comfort over freedom and responsibility, all suggest that Huxley was the more prescient philosopher. The book is unsettling to read but I nonetheless recommend it, not only to better understand the many cultural references to it, but also to prick your imagination to better critique the state of our society today. – André Schutten FEBRUARY 7 If you have ever struggled with concentration when needing to focus on a challenging project (writing an article or sermon, reading and understanding an intellectual problem, studying for an exam, preparing arguments for court, etc.) then Cal Newport’s Deep Work (2016, 296 pages) is a must-read. This was the second time I’d read this book in less than two years. It confirms with scientific and anecdotal evidence what I’ve grown to know for myself over the last 10 years: a person needs to have lots of dedicated, focussed time in order to do deep work. Newport defines deep work as: “work for extended periods with full concentration on a single task free from distraction” and argues it is essential to develop two core abilities: 1. the ability to quickly master hard things/ideas; and 2. the ability to produce at an elite level, in terms of both quality and speed. Without systems and strategies in place, deep work becomes nearly impossible, making productivity, innovation and output stagnate. This book provides those strategies. I highly recommend Deep Work to any ministers, lawyers, academics, writers, and researchers who want to improve their focus and output with the caveat that this book is not written from a Christian perspective. Implement the strategies, without losing gospel focus in your life. (I hope to read What's Best Next later this year, which is also a book about productivity, but from a Christian perspective.) – André Schutten FEBRUARY 2 There are miracles all around us, but the rising sun, our pumping hearts, and babies’ wriggling toes do their things with such regularity as to seem ordinary. Not so the miracles in God’s Smuggler (1967, 288 pages). Here “Brother Andrew” (1928- ) relates one extraordinary answer to prayer after another, whether it be a needed cake delivered at the last moment by an off-duty postman, or the instant healing of Andrew’s crippled ankle. Then, in his work smuggling Bibles behind the Iron Curtain, this Dutchman came to rely on the extraordinary becoming regular. Border crossings into Communist countries were always tense, but each time Brother Andrew would ask God to “make seeing eyes blind” and God would do so. The same border guards who had just taken apart the car in front of them would simply wave them through or, if they did inspect their cargo, the guards would completely miss the Bibles crammed in everywhere. It was through these regular miracles that God used Andrew and his coworkers to deliver His Word to millions in the persecuted Church. I told my children we shouldn’t understand the many miracles Andrew experienced as evidence that he was always acting wisely and praying as he should (he acknowledges God honored some of his requests despite how he prayed). We can take it as evidence of God’s great love for his persecuted Church! – Jon Dykstra FEBRUARY 1 Lawyer and theologian John Warwick Montgomery's Human Rights & Human Dignity (1986, 319 pages) is a great introduction to the Christian foundation of modern human rights. While I would differ with Montgomery on some theological points (he's Lutheran and, at times, criticizes Calvinist thought), his book sets out a devastating critique of modern justifications for universal human rights, exposing how flimsy a foundation they have, and then proposing a transcendental foundation for universal human rights, rooting them in the doctrines of creation and redemption. I recommend the book to anyone interested in a relatively accessible, university-level Christian introduction to the topic of human rights, with the caveat that the book is a bit dated. – André Schutten One of the best-known psychological experiments in history was that of Stanley Milgram, professor of psychology at Yale University. In a series of experiments, Milgram tested hundreds of unwitting subjects for their willingness to administer electric shocks to a "victim" who answered a series of quiz questions incorrectly. Participants were told that they were participating in a study of the efficacy of punishment for learning, but the real goal of the experiment was to study how obedient people would be to authority, even when told to do things that went against their conscience. Milgram discovered that obedience to authority is deeply ingrained, and that the majority of participants would obey even when they believed they were seriously hurting someone. Obedience to Authority (1974, 253 pages) is the fruit of Milgram's research. Much of it is taken up by an explanation of the various forms that the experiments took, but it is the individual case studies that are particularly interesting and insightful. One participant was a member of a Dutch Reformed Church, and had lived through the Nazi occupation of Holland; at one point in the experiment he refused to continue when he believed that the "subject" was being hurt. Another was an Old Testament professor who also refused to obey the authority figure. When asked what he thought the most effective way of strengthening resistance to inhumane authority, he responded: "If one had as one's ultimate authority God, then it trivializes human authority." Milgram writes from an evolutionist perspective, and I would have loved to have seen more of a focus on the role that people's faith and religious presuppositions play in their obedience to authority. That being said, I recommend this book to anyone interested in deepening their understanding about obedience to authority from a psychological and sociological perspective. – Jim Witteveen JANUARY 27 Though it'd be best absorbed in the month-and-a-half that the title prescribes, I read Todd Nettleton's When Faith is Forbidden: 40 Days on the frontlines with persecuted Christians (2021, 272 pages) in just two days. It was simply too wonderful to put down. Each of the 40 chapters is a story of a Christian who shared God's good news with those around them, come what may. They shared it because they knew that the relatives trying to silence them, the mob trying to intimidate them, or even the policemen coming to arrest them, all needed what God had already given to them. So this is a story of Christians far braver than we, but more importantly, it is the story of the good God who sustained them. In a few instances He did so by way of big miracles: Muslims with no access to the Bible are reached in their dreams, a man shot twice in the chest survives because the bullets did no major damage, police tossing a house find a lost sewing needle but miss the three large boxes of Bibles in the middle of the room. In others, the miracles were maybe less spectacular, but exactly what was needed: a man who used to beat Christians is so won over he is now willing to suffer those beatings rather than stay quiet about his Lord, a woman whose husband was murdered is able to forgive the murderers, a drug addict who turns to God is instantly freed from his addiction. This is an incredible book, and much needed here in the West where we are terrified of speaking God's good news because of what it might cost us in status, or promotions, or friendships. These persecuted Christians want us to understand that for God's people, persecution is to be expected (John 15:18-21) but it need not be feared because our God is greater than the world and what we might have to suffer is nothing compared to what we have gained in Him. – Jon Dykstra JANUARY 26 Is the Christian vs. evolutionist/naturalist/materialist debate about explaining why there is something, rather than nothing? No, says John Byl, in his brilliant apologetic work The Divine Challenge: On Matter, Mind, Math & Meaning (2021, 421 pages). The real question is "Who will rule: God or Man?" and in the world's attempts to usurp God, they've crafted many a worldview to try to explain things apart from Him. Dr. Byl shares the world's best godless explanations and shows, often in the proponents' own words, how their attempts are self-contradictory or simply fail to explain what they set out to explain. Naturalism says there is nothing outside of nature, and materialism that there is nothing outside matter, so how can either explain how matter came to be, or the non-material world of math and meaning? Byl also makes evident how very often these godless philosophers understand the emptiness of their best answers, and yet cling to them anyway only because they hate the alternative: bowing their knee to God. This is a book that will stretch most readers, and in some parts (Chapter 14 was a doozy!) I only got the gist of it...but what an encouraging gist it was. While the 2004 paperback edition is still available, Dr. Byl has made the 2021 revision a free ebook you can download on his blog here. – Jon Dykstra JANUARY 24 Historian-turned-lawyer-turned-fiction-writer C.J. Sansom has written an engaging historical fiction novel (my favorite genre) in Dissolution (2003, 390 pages). Set during the initial years of the English Reformation and the dissolution of the monasteries there, the story follows a hunchbacked lawyer, Matthew Shardlake, who is sent to investigate a murder in a monastery at the behest of Thomas Cromwell (the vicar general of King Henry VIII). The book is part Agatha Christie mystery, part John Grisham drama, combined with the very careful research of the best historical fiction writers. The value of the book for a Christian reader (beyond just enjoying some good fiction) is to show the messiness of the early Reformation in England. Sansom puts away any romantic ideas Reformed people might have about that era. While a corrupt church hierarchy was displaced, it was done through the brutal and corrupt tactics of a tyrant with some early English Reformers playing along. I recommend the book for mystery lovers and historical fiction fans interested in learning a bit more about the early Reformation era with the caveat that the story contains mature subject matter: murder, torture, and adultery (though thankfully not graphically described). – André Schutten My personal library is rather roughly organized according to topic, and one of the categories that I use to sort my collection is "Know Your Enemy." The books included under this heading are ones that I wouldn't recommend because I agree with their content, but rather because it's important to know first-hand what it is that we're up against. Saul Alinsky's Rules for Radicals: A Pragmatic Primer for Realistic Radicals (1971, 196 pages) is one such book - a highly influential work that provides an insider's view of tactics that have become ubiquitous in the world of politics, and what motivates those who use them. If you've ever wondered why the political arena is so often characterized by dishonesty and pragmatism instead of by high ideals and straightforward honesty, you need look no further than Rules for Radicals, the playbook for a generation of "community organizers," activists, and politicians. Alinsky's dedication of this book to "the first radical known to man who rebelled against the establishment and did it so effectively that he at least won his own kingdom - Lucifer" reveals his starting point, and from there, as you can well imagine, it goes nowhere good. So I recommend this book, not because I agree with it or find its arguments compelling, but rather because we need to be aware of the tactics that are being used against us. For more, check out my Dan 11:32 podcast here on Alinsky's book. – Jim Witteveen JANUARY 20 John Bunyan’s The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678, 187 pages) is a series of theological debates and discussions wrapped inside an epic journey. Our hero, the Pilgrim, is setting out from “the City of Destruction” to find a home in the Good King’s “Celestial City” and the journey serves as a metaphor for the Christian life. Bunyan has many challenges and encouragements to offer, but the main one is that “the bitter must come before the sweet.” He wants readers to understand that turning to God won’t make our life easy, and might even make it much harder. But God is worth it! So, along the way, the Pilgrim has to contend with many trials including false friends, doubt, a corrupt judge and lying witnesses, depression, all sorts of temptations, and persecution. He is also strengthened along the way by “Shining ones,” faithful friends, and good counselors who show him what the Lord has done for other pilgrims. There’s loads of wisdom packed in here, which is the reason it was the English world’s most influential novel for at least a couple of centuries. Readers should take some care in finding a good version as there are many to avoid. For example, the Amazon Classic version kept the original language but omits “all the conversations and arguments concerning subjects belonging to the field of doctrine.” Most modernizations also cut out meat or sections that offend modern sensibilities. A fantastic exception is that done by C. J. Lovik, which only lightly – but effectively! – modernizes the text, and includes very helpful explanatory endnotes, with wonderful illustrations every ten pages or so. If you want to read it in the original, there is a great free version by three Johns: written by John Bunyan, introduced by John Newton (the former slave ship captain who wrote the song “Amazing Grace”), and including a biography of the author by John Piper. For those that want more, Bunyan wrote a sequel, this time describing the journey of the Pilgrim’s wife, called “Pilgrim’s Progress Part II: Christiana” – Jon Dykstra JANUARY 18 Presbyterian pastor Dane Ortlund's Gentle and Lowly: The Heart of Christ for Sinners and Sufferers (2020, 224 pages) is a beautifully written book on God's heart for his people. A handful of people recommended this book to me and, since I received it as a Christmas gift from the ARPA Canada board, I decided to read it as my morning devotional. If you've ever struggled with the question of whether God might love you despite your sins, read this book. If you've ever thought that God's attitude toward you is one of exasperation, read this book. It literally brought me to tears (in chapter 6, quoting John Bunyan), and encouraged me many times in the past couple weeks. I highly recommend the book for personal devotions or as an evening devotion for a couple, or as a dinner-time devotional for families with older children. It will provoke discussions of wonder, amazement and praise at how great God's love for us really is. – André Schutten JANUARY 14 Written from a Christian perspective, Carol M. Swain and Christopher J. Schorr's Black Eye for America: How Critical Race Theory is Burning Down the House (2021, 152 pages) is readable and brief – just 79 pages, plus glossary, notes, appendix, and index. That makes it an insightful introduction to Critical Race Theory (CRT) going back to its roots in Marxism, specifically the cultural Marxism of Antonio Gramsci and the Frankfurt school of critical theorists. Each chapter concludes with a list of discussion questions, making it ideal for group study and discussion. Although written specifically for the American context, the book’s suggestions for engaging with and opposing CRT’s influence are easily applicable to readers in other countries as well. – Jim Witteveen JANUARY 13 Frank Abe and Tamiko Nimura's We Hereby Refuse: Japanese American resistance to wartime incarceration (2021, 160 pages) is a graphic novel account of the tens of thousands of Japanese Americans who were imprisoned in the US in World War II based solely on their ethnicity. They lost their jobs, businesses, and even their homes. Despite the obvious discrimination against them, the vast majority went without protest, believing that quiet acceptance was a way of showing their patriotism. However, some did dare to protest, and We Hereby Refuse shares three of their stories. One inescapable lesson: the government is powerful, and with power comes the need to use it with great restraint. What happens when it doesn't act with restraint? We can get victims by the thousands, as happened here. Another? The need for brave individuals to challenge government abuses, in the hopes of reducing the number of victims. – Jon Dykstra JANUARY 8 Harvard professor Michael Sandel's Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do? (2010, 310 pages) is an excellent introduction to the major philosophical theories of justice, covering Aristotle, Mill, Kant, Rawls and others. It's an easy read: Sandel uses very interesting stories and cases to highlight how the theories of justice work and what their failings are. Here’s the caveat: the book is not written from a Christian perspective. By the time you get to the end, you’ll be wishing for one more chapter, to accurately present a distinctly Christian theory of justice, which also critiques the other theories. Sandel himself gets close by his final two chapters (his point about being part of a narrative and community is compelling) but lacks the objective, transcendent standard by which to judge human action as just or unjust. Highly recommended to anyone interested in wrestling with theories of justice and how individuals, institutions, and governments should decide what the right thing to do is in any given situation. P.S. a fun exercise to do while reading the book is ask yourself which theory of justice is being employed by the government as it makes decisions around Covid-19 and what would the other philosophers say about it. – André Schutten JANUARY 7 John McWhorter's Woke Racism: How a New Religion Has Betrayed Black America (2021, 224 pages) is by an African-American who is himself not a believer. But he makes the case for thinking about the new anti-racism (based in Critical Race Theory) as a religious system, and its supporters ("the Elect") as religious adherents. Highly recommend this book for anyone who wants to learn more about the worldviews that form the foundation of Critical Race Theory, with the caveat that the book is not written from a Christian perspective, and does contain a bit of rough language. – Jim Witteveen...

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Dying Well

Come, sweet death, Come blessed rest!  

Last week, while working in the backyard, I chanced to speak with one of our neighbors. There is only a wire fence separating our properties and talking across it makes for good contact. "Bob," our neighbor, was weeding his garden on his hands and knees.  Quite a feat actually because he is in his middle eighties. When I strolled over, he hoisted himself upright and we chatted about the weather, about the weeds and about our children. "I've got to do something today," he inserted into the conversation, "that I've been putting off for a long time." "What's that, Bob?" I asked. "I've got to bury my wife," he answered. I was floored for a moment. My husband and I knew that his wife had died some years ago before we had moved into the neighborhood. "Bury your wife?" I repeated. "Yes, and last week I dreamed that she told me: 'Bob, it's about time.'" I really had no words and stared at him. "We're going to the cemetery this afternoon to bury her ashes," he clarified. "Oh." It was all I could come up with. "My daughter's coming along. My wife's always wanted to be buried in the local cemetery here, the one by the Mennonite church." We stood in silence for a moment before he continued. "I contacted the gal over at the church who's in charge of the cemetery and she said it was fine." "That's good." It was a neutral comment. "Yes, but there was one problem. My wife, you see, was born Catholic and the priest said that the burial ground had to be consecrated. But when I mentioned that to the gal over at the Mennonite church, she said: 'Bob, ground's ground,' and that's all there is to it." "She was right," I agreed. "Yes, I thought so too. So this afternoon's the time." "You must miss your wife a lot." "Every day," Bob responded. "You know," I said, and at this point my husband had also walked up to the fence, "if your wife believed in the Lord Jesus and that He forgave all her sins, then the moment she died she was with Him." "She did," he said. "And if you believe that too, Bob," I tacked on, "then you will someday see the Lord Jesus and your wife as well." "I know," he said. My husband then asked Bob if he ever read the Bible. "It's a difficult book to read," he responded, "and so many people interpret different parts of it in different ways. How are you to know what's right and what is meant?" "It's true," my husband allowed, "and some interpretations are wrong. But basically if you read the Bible, Bob, you will understand most of what you read and it will help you in living." "There are so many things," Bob came back, "and where do you start?" "By talking to your neighbors," I said. And we left it at that, until next time. And Bob went to bury the ashes of his wife. ***** Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750), used the lyrics of an unknown poet to compose the music to one of his wonderful, melodious works. The words ask death to come quickly and to bear the singer to heaven to see the face of his Savior. It is a moving song with an emotional text. If you can sing it, how blessed indeed you are! Come, sweet death, come, blessed rest! Come lead me to peace because I am weary of the world. O come! I wait for you, come soon and lead me, close my eyes. Come, blessed rest! As Paul said in Philippians 1:21: "For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain." ***** Just last week we received notice that a dear friend had died. Betty was in her eighties and I was asked to write a remembrance. Betty was a friend I loved dearly. Her middle name could have been "helpful" and she was full of faith. There would only be a small service at the funeral home and perhaps people would be there who had no knowledge of Jesus. This is what I wrote. Betty - a remembering and a looking forward to "Faith" Hebrews 11 tells us, "is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." It is a faithful friend who always points you towards things hoped for, and who tells you of her conviction of things not seen. Such a friend was Betty. She constantly pointed me to the protection of our heavenly Father. Betty and I shared thoughts and ideas for the last twenty years or so. Letters were often sent to her address and, much to my regret, I can't do that any longer. Not much of a letter writer herself, she would phone me and we would chat. It was great! She can't phone me any longer. And yet it is at this point that I recall Hebrews 11 and 12. Hebrews 11 is one of the most beautiful chapters of the Bible and one of the most encouraging. But Hebrews 12 follows hard on its heels and shines just as brightly if not more so. It begins with, "Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses... let us look to Jesus...." That is to say, since we have access to so many ordinary people who lived faithful lives before we did, we can never use the excuse that we were not told about Jesus. Betty lived before us; Betty was an ordinary housewife; Betty was gifted with remarkable and sturdy faith; and Betty is now part of the Hebrews 12 cloud of witnesses. She is now one of those who surrounds us and points us to look to Jesus. Betty ran her earthly race, a race that was often marked with difficulties and loneliness, with endurance. She unfailingly looked for and spoke of Jesus, the Founder and Perfecter of her faith. She did so for the joy that was before her, the joy of going to heaven to see, not just her family, but her Savior, Jesus Christ. When we miss Betty, let us remember her Creator and Savior. For she was with Him in Paradise at the exact moment she drew her last breath. I'm thankful to God that I knew her and that I will see her again. Christine Farenhorst's most recent book might be her best yet! Read our review of "The New Has Come" here, and check out most any online retailer to order a copy. ...

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Book Reviews, Children’s fiction

The New Has Come

by Christine Farenhorst 2022 / 262 pages Rating: Good/GREAT/Give I've seen another reviewer suggest that this might be Christine Farenhorst's best book yet, and I think I might agree. Linnet is a five-year-old Dutch girl who, we discover, knows absolutely nothing about God. Her ignorance is so profound that when the Nazis invade, and an occupying soldier tells little Linnet about the wonderful family that "God has given" him, she wonders, Who is this God he is talking about? and Is God German For our own children, who may take always knowing God for granted, it will be eye-opening to follow what it's like, and how wonderful it is, for someone to be introduced to God for the first time. Linnet has the same wonderings any kid might have, but her wartime experiences also have her asking deeper questions, including a child's version of "God are you really there?" I had to figure to what age category to share this review, and picked "Children's Fiction," but The New Has Come is that rare sort that has appeal for all ages. The World War II setting and charming protagonist will grab your children; moms and dads will appreciate Linnet's questions and the opportunities they present to talk about God with our kids, and grandparents will get more than a little misty-eyed at just how beautifully this tale is told. I could not recommend it more highly! Christine Farenhorst is a columnist for Reformed Perspective. so if you don't already know her writing you can get a good taste of her writings by looking at her many articles posted on the website. And for a taste of the book itself, you can find the first chapter at the Amazon.ca listing here. ...

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Adult biographies, Book Reviews, History, Teen non-fiction

Listen! Six Men You Should Know

by Christine Farenhorst 161 pages / 2021 Rating: Good/GREAT/Give The six men we get introduced to here are given 25-30 pages each which is enough space to get a very good feel for them. It's also short enough that it avoids completely the indulgence evident in many a bigger biography of telling us what the subject ate for lunch on the third Tuesday of October, one hundreds years ago. The half dozen that author Christine Farenhorst introduces us to are: Martin Luther King Jr. Albert Schweitzer Rembrandt Dutch Samuel Morse Sigmund Freud Norman Rockwell I enjoyed the eclectic nature of the selections – these six holding little in common outside their fame and influence, but all are worth knowing better. I was more curious about some of them than others, particularly the very first, the American icon, Martin Luther King Jr. But after learning a little about his thoughts, and the political and cultural battles of his time, I skipped ahead to the profile of Austrian psychologist Sigmund Freud who spent most of this life in Europe, and died when King was just 10. I'd read biographies on both men previously, but Christine's solidly biblical perspective brought new light to both subjects. For the four others, I knew little more than their names – or their artwork, in the cases of Norman Rockwell and Rembrandt – and I enjoyed this opportunity to delve into their backgrounds, their age, and place. I enjoyed learning about Samuel Morse in particular, as he is the only one of these six who was clearly a Christian. Christine shows that some of the others, like Freud, clearly were not, while Rembrandt, had, at best, an odd relationship with his Maker. Overall, this is a very quick enjoyable read – I think I finished it in a day. It was sad reading about many of these men's outright rejection of God, so I might recommend reading the profiles out of order so that you can conclude with Samuel Morse, and end on a happy note! Children who enjoy history and reading would likely enjoy this as young as 12. The short, 30-page profiles, would also make this a great title for adults who want to know their history, but are put off by the tomes that some historians publish. Christine Farenhorst is a regular columnist for Reformed Perspective, so if you want to get a feel for her writing, that is as easily done as clicking here. You can order "Listen! Six men you should know" at many online retailers....

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Articles, Movie Reviews

Second-hand Scriptures: a case against biblical dramas

The “telephone game” goes by many different names but it’s always played the same way. A number of children sit in a circle and the “operator” starts things off by whispering some phrase or sentence to his neighbor. The neighbor then whispers the message to the next child, trying to pass it on as accurately as she can. By the time the message makes its way around the circle to the very last child it will bear little resemblance to the original: “I’ve got a pair of red pants” somehow turns into “Ivy’s got a pail of dead ants!” It’s good silly fun but the game also shows how easily information can become corrupted by being relayed Biblically-based movies face this same problem. It’s simply inevitable that the message we see on the screen won’t be the same as the one we find in the Bible – each step along the way, as it passes from Scripture to screenwriter this is an opportunity for corruptions to intrude, whether accidentally, or by deliberate choices. While writing about biblical stage productions, Rev. John van Popta, highlighted the problem they share with biblical movies: The data in the Bible is usually not enough to fill out the dialogue. .…a drama based on the Bible, will have a script which includes all kinds of extra material, actions and characters, as well as inaccuracies and misrepresentations. Consider also that a great deal of what we say is communicated by our body language. God chose not to use this medium, relying instead on the written word. So all the choices made by the director and actors in how they sit, stand, and interact – will they have Jesus stand boldly, with hands on his hips, or meekly seated, staring down at the ground? – are going to be extra-biblical additions that depart from the text. The Passion of the Christ The changes can be subtle and yet significant. Consider The Passion of the Christ, likely the biggest Christian film of all time. At the time it came out Christine Farenhorst noted how the film obscured that    “…the greatest torment that Christ experienced on the cross was not caused by the nails driven into His flesh, but in His being made ‘sin for us’ and vicariously suffering the righteous punishment of the Father in our place. Even the worst physical torments inflicted by the Sanhedrin and the Romans upon Jesus were nothing by comparison to the anguish of having the sins of all the elect imputed to Him and making full satisfaction for them. Satisfying the justice of the Romans on a cross was comparatively easy. Thousands of condemned men and women, including Spartacus and several of the Apostles did that. But only Christ could satisfy the justice of God.” The Chosen In the recent The Chosen TV series, women end up in more prominent roles than they have in the Scriptures, with the most notable being the healing of the paralyzed man of Luke 5:17-25. It was men that arranged for their friend to be lowered through the ceiling to be healed by Jesus. In this series the writers have inserted two women, Tamar and Mary Magdalene, and credited the idea to them. Why this rewrite? The spirit of our age says that women derive their value, not from being made in the Image of God, but by doing and being able to do whatever men can do. This seems in keeping with that spirit. It's also worth noting that in focusing more on the disciples and followers, The Chosen has made Jesus less central, and more of a supportive character. VeggieTales The changes can also be glaring. When the folks at Big Idea Productions decided to do a version of the Fall of Jericho using animated talking vegetables – a "VeggieTale" – the Israelites in their story grumbled that they felt too silly to march around the walls of the city. But in Joshua 6:1-21 we read that this is one of the only times Israel didn’t complain or question God. Big Idea’s Josh and the Big Wall is a video made by sincere Christians, for other Christians, that Christian children are likely to watch again and again, and yet this video departs sharply from the Scripture it claims to portray. In other VeggieTale biblical epics, the alterations are more understandable, though no less problematic. Their account of Daniel in the lions’ den had this prophet emerges unscathed, and the men who plotted against him run away. In reality, these men were thrown into the den, and, “before they reached the floor of the den the lions overpowered them and crushed their bones” (Dan 6:24). Not only were these plotters punished in this startling fashion, even their wives and children were consumed by the lions. In a cartoon intended for kids it might seem sensible to make this G-rated substitution for what would otherwise be an R-rated event. But that the real events would be unsuitable for a children’s cartoon isn’t a reason to recast reality in a “nicer” light – it’s a reason not to make a cartoon about that reality. And this isn’t the only time VeggieTales has felt free to insert a “nicer” endings to a biblical tale. In Esther, the Girl Who Became Queen, Haman plots against the Jews but instead of trying to kill them he attempts to banish them to the “Island of Perpetual Tickling.” Are nicer endings really such a problem? Well, just consider how many Christians would be shocked to read an Old Testament passage in which God demands the slaughter of women and children. In a quest to embrace the God of love many Christians prefer to forget that He also demands justice and can be wrathful as well. By inserting these “nicer” endings, VeggieTales actually hide the true character of God from children. And since children are likely to view these videos repeatedly, and read the corresponding Bible passages infrequently, that is real damage being done. Even when the Veggie version is fairly faithful – as happens in Dave and the Giant Pickle – it’s still going to be comical – here we have a cute David, played by Junior Asparagus. How often is cute and comical going to be a good match for the tone of the biblical text? Conclusion What I’ve raised here are practical objections to biblical epics – that they so often garble the message. But what if someone did a much better, more careful job? Then would it be a problem? Let me answer by offering two texts to consider. First, Revelation 22:18-19 concludes with a warning against making additions or subtractions to “the words of the prophecy of this book…” Is this referring only to Revelation, or the whole of the Bible? However you understand it, wouldn’t the principle – to have great respect for the words God has delivered – have application to the whole of the Bible? And the consequences listed – that those who make additions will have the plagues added to them, and those that take away will have their part in the Tree of Life taken away – would also seem to encourage Christians to err on the side of caution. Second, biblical dramas have a long history of being used to teach an illiterate laity. But the Heidelberg Catechism, Lord’s Day 35 applies the Second Commandment (Ex. 20:4-5, Deut. 5:8-9) as forbidding the use of images to teach God’s people: … we should not be wiser than God. He wants his people to be taught not by means of dumb images but by the living preaching of his Word. The Reformation brought with it a push for literacy to allow people to learn straight from God. Instead of the “telephone game” with the message filtered through actors and scriptwriters, God’s children could receive His Word directly. Why go back? Now, biblically-based movies probably won’t do much damage to biblically literate Christians; they’ll certainly see through the glaring errors, and may well catch most of the subtle miscommunications as well. But these films aren’t really made for biblically literate Christians. Isn't the reason that these films are so popular because they make Christians feel as if we are learning as we’re watching? How many will view the movie and then go straight to Scripture and read the passage? Don't we watch the movie instead of reading the passage? Or maybe we watch it to receive what isn’t in the passage – the kind look on Jesus’ face, or the heartwarming interactions between the other characters. Then instead of the real deal, instead of direct communication with God through his Word, we end up settling for the garbled communication we get via the screen’s second-hand Scripture. Charlton Heston as Moses, from the film "The Ten Commandments" is copyright © 1956 Paramount Pictures Corporation. Used with permission....

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Assorted

Suffer Annie Spence

The smooth money resting in John's calloused hand equaled his small plot of land; a few acres lay on a roughened palm. It had only been a barren, untidy patch at best really – just enough to keep some geese and, when times were good, a cow. It had yielded enough to keep one from starving – not enough to keep one satisfied. It had been a way of life for John's father and grandfather. And they had survived. The land divided into strips and was owned by very poor farmers, by verge-of-poverty peasants. Inevitably, big, neighboring landowners coveted these strips – these pieces of thin but still independent existence. For a few guineas, John Spence had given up his meager plot, his paltry inheritance. Those guineas lay in his weathered palm. The money wasn't much, yet it was more than he'd ever had. But it wasn't enough to buy more land, no, not enough to buy more land. John regretted the agreement almost as soon as he was sober. The facts, however, which had driven him to drink and to the sale of land, were still just as compelling: his wife big with another child and food scarce. There was also another reason. A seemingly small enough reason, to be sure, but a reason that nevertheless had taken root and had given the final push to the matter. That reason was a tiny whisper of greed in John's heart of hearts. There is, the whisper said, money to be made in factories – city factories – London factories; much more money than you'll ever pull out of your half-penny patch. The drinking in the taproom had tempted him with this thought many times before. But never until now had it been so inviting and so obviously right, and never until now had he acted on it. Now that the deed was done, the possibility of work on the bigger farms as laborer for a shilling a day also existed. But a shilling was a pittance. Kate could work the fields too, but she'd nearly died at the last birthing. No, right or wrong, John's heart had sold itself to what he thought the city could offer. So they moved – John Spence, Kate Spence and Annie, their only surviving child, twelve this mid-summer. And such was the weight of their poverty, that they wore all they owned. *** "Just you wait, girl." John spoke as he supported his wife, as they picked a slow path over the ruts and puddles of bad roads. "London will 'ave us sittin' fine and proper. Why this babe will 'ave that silver spoon in his mouth. Just you wait, girl." If Annie listened avidly, Kate didn't hear a word John said. She was too weary, too heavy and she hated sleeping in the hedges. "There's many a job to be 'ad," John went on, looking at Annie when Kate didn't respond. "I 'urd from one lad they're just cryin' for strong labor." His spirit was hopeful and his mind entertained thoughts of fortunes. Annie believed every word he said. "Can I git a job too, Da? Can I?" She danced in front of him, her soft, brown hair waving, minding him of a young foal. "Well, Annie girl, I've 'urd of basket weavin' and work at mills and such. We'll see." Annie laughed. Da and she – they'd make a home for Mum and the new babe. And they kept on walking, Kate Spence great with child between them, paving the way to London with good intentions. *** London could be smelled before it was seen. The stink hit the Spences before their feet touched its intimate roads. Then they were caught up in the noise and crowds that flooded the city's muddy streets. Aimlessly they were moved about. A motley assortment of people and things jostled them as they walked – bearded Jewish old-clothes vendors, organ grinders, cabmen's wheels, costermongers selling their wares, and flower girls bawling at the top of their lungs. Overhead smoke rose, darkly coiling from a few million chimneys, while St. Paul's Cathedral's bells bonged overhead. And not a green patch in sight, but the small patch in John's memory. John Spence was confused. He did not know the ways of London and did not recognize its throb of misery and clamor. “We'll see if we can't find a place to sleep for the night.” He stumbled, weary with the days of travel. Foul water and refuse ran past them in a gutter down the middle of the road. “Buy! Buy!” The cry of the vendors was deafening. Kate leaned against him helplessly. "There are no 'edges here, John. Wot will we sleep in tonight?" "Da! Da!" Annie pulled John's hand. "There's a lad 'ere says 'is mum 'as rooms to let." John turned to look. A boy, face streaked with dirt, grinned at him. "Foller me, sir." They followed him. There was little choice. Mazes of alleyways coughed up houses more rough and tumble at each turn. They avoided the beggars hunched forward in doorways. They stepped past the sick lying next to the gutters. They breathed in the smell of turpentine, leaking gas, sewage and sweat. In the back of John's mind the barren strip of lost land became more fertile and the smell of growing things flooded his soul, but he could not undo time as one undoes a knot. So he walked on and his family walked with him. And the boy walked ahead of them. Kate was slower than ever now, clinging to John for support. Clusters of tumbledown houses were built around filthy courts. The boy stopped in one of them. "Ere's where I live. I'll call me mum." He disappeared up a flight of rickety stairs and came back a minute later with a limping, tall, fair-haired woman. Her voice was low. "Ear you're looking fur a place to stay. I've got rooms." She took in all three of them with a curious look. "Can you pay?" John nodded confidently and reached into his pocket. He withdrew his hand seconds later with a look of horror on his face. "Kate!! The munny... it's nowt 'ere!" But Kate didn't hear him. She was too tired, too hungry and slowly crumpled to the ground in a heap. *** Susan Jarrett was shrewd in the ways of the poor. She took the Spences in on what she termed “trust.” Besides, her son was a virtuoso in pick-pocketing and the contents of John's pockets had already been counted out on her table. Had she not taken them in, the Spences would have had to huddle together for warmth under a bridge, or in a churchyard, or perhaps in a shop doorway. And with Kate so near her time, it would have been murder. Not that Susan Jarrett would have had qualms about that, but she instinctively felt there was more money to be made and she wanted her share of it. The room Susan showed the Spences was bare, but it did provide a roof over their heads. A few flour bags furnished a scanty mattress. There was a tiny window, but no water or any other convenience. The only water tap available was a few doors down and this had to serve all of the thousand-odd tenants who lived in that particular court. As for toilet facilities - fifty to sixty people shared two earth-closets. *** John was quiet that next morning. Brooding in a corner of the room, his back was hunched against the wall. More than once he had rechecked his pocket, unable to accept the fact that now his money, as well as his land, was gone. His usual cheer had shriveled up in this skyless place. Moodily he surveyed Kate sleeping on a flour bag and thought of the children they had lost. It wasn't likely this babe would survive either. As for the silver spoon, he grimaced bleakly to himself. All he wanted presently was shelter and food in exchange for some hard work – no more. Was that wrong? Or, and his mouth worked nervously at the thought, had he sold away their very lives? He got up suddenly and moved towards the door. Annie eyed him questioningly from her place on the floor. "Where are you off to, Da?" He forced a smile. "Got to git sum work to feed you and your Mum, Annie girl." He was gone before she could ask more. Kate moaned. It would be her time soon. Annie had helped before. *** John walked and walked. He kept his bearings, determined to find his way home again later. Passing along the polluted edge of the Thames, he watched “mudlarks” – boys who waded into the filthy mud at low tide searching for scraps of iron and lead to sell. If they were lucky, they'd make a few pence to take home to their families. He saw them crouch under the bridges, scraggly, skin-and-bones scarecrows. And he took note of other children sweeping the road clean for any lady or gentleman who wished to cross a begrimed spot, hoping for a charitably thrown halfpenny. What kind of life was this? John clenched his farmer's fists, yet again cursing the day he had sold his land. But it was a helpless curse, as indeed, all human curses are helpless. Black words which do nothing to change a situation. It was always the poor against the rich and who was he? And what now? Kate hungry and cold – Annie hungry and cold – and he, who was he? The streets, full of sellers and buyers, seemed to jeer at him. And he walked all day without finding work. There was no joy in the thought of going back to Kate and Annie – Annie with the hope shining clear out of her eyes. He had no desire to retrace his steps through the winding alleys back to the naked room. And then the evening dusk coughed up a tall, black-bearded man in a dark frock coat and wide-brimmed hat. The man was standing directly in front of the tavern that John had unconsciously been heading for. There was no money. There was only the desire for other men's company – for those who, like himself, were also without work, without food, without money and without hope. The bearded stranger pulled out a book and began speaking. Faces appeared at the pub's windows. "There is a heaven in East London for everyone," he cried, "for everyone who will stop and think and look to Christ as a personal Savior." The words did not mean much to John but the deep voice did carry warmth and conviction. From the pub's doorway a rotten egg flew through the air, almost hitting the wide-brimmed hat. The man stopped speaking and walked on. Bystanders howled with laughter. John's curiosity had now been aroused. Clapping someone on the shoulder, he asked who this man was. "Ey, watch out! Tryin' to pick me pocket, ain't you?" Drunken, sour breath hit him, disgusted him and bitterly reminded him once more of the land he had lost. The wide-brimmed hat was coming his way. John regarded the tall figure intently. To risk being heckled and hit with rotten eggs, the fellow must surely believe in whatever it was he had been trying to say. But then, people were always talking, always bent on persuading others of their point of view. His gaze dropped. What was this man to him, or he to the man, for that matter? Unaware of John's thoughts, however, the man stopped when he reached John, his eyes kind and penetrating. "You're hungry." It was said in a matter-of-fact voice even as his hand reached into a deep pocket, coming out with sixpence. "There's a place where you can buy dinner with this. I'll walk with you." And there was such persuasive authority about the man that John went with him. They passed a number of pubs. By the light of gas jets, men's inflamed faces drifted by. Jeering and drunken women stood propped up against soot-drenched houses. The reek of gin and sweat mingled. Even in the shadow of a benefactor, John felt discouragement descend on him like a heavy, suffocating cloak. Where was he going and how would he ever manage to take care of Kate and Annie and the new baby in this place? The man did not speak as they were walking. Yet a certain affinity was established as they trudged side by side. Every fifth shop they passed was a gin shop. Glancing in John noted the special steps most of these shops had to help even toddlers reach the counter where penny glasses of colored gin could be ordered. Small, misbegotten tykes lolled about on the floor of some of these shops – by-products of alcoholic parents who had nothing else to live for. "Here's where you can eat." "Thank you." John did not know what else to say. "Are you hungry for peace of mind too, man? Are you tired of drinking and such?" John looked at his benefactor doubtfully. Sure he was tired of drinking and wanted peace and food and work and shelter and... he could go on and on. But there was surely more to it than just saying “yes.” Answering shortly, he summed up his whole life in just a few sentences. "I'm new in London. Walked in from the country yesterday. I 'ave a pregnant wife and a small dotter." Rather hopelessly he added a last bit of information. "And all the munny I 'ad was stolen." "What's your name?" The stranger regarded John keenly as he spoke. "John Spence." He almost spit the words out. They sat like gall in his throat. He so despised himself for what he had done. "Well, John Spence, would you like to come to a meeting tonight that might change your life?" As he spoke, he pointed to an empty pub across the way. "I hope to see you there after you eat." Then he shook John's hand and disappeared down the road – vendors, fog and houses alike swallowing him up quickly. *** The dinner was good. John wolved it down even as he guiltily thought of Kate and Annie with every bite. But he'd have to keep up his strength in case there was work to be had. He put a hunk of bread into his pocket as he washed down his last mouthful. He could see that a crowd had gathered across the road in the pub and appeared to be listening to a speaker. John wandered over, curious to hear what was being said. Listening cost nothing and would put him under no obligation to anyone. There was no one who took special notice of him as he took his place on an empty bench near the back. The speaker's piercing voice cut through the room and a long finger pointed convincingly to the door John had just passed through. "Look at that man going down the river." The voice had risen a decibel, ringing the length of the pub. John turned to look, as did everyone else, even though all knew there was no river. "Look at him going down in a boat with the falls just beyond. Now he's got out into the rapids... now the rapids have got a hold of the boat... he is going, going..." The voice rose again. "He's gone over – and he never had a chance." There was a dramatic pause before the finish. "That is the way people are damned. They go on; they are caught by the rapids of time; they don't think; they neglect God; and they are damned. Oh, you who are the Lord's, seek Him while He may be found. Call on Him while He is near." *** Through the maze of alleyways John found his way home late that night. The different twists and turns all looked and smelled alike in their filth and squalor. As he finally trudged up the stairs, he was met by Susan Jarrett. "Your wife 'ad 'er little 'un." Pushing past her, John ran the length of the miserable corridor. The smell of birth met him. Kate lay on a filthy sack in the corner and by her sat Annie, on the floor, holding a small bundle wrapped in a coarse cloth. Annie did not look up as her father came in. It was only when he touched her shoulder that she moved her head. Then it was woodenly. And her voice cracked when she whisper-said, "Mum's dead and so's the babe, Da." Then John cried. It was a bitter, raw cry – a loud, wailing cry – and it brought the other tenants to his door. But they could not help. Every room in the court housed a poor family, and they were all dirty and hungry. Brief in their sentiments, they were briefer in their stay. The only one that remained behind in the end was Susan Jarrett. She wanted to know if the rent was going to be long in coming. Tonelessly John replied, "I'm off fur some work tomorrow." "Your dotter'll 'ave to stay 'ere." There was finality in her tone. "It's all right, Da." Annie's voice was soft. She stroked his arm. "It's all right." He looked at the small bundle she was still clasping and at the inert form of Kate on the sack. There was no world anymore. Or was there? Annie's soft, brown hair hung about her oval face. Incredibly she smiled at him. Flooding over him suddenly was the memory of the man who had given him sixpence and who had spoken kindly. *** The tiny window glimmered faint light that next morning. Annie woke up with a strange sensation within her deepest self. It was not hunger. She knew hunger – it could gnaw in her stomach and hurt. No, this was different. This was grief and this pulled at her heart, weeping and tearing at her soul. It was agony - agony that could not be abated or turned into gladness. Annie swallowed thickly and peered through the thin darkness for Da's form. But there was no one in the room with her. Da had told her last night that he would be up and away early trying to find work. "Rest easy tomorrow, girl," he had said, "I'll be back. Don't you fret! I'll be back." Someone had taken Mum's body and the babe's too, tiny though it was. And Susan had taken away the sacks, hardened with Mum's blood, Mum's life. And now there was nothing. Annie sat up. She was cold. Da had given her a hunk of bread last night and she fingered it absently. It was like that for the next three days. Annie stayed in the room by herself. She walked about a bit, filtering sunlight between her fingers when sunlight hit the tiny window. And she cried often, sleeping between tears, weary with an immense burden of grief. She ate the scraps of food that her father brought her from his haunts around the city. He was not much for talk in the evening. Annie tried to read his face as he sat dejectedly against the wall. Sometimes she would rub his arm, as a kitten might rub up against a leg, she was that starved for affection. Then John would start, looking at Annie with a mixture of guilt and love. "Never mind, Da," she would whisper, "we'll manage. I'll take care of you." There was a pain in John when she mouthed this and he ran his rough right hand through her fine, brown hair and pulled her close with his left. She snuggled by him, feeling somewhat comforted, yet also aware that she was being a comfort herself. *** It was on the morning of the fourth day that Susan came into the room unexpectedly. Annie's heart thudded. Susan had not bothered overly much with them. But they were in her debt; they owed her the rent. Susan spoke from the doorway: "There's a lady downstairs says she might 'ave a job for the likes of you. Wants to 'ave a look-see at you and a small chat." "A job?" From her spot on the floor Annie looked up at Susan dumbfounded. "Right. A job I said. Now get up then and come down with me." "What sort of job?" Annie shook the ragged garment that had once been her mother's dress and then wiped her fingers on the edge of her skirt as she stood up. Susan didn't answer but motioned for her to come, turning back into the bleak corridor. Although apprehensive about offending, Annie repeated her question as they walked down the stairs. "What sort of job?" "'elpin' with 'ousework. Easy work, that. And you get plenty to eat." Annie hadn't been eating much and her small stomach revolted when she walked into the cramped, one-room living quarters where Susan managed with her three children. A smell of fried onions and fish hung about nauseating her whole being. There was a woman in the room, a handsome woman in a rather coarse sort of way. Looking steadily at Annie, she suddenly smiled. "My name is Mrs. Darcy." Swallowing down the bile that had risen to her throat upon entering the room, Annie smiled back. She had to force the smile. She missed Mum and hadn't talked to anyone for days. "I hear you've just come in from the country?" "Yes." Mrs. Darcy, who wore a brown ulster and had a lace shawl draped over her hair, smiled again. Annie thawed under these smiles. With but little prodding Annie told both Mrs. Darcy and Susan her life's story, which took only as long as it takes a dog to wag its tail before it gets a bone. "I need a girl to help with some light work around my house, Annie," Mrs. Darcy said when the girl had finished, "Do you think you'd care to have the job?" Seeing Annie's hesitation, she added, "Of course, you'd be earning a wage. Fair's fair, right? How does four shillings a week sound?" Still Annie wavered. "Me Da," she began. "Listen," Susan said from where she stood in the doorway, "wouldn't it be fine to surprise your poor Da? Suppose Mrs. Darcy comes for you tomorrow mornin'. I'll make sure it's fine with your Da when 'e comes 'ome tomorrow night. See, 'e might not want you to work, girl, 'im being such a good Da and all, but I know you want to 'elp 'im out." Annie took a deep breath. "Can I see 'im Sundays?" Her voice was soft. The two women glanced at each other. "Sure, and I'm sure you could. Why don't you 'ave all your belongin's packed together in a bundle and be ready for Mrs. Darcy in the mornin'." "I 'ave no belongin's except this." Annie indicated her threadbare, thin frock. "Well then," and Mrs. Darcy responded as if it were a normal thing, "we'll just have to see about getting you something better." Annie moved towards the door, ready to go back to her room, but Susan stopped her. "Why not go out and sit on the steps for a bit. You've been in such a long time and you're such a good girl, Annie. I'm sure your Da, 'e wouldn't mind." The sunshine was pleasant. Annie squinted in the bright warmth of the day. Wouldn't Da be surprised and right pleased to hear that she had a job. And new clothes! Although maybe the woman would only get her an apron. But even that would be pleasant. Wouldn't Mum have been proud to see her in something decent! She fingered her worn skirt absently. Perhaps today Da would come home and tell her that he had a job too. That would be even better. With deep intuition she knew that Da needed to have a job more than she did. He needed it to keep his self-respect. The sun shone warmly and at this precise moment she was sure that things would end well. She surveyed her surroundings, soaking up the rays. Ah, but things were dirty here in the city. The gutter carried slop and there was a small nipper crawling in it. They had been poor as long as she could remember, but Mum had always made sure that she was clean and Mum had never let her muck about in the dirt like that. "'Ello." Annie startled. There was another girl at the bottom of the steps quietly eyeing her. "'Ello," she offered back with a timid smile. "Your new 'ere then? My name's Eliza. What's your name?" "Annie." "Wot your doin', Annie, sittin' 'ere in daylight. Got no work then?" "I'm startin' work tomorrow." There was so much pride in Annie's rejoinder that the other girl laughed. "That so? I work in a factory. That is, I did work in a factory. It shut down. Wouldn't mind so much but the munny see, we need the munny." Annie nodded. She understood that. Eliza continued. "We used to live down south of 'ere. It was in a coal-minin' town. Mum took us, Tansy, Maude and me, down into the pit early in the mornin'. Carried baskets on our shoulders. When we got way down the men would fill our baskets with coal, big 'eavy pieces they was, and we'd go up agin. Dark it was in them pits." Eliza shivered involuntarily. Annie did too and asked, "'Ow did you see in them dark pits?" "Oh, me Mum, she'd 'ave a candle between 'er teeth. We'd foller 'er. At the top we'd empty the coal and then go down fur another load. We weren't allowed to rest ever." She emphasized the last word and spit on the ground after she said it as a gesture of contempt. Annie took a hunk of bread out of her pocket. Da had given it to her the night before. "Want to 'ave sum?" Eliza's troubled look disappeared. She grinned broadly. "Sure." *** Da was quiet again that night. Annie was sorely tempted to tell him about her job but remembered what Susan had said and did not. She did kiss his stubbly cheek telling him things would be better, no matter what. She told him too that she'd been allowed to sit on the steps and that she'd made a friend. She could see Da begin to relax a bit and thought of how happy he would be when she gave him her first wages. "I've been goin' to sum meetin's." Not looking at Annie at all, John spoke softly, almost to himself. "What meetin's Da?" Annie was interested. Her father rarely informed her as to how he spent his days. "Well," John shifted his position against the thin, cardboard wall, coughing and thinking simultaneously. He wasn't too sure about his subject matter. "Well, meetin's where they tell you about Jesus and 'ow to live." "You mean your goin' to a church, Da?" Annie was awed. Back home church had only been for the rich – only for those who had proper clothes to wear. Mum had told her a bit about how God wanted people to live. She understood that God wanted you to do things that were right – things like not stealing, not cheating and not using bad language. Her father's voice stopped her train of thought. "No, Annie. No." Shaking his head, not at all familiar with the vernacular on which he was about to embark, John continued hesitantly. "Not likely the church back 'ome would allow sum of the men I've seen in these meetin's to come. The people that go are poor, Annie. Just like us." "Where's these meetin's, Da?" "Well, I've been to three and they've all been in a hall." He grinned a bit as he spoke and went on. "They call it a hall, but it's really a pub." "A pub?" Annie was incredulous. "Why, Da? That's not a real church." "Annie," John Spence turned his head to face his daughter directly, "many's the time I thought God cared nowt fur me. I didn't blame 'Im. I didn't care fur 'Im either. I cared fur drink. But I did work 'ard on the land." He stared down at his hands and went on.   "But I just warn't important. I 'ad no munny. Anyway, munny don't count, Annie." He stopped, not certain of the point he wanted to make. Annie's eyes were glued to his face. Speaking haltingly, he ended the discourse. "Anyone can talk to God, Annie, anytime and anywhere. That's prayer, Annie. God wants us to talk to 'Im. 'E loves to 'ear us speak to 'Im and 'e always wants to 'elp us fur 'e loves us. And you can't 'elp prayin' if 'e loves you." Looking at his daughter rather helplessly, John Spence wanted to say more, wanted to impart the change he felt had come over his heart. It was a long speech he had made, and he wasn't at all sure he had told Annie these things properly – things that were becoming more and more important to him every passing day. But he comforted himself with the thought that he would tell her more as time went on, and that he would soon be able to take her to the meetings. "Aren't you lookin' fur work no more Da?" Annie's voice was perplexed. She had not understood what he had just said. "Annie, at the meetin' I met this man. 'Is name is Will Marley. 'E's thinkin' that a gardener, 'andyman of sorts, is needed at this place 'e knows. "E'll tell me tomorrow." He smiled at her and Annie was sorely tempted to tell him that she had a job too. But the thought of the surprise come Sunday, when she would lay her wages in Da's hands, was even more tempting. "I'm so glad, Da," she whispered, "I knew you would get a job." "I got summat fur you, Annie." John pulled out a small book. "I got this from Will. I was shamed to tell 'im I couldn't read. But you kin read – leastways a little bit." Annie took the book and looked at it curiously. Turning the pages she saw verses and songs. "Why, Da, this 'ere's a songbook. Do you sing songs at the pub?" "Lots of singin' there, Annie. I'm goin' to take you soon – as soon as the job's settled and we've paid Susan." *** Susan came to the room to fetch her down the next morning. Mrs. Darcy, imposing in the severe, brown ulster and lace shawl, was waiting like a sentinel at the bottom of the stairs. She smiled at Annie again. It was rather a stiff smile but it still made Annie think of her Mum. Leaving Da behind wihtout a word was hard. But Susan had assured her again on the landing that it was for the best. "I'll tell 'im - don't you make a fuss now! I'll tell 'im about what's 'appened, and 'e'll thank 'is good fortune fur your common sense." "Ready, Annie?" The brown ulster moved towards the door. Annie moved too, a little uncertainly. Outside, on the feeble flight of the entry stairs, she breathed in the morning air. Eliza was sitting at the bottom of the steps. Mrs. Darcy avoided touching her by holding her skirts to the side as she passed, walking quickly ahead. "Ello, Annie. You're off then?" "Yes." Annie was stiff in her nervousness. "Your off with the likes of 'er?" Eliza pointed a thumb at Mrs. Darcy who was already about twenty feet down the alley. "Yes," Annie whispered, "she's goin' to buy me sum new clothes." Almost running to catch up with her fairy godmother, she threw one more sentence over her shoulder, "'Ope I see you agin, Eliza." But Eliza began running too and tugged at Annie's ragged skirt. "Annie!" Annie turned. Eliza's face was contorted – funny-like. It almost seemed as if she were going to cry. "Don’t go Annie." Annie smiled. "It's nowt to bother yourself about, Eliza. I'm comin' back to see Da on Sunday and I'll see you too." Annie didn't turn again. She visited heaven that morning. Mrs. Darcy took her to a dress shop where a lady outfitted her from head to foot: a reddish frock, a cape and a hat. The only thing that puzzled her was the fact that these did not appear to be working clothes. When she asked Mrs. Darcy about this, she did not receive a clear answer. "Mr. Darcy, he's what you might call a little fastidious. He likes to see girls neat and trim." Annie didn't know what fastidious was, but on the whole she gloried in the feel of the new material on her body. Wouldn't Mum have been proud. And that almost brought the tears. It was early afternoon when Mrs. Darcy hailed a cabby and holding on to Annie's hand, stepped up into the carriage. Annie felt quite the lady in the four-wheeler. She'd ridden in a neighbor's cart before, and that on bumpy country lanes. The sky had been the canopy and the trees and the grass had waved. And Mum and Da had laughed. There were those tears again. She felt the new frock's warmth and fingered the material for comfort. "Where are we 'eadin' now, Mrs. Darcy?" Mrs. Darcy hadn't said much all morning. Annie had caught blue eyes staring at herself several times with a most peculiar expression. It frightened her. She had expected to be in a kitchen by this time, perhaps scrubbing pans or dusting shelves or sweeping some steps. "Mrs. Darcy, please, where are we 'eadin' fur now?" Mrs. Darcy's eyes slowly focused on the girl. "To another lady, Annie – a friend of mine. She's a doctor of sorts. She's going to give you an examination." The word examination scared Annie terribly. She shifted away into the cabby's corner unconsciously eyeing the door. Mrs. Darcy went on. "You see, when you work for people that, well, that are a little more well-to-do, you have to be healthy. So she'll check you over. Make sure that you're not sick." She paused and her voice rose a little as she continued. "So, you're to do what she tells you. Do you understand, Annie?" Annie nodded. She was confused and not at all happy anymore. "Number 36 Millwood." The driver opened the cab door and they alighted. Annie felt her hand being taken again, firmly, and the hint of unease which had overtaken her in the cabby turned her stomach sour. "Is this where your friend lives, Mrs. Darcy?" "Yes, Annie. And please remember what I told you. Do everything she tells you." *** It was dark and dank in the room. Heavy drapes hung on the windows. In spite of her new clothes, Annie shivered. "Annie, this is Mrs. Broughton, the lady who will examine you." Annie regarded a heavy woman whose wheezing breath came quickly. She had no smile, but only pointed to a screened-off partition in the far corner of the room. Annie rigidly moved towards it feeling awkward. There was a bed behind the partition. The examination lasted less than five minutes. As Annie re-arranged her clothes, she did not hear Mrs. Broughton's low aside to Mrs. Darcy. "You got your money's worth. She's a virgin." In a louder voice the woman carried on, "That'll be twenty shillings, if you please." Mrs. Darcy paid. Annie would not look at Mrs. Brougton as she unsteadily made her way towards the door. In the hall she somberly stated: "Your friend is a dirty, fat woman and I wouldn't 'ave come if I 'ad known what she was goin' to do. I don't think my Da would like it either." Mrs. Darcy took her hand. "Now, Annie – an examination is never pleasant. But it's over now and we'll go for another ride in a cab. You like that, don't you?" Annie didn't answer. And the new frock began to feel hot and heavy. Outside she shakily took in great gulps of air. The cabby was still there, waiting. In the shadows of the bushes by the side of the road, Annie thought she saw the form of a girl. It very much minded her of Eliza. She peered and would have walked that way, but Mrs. Darcy's hand imprisoned her own, pulling her strongly towards the cabby. "Come on, Annie. Don't dawdle!" The cabby drove briskly through the warmth of the summer afternoon. Loud cries of vendors selling their wares stridently grated past them. Annie could see calico blinds on the windows of the many tenements they passed. Some windowsills held penny flower bunches in cracked vases. These were all homes and belonged to different families that had Mums and other children. "Ave we long to go?" Mrs. Darcy turned her shawl-wrapped face towards Annie. "We're almost there, Annie." There was something in her eyes which made Annie refrain from asking any more questions. *** There was a garden. Annie could see it straightway when the cabby stopped, and in spite of the high walls which surrounded the house, and in spite of her growing discomfort, this garden made her glad. She had been born and bred outside the city and the sight of green was like an old friend waiting. But the dwelling itself was foreboding and scowlingly large in dimension. Indeed, it seemed quite too large for just two people like Mrs. Darcy and her husband to occupy by themselves. The cab-driver opened the carriage door and, after stepping down, Mrs. Darcy paid the man. "Do you live 'ere alone?" Annie's timid inquiry brought a strange smile to Mrs. Darcy's face. She did not answer Annie's question, but took her by the hand again, through the gate, up a stone walk to a big front door. There was no one behind the door. Somehow, taking into account the size of the immense house confronting her, Annie had expected several people behind the door – people like butlers, maids and housekeepers. But there was no one. Immediately behind the door was a steep, thin stairway. And the whole area smelled faintly of gas mixed with something sweet, minding her of dying flowers. Mrs. Darcy pushed Annie towards the stairs. "Up you go, Annie. I'll show you to your room." "You mean I'm to 'ave a room?" The child was overcome with amazement. Where she came from entire families lived in rooms, not single Annie Spences. Behind her Mrs. Darcy grinned. She slapped Annie's small behind playfully. "Yes, you get your very own room." The stairs led to a long, narrow hallway with many doors. The hallway was not empty. Several girls, all in silk dresses, stared at Annie. Some eyed her with curiosity, some with apathy and some with pity. Annie felt uncomfortable. Did they all work here? She suddenly wanted to leave and abruptly turned, only to find Mrs. Darcy right behind her – Mrs. Darcy, suddenly a wall, like the wall around the garden. "I'll show you your room, Annie." It was not an invitation but a command. She walked on even as one of the girls tittered. Then several laughed out loud. One bowed to another, saying in a falsetto voice, "Your room, your majesty – your very own room." Determined, Annie turned around once more encountering the cold eyes of Mrs. Darcy. She swallowed audibly before speaking. "Mrs. Darcy, you can 'ave your clothes back. No disrespeck intended but I'd rather talk to Da furst." But even as her mind formulated the words and her mouth said them she knew inside herself with a deep, desperate fear, that there was no going back – perhaps not ever. There was no response. There was only a firm push towards the first door in the hallway on the right. The room behind the hallway door held a bed, a dresser and a chair. Staining that bed was a red, silk dress. Mrs. Darcy closed the door behind them and moved towards the bed. Taking off her gloves slowly, she sat down heavily on its edge. The dress lay next to her. "I want you to listen to me very carefully, Annie Spence. Annie stood with her back against the wall and saw that Mrs. Darcy's penetrating eyes had turned an icy-blue. They were totally devoid of the smile which had initially won Annie's confidence the day before. "You're a big girl now and you can't go back to your Da. I want you to put on this pretty, red dress and in a little while I'll bring you up a bite to eat. This evening a gentleman friend will come up to visit you." A horrible realization came over Annie. She was only twelve, but through the years she had seen her mother bear child after child. "I want nowt to do with no gentleman," she whispered hoarsely. Mrs. Darcy just regarded her. Annie's hands nervously twisted together and she footslogged over to the chair. The dress appeared as repulsive to her as Mrs. Darcy. Her thin hands unclasped and clutched the arm of the wooden chair. And a great anger overcame her: anger at the lies she had been told, anger at her own foolishness for believing them, and anger at Mrs. Darcy for telling them. Before she knew it, she had lifted the chair above her head and had heaved it with all her might at the woman sitting on the bed. But Mrs. Darcy ducked and came at her, pulling a white kerchief from her pocket as she did so. Managing to grab Annie's arm and snatching her close, she pushed the kerchief against Annie's face. There was a sickly-sweet odor. It nauseated the girl. Slowly losing consciousness, she was oblivious to the fact that Mrs. Darcy summoned another girl from the hall into the room. She was also entirely unaware that between the two of them they undressed her, slipping her childish, inert body into the red dress. "She might be a touch one," Mrs. Darcy declared thoughtfully, "Maybe I can frighten her with... well, I'll see... a little hunger and loneliness won't hurt. We'll give it some time. *** John came home fairly early that evening, his step more buoyant than it had been for the last few days. Will had said after the meeting today that he could bring his Annie over tonight and that the job was sure. "Ere, man," he'd said, “'ere's sum munny to get that Jarrett woman off your back." When John had stared at him in a somewhat bewildered way, he had added, "A room cums with the job, John. Yourself and your Annie can share it – and I'm certain the Morrows will 'ave sum work about the 'ouse fur Annie too." The meetings were becoming less and less foreign to John. Tonight he had watched a newly-converted man roll a beer barrel from his house and tip its contents down the gutter. He'd also seen others, risking ridicule, confess their sins up at the front, kneeling down at what was called the “Penitent form.” Perhaps all these things wouldn't have made such an impression on him but that Will Marley had been such a friend. Every day asking him how was he doing and how was Annie? Every day sharing his bread, and what he had wasn't much. Every day promising to look out for work. Will was a chairmender. He rolled his barrow through the streets of London crying “chairs to mend – chairs to mend.” He'd given John a detailed account of how he'd been a chimney sweep as a lad of six. "Me Da, 'e died of the cholera when I was a tad. Mum needed the munny. The advertisement asked for small boys to fit narrow flues. I was small all right. Only got one meal a day. 'Ad to start work at four every mornin'. The master sweep would put a calico mask over me face and a scraper in me 'ands. Then 'e'd push me up the chimney where I'd 'ave to loosen soot fur 'im. If I fell, and I did that, the sweep would put me 'ands in a salt solution to 'eal and 'arden them. Oh, John, the sting of it! I can still feel it. Then I began to drink. Me poor Mum saw little of the munny I earned. Then I quit the sweepin' and started snatchin' dogs from people, wealthy people mind you, and sellin' them. Then I saw a man 'ang outside Warwick gaol. And it came to me that that man could be me. Then I 'eard this fellow, Elijah Cadman, speak. 'E used to be a fighter – a regular boxer like – and 'e spoke about 'eaven and 'ell as if they were over in the next alley. Anyway, I got the call. God moved me, you might say, and I got into a straight business, chair mendin', and 'ere I am.” John didn't quite understand the rationale behind all of Will's story. But he did understand that Will was helping him, was feeding him, and would put Annie and himself up for the night. He'd reached Susan Jarrett's place. It would be the last time that he'd run up these rotten stairs. "Annie's Da?" A small voice called to him from below. There was a girl with red hair and she looked to be about Annie's age. It came to him that Annie had spoken of a friend last night. Maybe this was the girl. He smiled. "You know me Annie?" "Well, she's not 'ere any more. She was taken away." The girl's voice was breathless, shaking a bit in the telling. John walked down the stairs again, towards her. "Wot's your name, child?" "Eliza." She faced him candidly, blinking at the fierceness of his rising voice but not backing away from it. "Wot do you mean, Eliza, by wot you just said?" "I mean that Annie, your girl, she's gone. Left fur a job. She told me yesterday that she 'ad a job. So I came out this mornin' to say goodbye and she left with this woman and, and..." Eliza stopped, swallowed and then haltingly continued. "The woman, the woman – well, she was bad." "Bad?" John's knuckles showed white as she gripped the edge of the splintered railing, leaning closer towards the girl. "She was no good. I know when someone's no good. She 'ad this walk. I tried to tell Annie, but this woman told 'er to come." "Why would Annie leave without tellin' me? She always tells me wot she's about. Wait 'ere, Eliza." John turned and ran up the steps to the Jarretts' room. Susan met him in the hall. "'Ome are you, John?" "Susan, where's Annie?" "Annie? Why, in your room, I suppose." "'Ave you looked?" She stared him straight in the eye, lifting her eyebrows in a perplexed way, and John was puzzled. Was Annie there after all and was the girl outside leading him on? He ran past Susan up the steps, three at a time, to the second floor. The wood creaked and moaned under his weight. The flimsy door opened and stayed where he flung it against the wall. There was not even a hint of Annie in the room. There was only the bareness of the place. The cracks in the wall - the small, dingy window – the lingering odor of death – but no Annie. He turned and walked back, walked slowly this time, thinking. Susan was still in the hall. "Did you find Annie then?" "No." His answer was short and terse. "Where do you suppose the girl would go?" Susan's voice was sympathetic and once more he wondered. She had, after all, let them stay here and they owed her. "Eliza says a woman came and took 'er away today." "A woman?" "Yes." "Didn't see no woman come 'ere. But I told Annie she could sit on the steps. Maybe sum woman come by. I wouldn't rightly know." John changed the subject. "Got your rent, Susan, and maybe sum besides." Her eyes never left his face. "That so, John. Well, I reckon it's about time." Her expression didn't change, but her heart thought of the two pounds Mrs. Darcy had given her and how it was hidden away in the torn part of the chair in her room. John counted out the money into her palm and walked away. "If you 'ear," he said and she nodded again smiling all the while, but condemning him for a fool in her heart. Eliza was still standing where John had left her. He sat down on the bottom step, his eyes on her face. In a cracked voice he mumbled, "She's gone. You spoke true." "I know." Eliza's tone was soft and she stood by him quietly. "I got me a job today. A decent job and I took the pledge too. I'm not goin' to drink any more." The girl sat down next to him. "Annie's da," she divulged slowly, "I know wherabouts she is." Incredulously he lifted his head and turned to face her. "You know where me Annie is?" She nodded and continued, "I follered 'er and that lady today. She got sum new clothes and then I 'ad to run quite 'ard to foller because they took a cabby, but I know the street and the 'ouse they stopped at. And then they got back in the cabby again and I follered again to another 'ouse. It's a big place she's at." John gaped at her. "Will you take me there, Eliza?" "Can't now, Annie's Da. Me Mum's always in a dreadful 'uff if I ain't 'ome in time at night. But tomorrow I'll take you." "Thank you, Eliza." There was a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. "First think in the mornin'?" "I'll be 'ere, waitin' fur you, Annie's Da." There was not a shadow of a doubt in John's mind as he walked out of the alley, that he could trust Eliza. There was that about her, just as there was not that about Susan Jarrett. He'd go to Will's place now. There'd be a corner for him there. He knew there would be. *** Annie woke uneasily in the bed. The ceiling overhead leered at her. Pink it was, and the plaster was peeling dreadfully. Her head was sore and her mouth felt dry. She ran her tongue over her lips. "Awake then, are you?" Mrs. Darcy's voice brought it all back to Annie. She raised her head painfully, suddenly aware that she was wearing the scarlet dress. It was unpleasant to her touch and she shrank from herself. Mrs. Darcy stood up. "I hope that you've calmed down a bit, Annie. I stayed with you just to make sure you're all right." Annie studied her distrustfully. "I want nowt to do with you. I want to go to me Da." "Your Da's a poor man, Annie. He's not got enough to feed you properly. Besides, he won't want you back once you're spent time here." "Me Da always wants me." Annie's voice rose in defense. "Do you know where you are, Annie?" "I'm, I'm...." She stopped, confused. "You're in a brothel, Annie, in a house of ill repute, a house where bad girls stay. Do you understand, Annie? Once you've stayed here, everyone will think that you're bad. No one will want you anymore." "Me Da will, 'e ...." "Your Da thinks you're lost and after a few days he won't bother looking any more. He'll think you've drowned in the Thames or some other river. He'll give up looking for you, Annie. Do you understand?" Annie put her head down, turning her body away from Mrs. Darcy. She hated the woman with her whole being. "Annie, if you don't do what I say, the same thing will happen to you that happens to other girls who don't do what I say. You will be doped, put to sleep, and put into a coffin. I have coffins downstairs, Annie. The lid will be nailed down right on top of you. Then you will be shipped to another country where you might not know the language and you will never come back here. I would sell you as a slave, Annie." Mrs. Darcy's voice dropped.  "Imagine that trip in a coffin, Annie. Close walls suffocating you and you not able to move, maybe not for days. And you'll claw at the wood around you and scream. But," and she paused dramatically, her voice dropping another decibel, "no one will hear you and no one will care!" Annie listened in horror. Clenching her thin fists, she buried her face in the bedspread. "I see that you're thinking things over." Mrs. Darcy's voice was smooth as the silk on Annie's dress and twice as repulsive. "I'll be back in the morning and we'll talk some more." As soon as the door clicked into its lock behind Mrs. Darcy, Annie was off the bed. She padded over to the window and peered down into the dusky garden. How glad she had been to see it initially. It so made her think of the country. She pulled at the latch to open the window but it stayed fast. She turned, surveying the room, her very own room, and grimaced. Bending low she peeked under the bed. There was nothing there, barring the dust. The clothes that Mrs. Darcy had bought for her that morning were gone. The chair held nothing. She stepped towards it and the silken dress rustled as she went. But then her right foot struck something. It was the songbook Da had given her, lying by the chair on the floor. It must have fallen out of her pocket as they undressed her. She picked the little volume up, cradling it in her hands. Da had carried it and it was like touching him for a moment. Weakly Annie walked over to the chair and sat down, all the while clutching the small tome. Da had really wanted her to have it. He had changed since they'd come to London. It wasn't just the grief he felt over Mum. No, he was changed in a different way. And somehow, it had to do with this book. She caressed it with her hand, feeling its cover, feeling Da's rough hand holding her own. Then she opened it. There was something written on the flyleaf. She spelled out the words slowly: I call on you, O God, for You will answer me. What strange words! What exactly had it been that Da had said to her about these meetings anyway? There had been something about talking to God. But what was she sitting here for, thinking about these things, when she should be figuring out how to get away. It was dark already. Would Da be home now and coming into their room? And what would he think with her gone? Susan Jarrett would tell him that she had a job – or would she tell him something else? That part was muddled in her mind. Da would likely miss her and come searching for her. Wouldn't he? Annie got up and walked back to the window again. Her hands explored the latch carefully. She pulled and poked. Her nails scraped around the edges to possibly loosen things a bit. But nothing moved – nothing gave way. There was not even a hint of a creak to suggest that perhaps in time the window might open. She turned and went over to the door. Gingerly her hands touched the handle. It came down a little, but then stopped. The lock was secure. She bent to peer through the keyhole, but there was only darkness. Then hopelessness gripped Annie so that her whole being became ill with fear. She threw herself onto the bed and wept and wept. And no one came to comfort her. Annie finally fell asleep. It had been a long day and she was exhausted. But her sleep was fitful and she continually whimpered in her dreams. She saw Da walking away from her, his form exuding disappointment. She saw Mum, tired and heavy, walking the road to London. Mum wouldn't raise her eyes to Annie's face, wouldn't give her even a bit of a smile. She felt the weight of the dead infant in her arms again and then Susan Jarrett shoved her about with a broom, shouting all the while, "You're a wicked girl – a most wicked girl." *** It was almost dawn when Annie opened her eyes. She turned her head slowly, fearing to see Mrs. Darcy back on the chair guarding her. But there was no one. Her hands felt cold and cramped and, looking down at them, she discovered that she was still clasping the songbook. She had done so all night. "Anyone can talk to God, anytime and anywhere. That's prayer, Annie. God wants us to talk to 'Im. 'E loves to 'ear us speak to 'Im and 'e always wants to 'elp us, for 'e loves us. And you can't 'elp prayin' if 'e loves you." It was as if her Da was in the room with her. The words resounded in her mind. And a great desire was born in her to speak with Da's God. "Wot will I say, Da?" she whispered, "Wot will I say? Can I say wotever I've a mind to say. Can I ask 'Im anything?" Sitting up in the bed, she shivered and turned her head towards the closed window. Then, swinging her feet over the edge, she cautiously began to speak. "Ello, God. Me name's Annie Spence. I'm locked up in this room and this is a bad place to be in." She stopped and sobbed. Saying the way things were sounded harsh and she was afraid of this morning. Then she stopped crying and went on. "Me Da, 'e told me this was prayin' - leastways I think that's wot 'e meant. So if I'm not doin' it right, I'm sorry. I'm so scared, God, of Mrs. Darcy and I shouldn't 'ave gone with 'er without tellin' Da. Maybe I'll never see 'im again." She stopped to blow her nose into the bed covering. "I don't know wot to do, God. And I don't know 'ow to end talkin' to You neither. Maybe I can talk to You agin sometime." A bird sang faintly outside. Annie got up, stretched her arms and legs and plodded over to the window. She put her hand up to the pane, hoping to maybe catch a glimpse of feathers. Lightly her left hand rested on the pane as she peered, and noiselessly the window slid open towards the outside. The small book felt warm and alive in her right hand. The bird sang again – louder this time. Annie smiled. "I love You, God. Can You 'elp me jump down too, please?" The distance down below to the garden was frightening. Annie swallowed audibly, her eyes widening at the drop. It was high – a good twenty feet at least. She turned and brought the chair over to the window. Climbing onto it, she was able to scoot onto the sill, advancing her feet precariously over the outside edge. There were voices in the hall. Annie shut her eyes and felt herself drop. Then everything went black. *** "Annie! Annie! Wake up. Annie, please, we ain't got much time." Annie moaned. Her eyes opened half-way. A face swam into focus – a friend's face. She knew who it was but could not think of the name. "Annie! It's me, Eliza." The voice carried great urgency. "Eliza?" The name crept around in Annie's mind. She didn't understand what had just happened. "That was some jump, Annie. I shut my eyes when I saw wot you 'ad in mind to do. But it's time to get up now. We've got to get goin'. Your Da's so worried." Annie mind cleared a bit. "Da? Is me Da 'ere?" "Your Da's comin' fur you this mornin', but not if you don't get up." Exasperated Eliza pulled at Annie's arms. "Ere, I'll 'elp you." Annie half-sat up, still unsure of what to do. Eliza supported her under her armpits when she tried to stand. "Me leg! I've 'urt me leg, Eliza!" Annie almost sat down again. "If you don't walk soon, sore leg and all, they'll nab you and put you back in, Annie. Please try to walk! 'Ere, put your arm about my neck then." Annie did, but she almost gagged when she took the first few steps. "Eliza, 'ave we got far to go?" "Soon's we're out of sight of the 'ouse, Annie, we'll find a place to rest. But we got to move quickly, see, or they'll be after us." They moved through the garden – Annie hobbling and leaning heavily on Eliza. The gate was open and the street lay before them. Early vendors trudged about. A flower girl, bare, dirty feet showing under an equally dirty, tattered skirt was setting up a stall. A few women, clad only in soiled petticoats, were on their way to factories. Pitiless morning light showed their faces dull and devoid of emotion. They simply walked. The hot-baked-potato man was doling out breakfast to a group of sweeps. "Ey there!" one of them called out as Eliza and Annie passed, 'Aint you out a bit early fur business!" They all guffawed and Eliza's arm about Annie tightened protectively. "Eliza, your a good friend. And I only just met you yesterday. I'm so glad you 'elped me." Eliza shrugged. "I 'ad nothin' better to do anyway." "Wot did me Da think, Eliza, when 'e found out I warn't 'ome?" "'E went in and talked to Susan and she told 'im that she didn't know where you were. That you were sittin' on the porch and most likely wandered off." "But she told me she'd tell Da I was workin'." Annie stopped walking. Indignation blazed out of her eyes. "She told me..." Her voice trailed off. Eliza prodded her with her shoulder to keep on walking. "She got paid, Annie. This woman you went with...." "You mean Mrs. Darcy?" "Whatever 'er name was. She pays people. She pays nursemaids, charwomen and others like Susan Jarrett, to tell 'er about lost, young girls that might be good prospects for 'er 'ouse like. Me sister, she was spoken to by this lady dressed up as a nun. Real sweet-faced lady she was. But she warn't no nun. And she doped up Maude, that's me sister, and when she come to there was this man in a room with 'er...." Annie gasped. "Wot 'appened, Eliza?" "You don't know our Maude, Annie. She made like she was crazy. Foamed at the mouth. Tore at 'er 'air. The man thought she'd escaped from an asylum and 'e left. They let 'er go after that." Annie sighed. "I threw a chair at Mrs. Darcy, but it didn't 'elp much. Can we sit a minnut, Eliza?" Annie's leg throbbed more at every step. Eliza anxiously looked over her shoulder. "I suppose we'd 'ave known by now, 'ad they come after you. Sit then, but only fur a minnut or so." Gratefully Annie sank down at the side of the road. The red dress was ripped and soiled. She felt unclean in it. "Me clothes are gone, Eliza." "Not to be 'elped." "'Ow did you know where I was?" "I follered you yesterday. You sure traveled! I was about wore out with follerin'. I told your Da I'd take 'im over as soon as it was light, but I couldn't sleep last night, worryin' they might take you somewheres else. So I spent part of the night in the bushes in the garden. Lucky I woke to see you swingin' your legs over the edge of the winder. Lucky too, you didn't break your neck." Annie squeezed Eliza's hand and got back up. *** It took them two hours to reach Eliza's place. Annie's wrenched ankle was swollen out of proportion by this time and Eliza was half carrying her. It was the same alley that Susan Jarrett lived in. The room Eliza shared with her family wasn't much better than the one Annie had shared with her Da. There were two straw mattresses in a corner on the floor and the small wooden table held a cup with a small bunch of mignonette. The greenish-white flowers welcomed Annie as she gratefully sank onto the straw. "I'll go and look for your Da now, Annie. Why don't you sleep a bit?" Annie didn't even hear the admonition. She was already asleep, sore leg stretched out in front of her. *** John Spence was sitting on the bottom steps of Susan Jarrett's stairs, head leaning heavily on his hands. He did not hear Eliza coming and startled to hear the sound of her voice. "Annie's Da!" He jumped to his feet directly. "I'm ready to go when you are, Eliza." "No need, Annie's Da. She's at my place, sleepin'." John stomach lurched. "She's all right then? Me Annie, she's all right?" "Well, she's 'urt 'er foot a mite. But fur the rest I think she'll do fine." "Where do you live, Eliza?" Eliza glanced up at the stairs. In the morning dawn, she thought she detected a shadow figure on the landing. Motioning John to follow her, she told him all that had happened in the small hours of the day, but only after they had put some space between themselves and Susan Jarrett's house. *** Annie was sleeping soundly. The red, besmirched dress covered her childish form poorly. John knelt down on the floor and touched her arm. She opened her eyes slowly and made as if she were about to cry. "Da! Oh, Da! I've lost the book!" He gently stroked her hair. "Wot book, Annie?" "The one you gave me, Da. I lost it when I jumped and now it's gone." "Never mind, Annie! Never mind!" John had never been one for hugging. He'd never been able to say much about love. But now words tumbled from his mouth as if they had always been there. And maybe they had. "Annie, girl, when I come 'ome and you were gone I cried... and I prayed...." Annie touched his hands. "I know, Da. I know. I understand wot you meant about prayer, Da." Her eyes were shining, full of understanding. "'E opened the winder fur me, Da. And now we can begin agin." Mrs. Darcy, bird, and songbook pictures are by Charity Bylsma. Christine Farenhorst has a new book out, “Listen! Six men you should know,” with biographies on an intriguing selection of famous figures: Norman Rockwell, Sigmund Freud, Samuel Morse, Rembrandt, Albert Schweitzer, and Martin Luther King Jr. You can find it via online retailers including Dortstore.com....

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Parenting

A Tale of Two Fathers

"…even as He chose us in Him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before Him. In love He predestined us for adoption to Himself as sons through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of His will, to the praise of His glorious grace, with which He has blessed us in the Beloved." (Eph. 1:4-6) *** Our Father in heaven is the perfect example of what a father ought to be like. He is, therefore, the model that should be followed in families. Children who have godly fathers – that is fathers who obey the Lord in faithfully following His commands and displaying humility, love and mercy – have a wonderful guideline for how to behave in their own lives. Children who do not have godly fathers, will have a difficult time finding their way in life. *** There was a rather unique story in an English newspaper recently about a little girl who had lost her father, a man by the name of Tony, when she was just four months old. The article gave no information as to how her father had died – whether the man had been ill, had been a casualty of war, or had suffered an accident. The readers were simply told that since the age of 4 months the little girl had been raised by her mother. Such things do happen and, by the grace of God, they can work out fine. The eight-year-old girl was from Braunstone, Leicester in the UK. In June, when Father's Day rolled around this last summer, the child felt uneasy and somewhat left out. All her friends were making cards and presents for their dads, but she had no one for whom to make a gift. So she thought to write a letter to her dead father, something she had done before on special occasions. Her mother said it was fine for her to do so again. When the little girl had finished her letter, which was filled with "I love you, Dad!" and "I miss you, Dad!" she asked her mom where her father now lived and what address she should put on the envelope into which she had neatly folded the letter. Her mother replied: "Put down Heaven, Cloud 9." There are two reactions that the initial part of this anecdote brings to mind and heart. One is anger and the other is compassion. Obviously, there had been no interaction between the girl and the mother about where dead people might be. For the mother to tell her child that she could connect with her earthly, dead father by mailing a letter to an imaginary, fuzzy, warm-feeling type of place was fundamentally misleading; and for the mother to leave out the comfort of a very real Heavenly Father Who desires a relationship through prayer was to put her child on a path of hopelessness. The letter was duly mailed and when a postman named Simon opened the red pillar mailbox on his route he happened to notice it. He saw that the envelope did not carry postage and that it was addressed to "Dad in Heaven, Cloud 9." Having recently lost his own father, he asked his manager if he could try to locate the family to discover who sent the letter. Having obtained permission, he took a picture of the envelope and posted it on Facebook. Thousands of people responded. The mother and child were subsequently tracked down and the Facebook responses were sent on to them. The mother was astonished at all the responses that had come in. "I haven't stopped crying since," she said, "I never thought for a second that anyone would find the letter or do anything with it." Simon the postman later met the little girl and gifted her a father-daughter figurine as a remembrance. Her mother placed the Facebook comments in a box for the little girl as a memento. Perhaps some of the people who responded to the Facebook photo sent messages of a heavenly Father. We are not privy to that information. *** My own father, Louis Praamsma, was also very young, (he was six years old), when his father, Riemer Praamsma, passed away. Riemer Praamsma, who was a Christian school principal, died of pneumonia. Before he died, however, he left instructions for his children as to how to deal with his death, and his wife made sure that all the children would receive these instructions. My father, Louis Praamsma, decades later, still remembered what had happened, and he wrote it down before he himself died, so that I and my five siblings would also be guided even as he had been guided. These were his words. "When my father suddenly fell ill in 1916, I and my six siblings were all parceled out amongst relatives for ten long weeks. At the onset of these weeks, however, I was sent for to stand at his bedside. My father had himself taught me to read, and the family Bible was placed in my small hands. I have now forgotten so many things, but I have never forgotten that my father asked me, at this time, to find Psalm 25. When I had found it, he said, 'Read, Louis. Read the first few verses of this psalm.' And I read:                  ‘To you, O Lord, I lift up my soul, O my God, in You I trust; let me not be put to shame; let not my enemies exult over me. Indeed, none who wait for You shall be put to shame; they shall be ashamed who are wantonly treacherous.'  “I have especially remembered the next few verses - verses 4 and 5 of this psalm:  'Make me to know Your ways, O Lord; teach me Your paths. Lead me in Your truth and teach me, for You are the God of my salvation; for You I wait all the day long.'" The picture of my father as a little boy standing in front of his father's deathbed is solidly imprinted in my mind. All of six years old, he was undoubtedly not totally aware of the gravity of the situation. His miniature hands could barely hold the large Bible and his immature voice read in a thin, childish treble. When he was done with the passage, he saw his father nod with satisfaction and that made him feel good. My father always recalled that moment. It was the last time that he saw his father alive. He told me more about his father's death. He related that a huge crowd of schoolchildren followed their principal's funeral carriage on its way to the cemetery. Every child and adult wore black and the carriage itself was also shrouded in black. And at the grave-side hundreds of voices sang: Lo, as for man, his days are like a shadow, Like tender grass and flowers of the meadow, Whose morning beauty fadeth with the day; For when the wind but lightly passeth o'er it 'Tis gone anon and nothing can restore it; 'Tis found no more, it vanisheth for aye. After the funeral, the Praamsma house was filled to overflowing with people, all bringing their condolences to the bereft widow and the brood of seven children. My father, Louis Praamsma, walking between the crowd of legs, hardly realized that his beloved friend and companion was gone and would never come back. He later penned for his own children to read: "I had such little conception of death that I did not fully understand that I would never see my father again. Caught up in the crowd of mourners who surrounded my mother, I suddenly walked up to a grown man, reached for his hands, and tried to 'climb up.' It was something my father had always done with me. Taking both my hands, he would allow me to 'climb up' and then, with a flourish, would swing me through the air before depositing me on the ground once more. But even though for a moment I thought that the stranger was my father, I quickly comprehended that he was not. "When I later questioned my mother as to why my father was not coming back, as to why he had died, she gave me an answer that I shall also never forget. ‘It is,’ she told me, ‘because God has better use for father in heaven than He has for him here on earth.’ "That answer gave me peace." Evangelism, making disciples of all nations, surely begins at home. Perhaps that little girl in England will also have someone who will speak to her at some time about a heavenly Father with whom she can have a relationship. Perhaps someone will point her to all the notes and letters that this Father has written to His children. *** It is incumbent upon all of us to endeavor to make disciples of our children, of little neighbor girls and boys, and of all the people God places on our way each day. Jesus has said so: “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” – Matthew 28:19-20 Christine Farenhorst has a new book out, “Listen! Six men you should know,” with biographies on an intriguing selection of famous figures: Norman Rockwell, Sigmund Freud, Samuel Morse, Rembrandt, Albert Schweitzer, and Martin Luther King Jr. You can find it via online retailers including Dortstore.com....

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Assorted

A matter of seeing: decay and delights to consider

Some years back we rented a little island cottage north of Kingston, Ontario, sight unseen, for the first week of July.  The fact that in a world filled with animosity and chaos – spiritually as well as financially – we could freely do such a thing as rent a cottage was truly amazing.  We read of beheadings, homicides, protests, countless refugee camps; of the persecuted, impoverished and dying; of massive and mind-boggling national debts; and we were free and able to go to a cottage.  It is something to digest - something over which to chew. It was a Friday afternoon when we traveled along the 401 towards our destination. We stopped at a small motel across from the Brighton Christian Reformed Church where, forty-two years ago, our second daughter had been baptized by my oldest brother. My brother is now with the Lord; the church, however, and its denomination, have deteriorated incredibly. We walked around the church building with a pang and thought, “How the mighty have fallen,” but Paul's voice reproved us as we drove away across the black parking lot, “... let anyone who thinks that he stands take heed lest he fall.” Four score and some years… Saturday morning we drove on towards Elgin, bought some fruit and then, became a trifle lost.  We asked directions from a man who was an apparent four score and some years – a man who was motoring along on the edge of his driveway in a wheelchair.  He was a friendly sort, all gummy smiles and anxious to help.  After he had pointed us in the right direction, he began to back up his wheelchair... towards the nearby ditch. My husband, Anco, spoke loudly through the open window, "Stop! Stop, sir!  There's a ditch behind you!" His voice grew louder as the thin, old figure smilingly continued to move backwards. "Stop! Stop!" It was too late. The wheelchair and its occupant slid down a small embankment.  The octogenarian fell backwards off his seat and tumbled onto the grass.  We were both out of the car in an instant, as was another motorist passing by. Thin glasses had been knocked off.  We reached him as he, on all fours, was reaching for them. A little dazed, the man still smiled as we carefully helped him up. "You really have to watch those culverts," he said and grinned, while blood dribbled down his nose from small cut next to his left eye. "Are you all right?" I held onto his arm, and he nodded brightly. "I'm fine, really I am." My husband and the other motorist retrieved the mechanized wheelchair, rolling it back onto the driveway.  I held a kleenex on his cut and like a child that has fallen off his bicycle for the first time, he climbed back on the wheelchair full of courage. "I hit the reverse instead of the forward," he said, "I should have known better." Anco checked the cut, but it was small and he seemed fine.  So we drove off as he waved to us. Good news and bad We launched our boat at the appointed dock at Sand Lake.  The owner, who was to meet us and guide us to the cottage, was late. She arrived in a small aluminum boat, exclaiming as she jumped out, "You must be Anco and Christine.  Sorry about the wait." We nodded and she went on. "There's good news and bad news.  I'll give you the bad news first." We nodded again. "There was a fire in your cottage last night and the fire department had to come.  The good news is that the cottage did not burn down and my daughter and myself have been cleaning all day." We sympathized greatly, raised our eyebrows at one another when she wasn't looking, and followed her, boat-wise, out to the cottage.  A little three-room construction on a beautiful hilly, three-acre island met our eyes.  Fir trees, mossy rocks, a female loon nesting on a little outcropping by the dock, all met our expectations of a northern getaway.  Disembarking and loading ourselves down with food and luggage, we climbed up a small path towards the front door.  As we entered the smell of smoke pricked our nostrils.  The upstairs bedroom ceiling was somewhat blackened but, on the whole, with the windows flung wide open, things seemed to be under control. "The last people," Joan, our landlady, volunteered, "foolishly lit a candle before drifting off to sleep and the lampshade under which the candle was standing caught fire.  The wife burned one of her hands trying to put the fire out.  She had to go to emergency.  They left a day early." We nodded once more and felt compelled to say that, generally speaking, we were not in the habit of burning candles. Joan next related that a John 3:16 framed Bible text had been standing on the night table but, amazingly enough, it had not caught fire.  This was something which had confounded the pyromaniac couple causing them to exclaim, "Your God did not burn!"  Joan, who was a Christian, smiled as she told us this, commenting that perhaps this would give them something to think about. Wonders to behold We spent the week fishing, playing Boggle, reading Spurgeon sermons and marveling at God's creation. There was a scarlet tanager moment in which we noted a small splotch of red in a rock pool - a crimson fifth-day creature stretching its wings as it bathed.  God must have smiled when he pronounced this bird good. We often heard the raucous cry of the great blue heron as he skimmed by and saw, nearby, the dark belly and the white tail of the bald eagle majestically soar overhead.  Again and again, the muskrat, apparently undaunted by our presence, swam up to and past our boat towards rock crevices on the shore.  Daily the female loon, whom we dubbed Constance for her faithfulness in brooding her eggs, eyed us as we paddled by on our way out.  A cerulean warbler sang a duet with a pine warbler.  Water lilies lined inlets and little bays.  During the day, the high heavens above declared how great God's love was towards us; and as we contentedly fished in the evening, the red-balled setting sun in the west sang of the immeasurable distance God had removed our sins from us.  The osprey as well as the kingfisher dove, the big and small mouthed bass bit, and we tanned under God's goodness. Something better coming Yet we were unable to forget that we are pilgrims and continue to be pilgrims en route to a much, much better place than Sand Lake or any other northern getaway.  For even as we enjoyed and glorified God's goodness, Genesis 3 lurked in the background. We noted that creation has many thorns and thistles. There was poison ivy to avoid.  Fly-catchers hunted dragonflies and other insects. Bald eagles and osprey ate fish. Owls hunted mice... and so the list went on.  And in the background, the newspaper headlines we had left behind, whispered of terrorist organizations, human turkey vultures, seemingly devouring God's people as if eating bread.  Neither could we hide from the rampant materialism, egoism and self-centeredness breeding around and in ourselves.  It skulked in our hearts and minds; it hid in the weeds as we trolled the shores of earthly life for a piece of the action. On our way home, we stopped to say hello to the man who had fallen off his wheelchair.  Full of good cheer, he was glad to see us.  He told us that when he had fallen off his wheelchair, one of the things that had initially concerned him the most was that he might have lost his eye.  It seemed that his left eye was made of glass.  He was greatly relieved that it had remained in place in spite of the fall.  We told him that we had prayed for his well-being and he smiled broadly. We drove off thinking about the man's eye, and about eyes in general. After the fall, the continued though spoiled beauty in nature is God's gift; and the promise of a totally renewed nature – both for the earth and for ourselves – through our Lord Jesus Christ, is grace.  And Paul's words of hope followed us as we drove home on the highway, "For, as it is written, no eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love Him" (I Cor. 2:9). This first appeared in the November 2015 issue. Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books, including "Hidden: Stories of War and Peace," "Katharina, Katharina: the story of Katharina Schutz Zell," and "The Sweet Taste of Providence."...

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Assorted

Woven Together

My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. (Psalm 139:15-16) ***** It was a rather warm, early afternoon, if I recall properly, a long-ago day in April of 1978. Our oldest daughter was in grade one, our second daughter was attending kindergarten and the two younger ones were napping soundly. I was cleaning up after lunch and rather contemplating a nap myself when the telephone rang. Picking it up, the voice of an old acquaintance came through. "Christine? This is Anna Piller." "Yes, how are you Anna? Good to hear your voice. I haven't heard from you for quite a while." "I'm fine." There was a silence and I heard the clock ticking through it. "How are your girls?" I recalled that Anna had four daughters. She had taught at the local Christian school for a while, but had left to move south to the London area. "They are fine." There was another silence. Then Anna continued, continued rather hesitantly. "Actually, they're not fine. That is to say, Rachel is...." I tried to help her: "Is something wrong with Rachel, Anna?" "She's pregnant, Christine. And here's the thing. I wonder if she can stay with you for a while? If you would take her into your home." Rachel was the second of Anna's daughters. Anna was a divorcee. Her husband had committed adultery, had not repented and had left her and the girls a number of years prior to her teaching at our school. "Is the father of the baby," I began softly, but was interrupted. "There's not going to be any wedding, Christine." "Oh," I answered, and then went on, "and you want Rachel to stay with us?" "You have such a nice family," Anna rushed on, "and I would feel so good to know that she is with you." When someone tells you that you have a nice family, pride oozes through your veins. You instantly feel good about yourself and when Anna complimented our household, there was no doubt in my mind that I wanted to help. "How far along is she?" "She's only two months and she feels sick as a dog every morning." I was expecting our fifth and not sick in the least. But I felt instant empathy for Rachel. No husband to help her, she was probably worried about what the community would say and she was so very young. I ventured to guess she was only seventeen or so. Compassion filled me. "I'd have to speak with my husband, Anna, but I think that we could make room for Rachel." "There's something else, Christine. Rachel is going to abort the baby before coming to your house." I was knocked for a loop and honestly did not know what to say for the next minute or so. "Oh, Anna." "Yes, I know." There was a long drawn-out sigh and the clock on the wall kept ticking. "You know this is not right. Why would she...." "I've spoken with her, Christine. I've tried to persuade her to keep the baby but she won't listen to me. There are counselors.... and they say.... I just think that after the abortion she's going to feel pretty low and that she won't feel good about being here and being with you might just raise her spirits and be a good influence on her. Again Anna's sentence stopped midair. Unconsciously I had put my hand on my belly, as if to shut out the influence of the secular world from my unborn, and very much wanted, fifth child. I took a deep breath. "I'll drive down to where you live, Anna, and speak with Rachel myself. I'd like to try and change her mind. You see we are also expecting another baby and maybe I could....” In the end, after discussing it at length, my husband and I decided that Rachel would be welcomed into our home with open arms if she chose to keep the baby, if she chose to stay pregnant. We would help her, encourage her, pay for what she needed and love her. But if she chose to abort prior to coming to our home, she would have to make other arrangements. I drove to the London/Woodstock area shortly after that and had two long conversations - one with Anna and another with Rachel. Rachel almost agreed to come home with me, but in the end she changed her mind and opted for abortion. Anna, the grandmother of the little unborn, was sorry about the situation but it was obvious that she would have found it most convenient to board out her daughter. I drove home sorrowful and have never found out what happened. Both my husband and I were convinced that God would provide for Rachel through ourselves if she chose life. Perhaps, in the end, she did and we were never apprised of the fact. We pray that she did. ***** Mark Jones, pastor of the Faith Reformed Presbyterian Church in Vancouver, Canada, has recently (2019) written a book entitled If I Could Speak - Letters from the Womb. In it are fifteen chapters. Each chapter is a letter written from the womb by a tiny fetus named Zoe. Zoe begins each of her letters with a statement – statements such as "I can hear your voice," and "You and daddy put me here," or "I'd rather be adopted than aborted." The letters are obviously beyond the capacity of a little fetus. The reader is asked to overlook that and to indulge pastor Jones who in this touching and straightforward manner is arguing for life. He's making the case that abortion stops a human being from being able to laugh; from being able to give love; from being able to graduate from school; from caring for parents; and so on. He is, in effect, making the case that abortion is murder. In these days when new laws are being enacted and abortion in Canada is legal at all stages of pregnancy, (funded in part by the Canada Health Act), it is good to make this a matter of much prayer. Canada is the only nation with absolutely no specific legal restrictions on abortion. Human life is sacred because we, all of us, have been made in the "image of God." God alone has authority over life because He alone is its Author. Christine Farenhorst is the author of many short story collections including “Hidden: Stories of War and Peace” which you can find on Amazon.com and Amazon.ca....

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Amazing stories from times past

Archbishop Ussher and being fully known

It is a very special thing to be known, to have someone look at you and understand you and love you simultaneously. My father lost his father at the tender age of six. He was just a tiny boy in stature but he loved his father with all his heart. His father, by the grace of God, had been able to help to implant the love of God in his young son. My father recounted to me that he had not really understood death when it did occur. He had read a Psalm, at his father's request, as his father lay dying. Then his father's bed was suddenly empty and a host of people came to visit his mother. He told me that he recalled the livingroom being filled with people, and that he (being such a short, little guy) had been engulfed in a sea of legs. Strangely enough, he thought he recognized his father's legs. He ran up to those legs, grabbed them and tried to hoist himself up. When he had done that previously, his father had always lifted him up. But a strange face stared down at him. It was not his father. He had been mistaken. It can possibly be rather dangerous to be mistaken in identifying someone or something. There was a news item a number of years ago about a man who bought a snake from a neighbor. He was told that it was a python. After paying one hundred dollars for the creature, which was a good size, he took it home to the other pythons he owned. As he walked towards his door carrying the snake, it somehow fell to the ground. He bent down to pick it up and it bit him. Because the man assumed that the animal was a python, he was not worried about the bite when it happened. After all, pythons are not poisonous. However, about thirty minutes later, as his hand became very swollen and painful, he was concerned enough to head for the hospital. It turned out that the snake was not a python after all, but a copperhead. Anti-venom was given and what potentially had been a life-threatening situation was averted. The fellow was extremely thankful that he had not hung the new snake acquisition around his neck. But an unfortunate unawareness of identity can sometimes have a happy ending. There is the story of a little girl in England who was evacuated to the Welsh countryside during the Blitz – Germany’s WWII bombing campaign against the United Kingdom. She was placed with a family for quite a while and was constantly hopeful that her parents would arrive to convey her home again. The girl's surname was Knight. Back home she had a neighbor by the name of Mr. Wright. This neighbor was killed during an air attack. When the news of the neighbor's death came out, the names of Knight and Wright were mixed up. The child was mistakenly told that her father had died. Many tears were shed before it came out that there had been an error of identity. **** Archbishop James Ussher, (1581-1656), Archbishop of Armagh, and Primate of all Ireland, was a Calvinist. He lived in turbulent political times, times in which there was much tension between Catholics and Protestants. Much can be said about the man, but there is a story about him which deals with mistaken identity. The Archbishop was often about the country visiting his curates. He wanted to know how they were doing, whether or not they were well respected in their communities and if they were true shepherds of the flocks which had been entrusted to them. He did not want them to know, however, that he was checking up on them. So he became a master at disguising himself so that no one would recognize him. On various occasions, Archbishop Ussher dressed as a beggar and knocked on the doors of his clergy. One fine day, dressed as a vagrant, he knocked on the door of one particular curate. The man was out, and his wife answered the door. Seeing the rather unkempt figure of a man at her threshold, she took him in and offered him bread, porridge and water at the kitchen table. But she alongside this meal, she also served him a lengthy harangue. "For shame, old man, to go begging at your age!!" she began, "How can you be so lazy!" He did not answer, but regarded her thoughtfully above a spoonful of porridge. "Your sitting here is not the fruit," she went on, waving her finger at him, "of an honest, decent, industrial and hard-worked life." He still did not respond, but took a drink of the water she had placed by his plate. Thinking, perhaps, that she could aid in the education of this ill-looking specimen of a man, the wife questioned him. "Tell me, old man," she spoke a little gentler now, "how many commandments are there? Do you know the answer?" Ussher, pretending to be confused, stammered out, "Eleven." "Eleven?" He nodded. "Eleven," she repeated in a frustrated manner, and then went on, "I thought so. Not only are you lazy, but you are also unlearned and not knowledgeable in the ways of God." Ussher sat before her in silence, seemingly unresponsive. The wife walked over to the cupboard and took out a booklet. "Here, old man," she said, placing the booklet next to his food, "take this with you when you leave. Learn your catechism. And when you have learned it, you will find out that there are not eleven commandments, but ten. Ten, you hear? Put that in your bowl and eat it." Archbishop Ussher left that home and later made it known that the following Sunday he would preach in that very parish which he had just visited. When Sunday arrived the wife of the curate was among the congregants. She had no idea that the old beggar who had graced her kitchen table that week would be preaching. The text was announced. It was to be from John 13:34: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another". "It would seem," Ussher began his sermon, "from this text that there are eleven commandments." At this point of time, the Archbishop was recognized by the curate's wife. What she thought and what she felt at that moment is not known, but shame might have enveloped her. **** The most important person to recognize and know is, of course, the Lord Jesus. There is the story of Mary Magdalene, weeping for Jesus, and not knowing him. John 20:14-16 relates the incident of her standing by the tomb. "When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, ‘Woman, why are you weeping? Who are you looking for?’ Because she thought he was the gardener, she said to him, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will take him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary.’ She[turned and said to him in Aramaic, ‘Rabboni’ (which means Teacher).” We are fully known. This is what 1 Cor. 13:12 tells us. “For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” This is so good and so comforting. It is also good to realize that, because of the Holy Spirit, Jesus is always with us, constantly near us, even though we may not always recognize Him or be aware of Him. Our eyes might be filled with tears, or blind with worry and fear. Yet it is good to remember that He is omnipresent – everywhere and in all places. He might appear differently than we think, dressed in ways that take on an appearance we might not expect. At this point of time we see only a bit of His glory, and that imperfectly. But we are in the process of becoming like Him and we shall know Him fully. 1 John 3:2 gives us assurance: "Beloved, now we are children of God; and it has not yet been revealed what we shall be, but we know that when He is revealed, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is." Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books including “Katherina, Katherina,” a novel taking place in the time of Martin Luther. You can read a review here....

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Book excerpts, Book Reviews, People we should know, Teen non-fiction

Edith Cavell: a brave guide

Some 150 years ago, on December 4, 1865, English woman Edith Cavell was born. And 100 years ago, on October 12, 1915, during the First World War, she was executed. Instilled with a desire to please her Creator God, Edith Cavell became a nurse; she lived what she professed, and died bravely at the hands of German soldiers. Her crime? Assisting Allied soldiers escape from German-occupied Belgium. In a seemingly hopeless situation, she persevered and did not shun the victor's crown. She was a gift given by God to His Son Jesus Christ and, as such, saved for eternal life. Throughout the fifty years of Edith Cavell's life, she was content to work hard and live humbly. She was a godly woman and, therefore, a godly historical example. The Bible instructs us to teach our children about such historical examples. Psalm 78:4 reads: "We will not hide them from their children, but tell to the coming generation the glorious deeds of the Lord and His might, and the wonders that He has done." At a time in history when examples of godly women are few and far between, much needed strength and encouragement can be drawn from the life of this lady who put all her trust in Jesus Christ, her Savior. 
 The following is an excerpt from the Christine Farenhorst historical fiction novel of Edith Cavell’s life, called A Cup of Cold Water, (P&R Publishing, 2007). At this point Edith has been helping many Allied soldiers escape out of German territory. *** December 4, 1914 - Brussels, Belgium Breakfast was generally served at an early hour in the L’Ecole Belge d’Infirmieres Diplomees, the Belgian School of Lay Nurses. Too early some of the nurses said. “It is actually 7 o’clock, you know,” José said at 6 o’clock one morning, as he bit into a thin piece of toast. Puzzled, everyone stared at him and he went on. “The Germans changed our time yesterday. We are now on German time and no longer on Belgian time. All the public clocks have been put ahead.” “Well, I’m not going to pay the slightest bit of attention,” Gracie said, glancing at her wristwatch, “That’s just plain silly.” “Well maybe,” Pauline added hopefully, “we should get up later.” She eyed Edith but Edith was looking at cook in the doorway. “Excuse me, Madame,” the cook said, “there is someone to see you in the kitchen.” Edith got up, wiped her mouth on a napkin and left the dining room quietly after glancing at Elisabeth Wilkins. Elisabeth nodded to her, indicating that she would supervise while Edith was gone. Two more Louise Thuliez, one of the resistance workers Edith had come to know, was waiting in the kitchen. She had come in through the back entrance. Brown hair hidden under a kerchief, the young woman was obviously relieved when Edith walked in. Ushering her through the hall towards her own office, Edith could feel the woman’s tenseness. As soon as the door closed behind them, Louise spoke. There was urgency in her tone. “I have two men waiting to come to the clinic.” Edith nodded. “Fine. Direct them here. I’ll see to them.” Louise nodded, brusquely put out her hand, which Edith shook, and disappeared. Left alone in her small office, Edith passed her right hand over her forehead in a gesture of weariness. Running a hospital in peacetime was not easy, but running it in wartime, with mounting bills for food and medicines which would never be paid by the patients, was next to impossible. She had received some money from Reginald de Cröy and Monsieur Capiau but the men who had been sent to her regularly since Monsieur Capiau’s first appearance all had hearty appetites. Resources were at the breaking point. With a glance at the calendar, she saw it was her birthday and with a pang she realized that it would be the first year she had not received letters from Mother, Flo, Lil, Jack and cousin Eddie. She swallowed. Jack growled softly and she looked out the window. Two men were approaching the walkway. Bracing herself, she smoothed her hair, patted the dog and went out into the hall to await their knock. Although most of the men sent to the school only stayed one or two nights, some of them stayed a longer. As Edith awaited the arrival of the new refugees, she wondered how long she would need to provide them with shelter. If they were ill, they would be nursed right alongside German patients. Many of the nurses in the school were unaware of what was going on. All they saw were extra patients — bandaged, limping and joking patients. The Café Chez Jules was situated right next to the school. To recuperating soldiers, as well as to idle men with nothing to do for a few days, it became a favorite gathering place. The Café served watered-down wine and at its tables the men played cards, chatted and lounged about. But even if the Germans were not yet suspicious, word quickly spread around the Belgian neighborhood that Allied soldiers were hiding in the nursing school. Once again, as she had done so often, Edith opened the door. A short, thickset man looked Edith full in the face. “My name is Captain Tunmore, sole survivor of the First Battalion of the Norfolk Regiment.” He spoke with a heavy English accent. “And this,” Captain Tunmore went on, indicating the man at his side, “is Private Lewis of the Cheshire Regiment. Password is yorc. We’re both looking to get across to border.” Edith shook their hands. They were a little nonplused that this small, frail-looking lady whose hand totally disappeared in their grasp, was rumored to be so tough. Captain Tunmore, noting a picture on the wall, remarked, “Hey, that’s Norwich Cathedral!” “Do you know Norwich?” Edith asked. “It’s my home. I was born on its outskirts.” Edith took another look at the man. The fact that he said that he was Norfolk born, gave her, for just a small moment, the feeling that she was home, that she was looking into her mother’s face. “Well, gentlemen,” she smiled, “I’m afraid you’ll have to spend Christmas here with us as there is no guide to take you until after the twenty-fifth.” *** Captain Tunmore and Private Lewis had come without identity cards. Edith, consequently, took photographs of the men herself and had contacts make identity cards for them. After Christmas, she arranged to have them travel towards Antwerp in a wagon but they were discovered and barely made it back safely to the clinic a few days later. Edith, therefore, prepared to guide them out of Brussels herself. “Gentlemen, be ready at dawn tomorrow. I’ll take you to the Louvain road. From there you’re on your own.” “I was thirsty…” At daybreak, Edith taking the lead and the men following her at a discreet distance, the trio made their way to a road outside of Brussels. Once there, Edith passed the soldiers a packet of food as well as an envelope of money. “In case you need to bribe someone – or in case you get a chance to use the railway,” she said. Shaking their hands once again, she turned and disappeared into the mist. On the walk back, Edith reminisced about how she had walked these very paths as a young governess with her young charges. It now seemed ages ago that they had frolicked about her, collecting insects, drawing, running and pulling at her arm to come and see some plant which they had found. Now she understood that God, in His infinite wisdom, had used that time to intimately acquaint her with this area. How very strange providence was! At the time she had sometimes felt, although she loved the children dearly, that her task as a governess was unimportant – trivial perhaps. Yet it had equipped her for the role she now played. Smiling to herself she thought, “Why am I surprised? After all, does not the Bible say that it is important to be faithful over a few things. A noise to her left interrupted her reverie and she slowed down. A German guard suddenly loomed next to her. “Halt! Papieren, bitte — Stop! Papers, please.” Silently she took them out and waited. He waved her on after a moment and she resumed her way. What would her father have thought about these activities, she wondered? “Out so early, my Edith?” she imagined him asking. “Yes, father. Just a little matter of helping some soldiers escape to the front lines. If they are found, you see, they’ll be sent to an internment camp somewhere, or they might be shot.” “What about you, my Edith?” “Oh, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. And besides, what else can I do? These men, these refugee soldiers, father, they just come to me. They arrive on my doorstep and look so helpless, so afraid that I will turn them away.” “Well, my Edith, you are doing right. Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, child: “I was thirsty and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took Me in.” “I remember, father. I remember.” “And in the end ... in the end, Edith, He will say ‘Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.’” “I know, father.” No time for childhood Throughout the spring of that new year, 1915, Edith continued to rise early on the mornings that soldiers were to leave for the frontier. English, French, and Belgians – they were all men eager to leave so that they could help the Allies. Between five and seven in the morning, she would accompany the men to the planned rendezvous point with the next guide, generally a tramway terminus or a point in some street. Arriving back after one such venture, in the early days of March, she found Elisabeth waiting for her in her office with a very guilty-looking Pauline and José at her side. “What is the trouble?” Edith asked as she took off her coat. “Would you like me to tell her, or shall I?” Elisabeth’s voice was angry. José shuffled his feet but he met Edith’s gaze head-on. Then he spoke. “I encouraged all the families on Rue Darwin to set their alarm clocks at the same time. I told them to set it for six o’clock in the morning, the time I knew a single patrol would be passing.” He stopped. Edith sighed. “And,” she encouraged, “what happened?” “Well, when all the alarms went off at the same time, the soldier jumped a mile into the air. You should have seen– ” “Was anyone hurt?” Edith interrupted him. “No, no one,” Pauline took over, “everyone only let their alarms ring for five seconds exactly. After that they shut them off at the same time. It was deathly quiet in the streets and all the people watched the silly soldier through their curtains as he looked behind him and around corners and pointed his silly rifle at nothing. We laughed so hard.” Edith sat down. “Do you have any idea what could have happened if that soldier had shot up at a window? Or if he had kicked open a door and ...” She paused. They really had no idea about the seriousness of the times in which they were living. She sighed again and went on. Pauline looked down at the floor and José appeared fascinated with the wall. “You ought to know better than anyone, José, how dangerous it was what you did. After all, you have come with me many times to help soldiers find their way through and out of Brussels so that they can escape to safety. War is not a game.” *** After they left her office, thoroughly chastened, Edith sat down at her desk, put her head into her hands and wept. Childhood seemed such a long way off and the Germans were stealing much more than blackberry pie. Edith Cavell's death was memorialized on propaganda posters like this one....

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The Top 10 articles of 2019

It's said that the Internet is causing people to have shorter attention spans. If that's true, you can't look to our most popular articles of 2019 for proof, as many are among the longer articles we published. You'll quickly notice there are 11 articles on this "Top 10" list, and we want to assure you that's not a matter of bad math, but interesting statistics. The difference between 10 and 11 is so close, that they are repeatedly swapping spots. So, rather than have to update the list as they swap spots yet again, we're including both, as 10a and 10b. Now, what got thousands of folks reading each of these articles? Maybe it was the diversity. One of the fun things about a magazine that writes about all that God is up to is that we get to tackle all that God is up to! Without further ado, here is our Top 10 countdown for 2019. 10b. Original Sin: Luther's other life-changing doctrine (15 minutes) Harma-Mae Smit contributed an article that takes some effort but amply rewards it. We know Luther for his rediscovery of the Doctrine of Justification - that it is not by our works, but by faith in Jesus that we are justified. But Luther's understanding of our sinfulness was every bit as important. 10a. Countering Tim Keller's case for evolution (15 min) Keller is a much-respected writer because when he gets it right – when he treats God's Word as authoritative – he gets it really right. But when he gets it wrong, as he does in his treatment of the opening chapters of the Genesis, he gets it really and horribly wrong. 9. A sad tale of a wealthy millennial's moral confusion (8 min) E. Calvin Beisner read about a young man who was wealthy and felt guilty about it. Should we feel guilty when we are blessed? Or should we feel gratitude? A series of accompanying questions make this a great one for discussions on socialism, the 10th Commandment, social justice and more. 8. Porn addiction isn't just a guy thing (8 min) This article got no attention when it was first posted a year or two ago. But when it was reposted this year, thousands checked it out. Why? Maybe it's because we now recognize that even as pornography-use remains the sin that Christian men don't own up to, it is that much the harder for Christian women to look for and get help in this battle. 7. Reformed Harmony: a new tool promotes friendship...and sometimes marriage (10 min) Sharon Bratcher tells RP readers about this online forum created specifically for Reformed singles. What a great idea! 6. Public doubt: Josh Harris abandons God, and Hillsong's Marty Sampson struggles (5 min) It was big news when Josh Harris turned his back on God, and was almost as big when a prominent Christian musician went public with his doubts. So what's a Christian to do when they have doubts? 5. Should introverts be expected to act like Extroverts? (5 min) It takes all kinds to make up the Body of Christ. But we are the same Body, and that means that some type of togetherness is a must. 4. #chairchallenge highlights male/female divide (2 min) The chair challenge is a fun craze circulating the Internet which most women can do, and most men can't. It's fun, but it's also significant, living as we do in an age that denies there are two genders and that even if there are, denies they are different. 3. That morning I listened to Kanye West (8 min) In December 2018 Kanye West was featured on a song with XXXTentacion singing vulgar lyrics. Less than a year later he released his album Jesus is King and Rev. Wes Bredenhof had a listen...and liked what he heard. 2. Charles Darwin's grave mistake (12 min) On the 137th anniversary of Darwin's death, Christine Farenhorst shared how the Christian world honored him. 1. Cremation: why and why not? (8 min) In the past cremation has been done as an act of rebellion. But is that what it has to symbolize? Or might this be an area of Christian liberty?...

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I Have A Son Seven Years Old; He is to me full dear...

This a short story about World War II, the immigrant experience...and much more Chapter 1.  The teacher Perhaps it is true that one's conscience is like a songbird warbling high up in a tree. Though you cannot detect its form, its notes are clear and touch your soul with their pureness and you cannot walk by for weeping. September of 1953 was a hot month in the city of Toronto. In fact, the second day of the month was the hottest day of the year, with the thermometer reaching 98 degrees Fahrenheit. The heat on that Labor Day weekend had me thinking that it did not seem to be a very auspicious time to open school doors or an auspicious moment to be a first-time teacher. I had graduated from the Toronto Normal School earlier that same year. As far back as I could remember I had always loved the idea of becoming a teacher, of being with children and imparting to them knowledge, truth and fine ideals. But when I faced my mixed class of seventh and eighth graders that first week – a medley of twenty-seven faces, all wilting with heat in the muggy, crowded classroom – my courage and commitment somehow deteriorated into nervous tension. There were names to memorize, characters to unravel, and temperaments to discern. Not that the children were rowdy or disobedient; it was just that there were so many of them and so few of me. Consequently, at the end of that initial week, I stood in front of the half-open classroom window gazing out at the silent playground after the students had been dismissed. Tired and not a little discouraged, I contemplated whether I should have opted for another vocation such as mechanic or traveling salesman. Drumming my fingers on the sill, and staring off into the horizon, I recalled the respect I'd had for teachers who had made an impact on my formative years. Mr. Kunstenaar, my history teacher, stood out in my memory. How that man had been able to tell stories! Absently, I wiped beading drops of sweat off my upper lip. Some boys had appeared on the playground. Though the weather was still hot and humid, they were running and yelling. There were four of them and the first was much younger than the rest. As they tore past, it became obvious that the boy in the lead was being pursued by the rest. The child was a good runner, but his small legs did not stand a chance against the longer legs of his opponents. By some providential quirk, if there is such a thing, the boy zigzagged back towards my window and, upon reaching it, turned, standing with his back against it. The boys stopped their chase and picked up clumps of dirt from the ground where they stood. They then began to pelt the boy with the dirt, one soft clump striking the top of his head and breaking into a hundred small grains of black on his crown. Pity flooded my heart. Stepping forward to make myself clearly visible, I stood tall behind the boy. Though I did not think he saw me, his pursuers certainly did. Neither gesturing nor saying one word, I just stood quietly. And one by one the three boys opened their fists, dropped their missiles, and disappeared. I don't know what the child thought of his attackers leaving. The back of his head pressed hard against my window. The hair I could almost touch was blond – very blond – a blond mixed with black. I had a déjà vu moment but could not place it. Then the boy turned and he smiled at me. It was a warm and radiant smile and in that instant I knew I had made the right decision about becoming a teacher. *** The following Monday morning the principal asked if I could spare a moment to talk. "I'd like to take advantage of your bilingualism," he said, by way of beginning the conversation, "of your ability to speak Dutch." "Oh?" "This year there are three children, children of Dutch immigrants," he continued, "who are attending our school. They need help with their English. It occurred to me that you might be just the man to encourage them. Can I ask for your help in tutoring some of these students for a few hours each week if I provide some extra help in your classroom during that time?" "I have no experience in tutoring," I said. "It's just to see them through an initial awkward and difficult period," he went on, almost as if he had not heard my objection, "You see, because of their lack of ability to speak English, they have been put back a year in school, and if they are able to become more proficient in English, perhaps they can be moved up to the grade level they should be in." To a certain degree, I felt cheated. It was clear to me that tutoring was something a teacher's aide should be doing; it certainly did not seem to be work for someone like myself who had just studied hard to earn a degree. Besides that, wasn't it obvious that these children would pick up English quickly enough by themselves, immersed as they were in the mainstream of school life? The principal, sensing my hesitation, stood up and patted me on the shoulder. "Mr. Anders," he said, "I assure you it would definitely help these children a great deal and it's just a few hours every week." *** So, beginning immediately, every Tuesday and Thursday morning were set aside for instructing three children. From nine until recess, two sisters – eleven-year-old twins Tina and Tonnie DeGroot – were taught the rudiments of English. Following recess, the boy with the blond hair came in, the boy who had smiled at me. Providence is a mixture of the wonderful, strange, and fearful. A truth wrapped up in seemingly discordant notes fell onto my heart when the child told me his name. "Ik heet Nico," he said, "Nico Goudswaard, and ik ben zeven jaar oud." (My name is Nico - Nico Goudswaard, and I am seven years old.) Another vague déjà vu moment occurred. "Nico," I repeated slowly, and again, "Nico." "Ja," the boy replied. I sat down rather weakly and he came and sat down opposite me. "What is your name?" he asked. I did not answer his query, instead asking him another question: "Who is your father, Nico?" "Well," the boy said, his clear eyes shining at me across the table, "that is a hard question to answer." He looked down at the table for a moment as if thinking deeply. Then he looked up and smiled again. "I do have a father though." I did not know what to say to that and waited, for clearly the child was not finished. After thinking long and hard for another minute, hands folded on the brown tabletop, he finally added quietly, "Do you have to know who my father is to help me with English?" I shook my head and grinned at him. "No, but I would really like to know. Can't you tell me?" "Well, you can't see my father. Not the way that other children can see theirs." "Oh?" I said. "Fathers are good," he continued, "When I ran to the window last week, then I pretended that you were my father. I only pretended for a minute," he quickly added, "because mother says that I must not do that – pretend that other people are my father." "But you said that you did have a father, ... or don't you?" "Well, mother says that my father is God in heaven and that He will look out for me always, no matter where I am. I almost forgot that He was there when those boys were teasing me, but then I saw you and thought that..." He stopped abruptly. "How is your mother?" Any adult would have looked at me strangely for asking such a personal question on such short acquaintance. But no one alive could have understood the absurdity of this present-day providence – even I did not understand it – this providence of me sitting here with the child of a girl I had once known when I was a young boy. "She is fine." Nico had no trouble answering familiarities. "Do you live close to the school?" He nodded. "Yes, I do. It only takes me fifteen minutes to walk to school." Our whole conversation had taken place in Dutch. I took out a reader at this point and had him sound out simple words to ascertain his command of the English language. His English was actually better than that of the twin girls. But my mind wandered continually as Nico was sounding out his words – wandered back to days long gone by. And when Nico left at lunch hour, I stayed behind in the small study room and thought – indeed, could not stop thinking – about the past. There is no accusation that tastes as bitter as self-reproach. Others can accuse – often unjustly and unfairly – and, in those cases, the accused can rest in knowing they are innocent. But people who recognize the secret dealings of their own hearts repeatedly cringe in shame and regret. And so it was with me and I began remembering. Chapter 2. The student "The White Book of Sarnen contains the earliest surviving record of the William Tell story." The speaker was Jaap Kunstenaar, and I was among the children he was addressing. We were in school, if you could call it school, for there was no bell, no principal, no heat, no recess, and certainly no list of subjects that we had to follow. There were only some thirty children or so huddled in desks, students so skinny that ribs protruded and elbows jutted out of our sweaters. We varied in age from eight to fifteen, with myself, 16-year-old Nico Anders, the oldest boy there. It was spring, 1945, following on the heels of a cold, cold winter. Jaap Kunstenaar was a retired teacher and nearing three score and ten years of age. He had offered to feed some history to the youth of our town two afternoons a week. We came not because our parents forced us to come, but because there was not much else to do, and because, somehow, listening to Jaap Kunstenaar talk helped us forget the hunger pains in our bellies as we lived the heroic tales of the past. I well remember the day that Mr. Kunstenaar told the story of William Tell for it was a day that marked a changing point in my life. "The Book of Sarnen was accidentally discovered in 1856, and is believed to be a copy of a much older manuscript written in 1426." Mr. Kunstenaar rubbed his thin and blueing hands together. The color of his hands indicated both the coldness of the room, in which the pot-bellied stove had neither wood to burn nor warmth to throw, and his venerable age. Perhaps that's why he told history so well, because he himself was almost a part of it. "More than 700 years ago," Mr. Kunstenaar began, and we all listened, already fascinated because of the intensity of his baritone voice. "More than 700 years ago," he repeated, "a local farmer and well-known hunter hailing from the canton of Uri, strode through the market square of Altdorf. A crossbow hung over his shoulder. In all of the surrounding cantons there was no one who could climb mountains as sure-footed and as quickly as could this man, William Tell, and there was no one as skilled in the use of a crossbow." The mention of a bow made me even more attentive. I knew how to use a bow and arrow myself. My father had taught me how to aim carefully, and how to unfailingly hit the mark, from the time I was old enough to hold a bow. "My father taught me and I teach you," he told me. "And, God willing," he added with a twinkle in his eyes, "you will someday teach your son." We hunted rabbits and quail together, my father and I, and grandfather had shown me how to skin the rabbits and how to pluck the quail. Mr. Kunstenaar continued: "Altdorf was one of the many small settlements in the area which we now call Switzerland. Its market square was no doubt very similar to the market square we have in town here. People strolled through it, they conducted business there, and they sat on the benches erected along its sides. But the freedom of walking through the square had been curtailed. This was because the town of Altdorf, as well as the surrounding cantons, was occupied at that time, even as we are occupied today, by an enemy. For Switzerland at the time of William Tell in the early 1300s, the enemy was Austria. Today, for Holland in this year of our Lord, 1945, it is Germany." He paused dramatically and we all breathed deeply, anticipating action before he continued. And why shouldn't we have? Stories that paralleled our situation were stories that most gripped our hearts. These were stories with which we could empathize. For example, tales about the Spaniards occupying our country during the Reformation times fascinated us, and episodes of heroism encouraged us. Mr. Jaap Kunstenaar was a wonderful well of information, and we leaned forward in our desks listening eagerly, forgetting for a while our worries, aches and trials. "The enemy agent for the Hapsburg Duke of Austria was a bailiff by the name of Hermann Gessler. He was the Austrian Duke's henchman. Strangely enough, Hermann Gessler sounds ominously like Hermann Goering, who, as you all know, is Hitler's henchman." We all nodded vigorously for we were very familiar with the name of Hermann Goering, a top Nazi, and a hater of the Jews. "Gessler was a proud man, a cruel man, and one who sadistically punished the Swiss people without reason. One day, overcome with pride, he placed his hat on a pole in the center of the Altdorf square and announced that anyone passing this hat would have to bow to it, on pain of death. Shortly after this announcement, William Tell, a patriotic Swiss man and one not easily frightened, strode through the square. He refused to obey Gessler's ridiculous command, nonchalantly passing by the cap, totally ignoring it. And he passed by it walking upright, holding the hand of his young son, Walter." We all laughed, the younger as well as the older children. We were enormously pleased that William Tell had not saluted the cap, for it seemed so obvious that to salute a hat was extremely foolish. Who would do such a thing? Our laughter was shrill, almost as if we had forgotten how to do it, but we were hungry you see, and our voices had grown weak because of the severe lack of food. I remember thinking that the red ribbon in the hair of the orphan girl Nienke Jongsma in front of me looked good enough to eat. And I remember thinking at the same time of the potatoes in Friesland, where Nienke had come from, potatoes which lay rotting but which were not allowed to be sent from that province to the other western provinces desperately in need of food. All the while, during that thought, Tom Jansen sitting next to me shook with mirth. And Ina De Wit in front of Tom put her hand in front of her mouth to hide squeaky giggles. And fifteen-year-old Lieneke, my good friend Lieneke, with the beautiful blond braids, whom I loved with all the innocent passion of my teenage heart, had a wide grin on her face, showing all her pretty white teeth. Strange that such a sweet and pretty girl was the daughter of a suspected Nazi sympathizer. Mr. Kunstenaar waited until we settled down before he continued. "Loitering nearby in the center of the square were several guardsmen. When these guardsmen noticed that William Tell had not saluted Gessler's hat, they immediately arrested him. Shortly afterwards Gessler himself rode into the square surrounded by his hunting party. 'Why is this man in custody? And who is he?' Gessler demanded from the great height of his white stallion. 'He refused to salute your cap,' the soldiers answered, 'and his name is William Tell, a fellow who by all accounts, seems to be a remarkable marksman – one who can shoot a straight arrow at a great distance and not miss his target.' Gessler remained quiet and thoughtful for a few moments. Small Walter, Tell's son and proud of it, began to boast and his words rang through the square, stopping in front of Gessler on his high horse. 'My father,' he called out in his childish voice, interpreting the soldiers' claim in his own words, 'can shoot an apple from a tree at a hundred yards!' Gessler sneered, sneered from his high perch on the horse, sneered at the boy, and sneered at all the bystanders. 'Can he indeed?' he scoffed, 'Well then he shall prove his skill to us here. Place an apple on the boy's head. And we shall see if he never misses.'" The mention of an apple brought saliva to my dry mouth – I almost drooled. If I had been in the place of Walter Tell, with the apple placed on my head, I would have taken it off and crunched into it for one bite, just one bite. I could almost taste it – a far better taste than that of the sugar beets that the town council was beginning to ration out sparingly to the families in town. We had heard of food packages being dropped out of planes flying over Amsterdam, but we had received no such luxuries. "Walter was led to a tree at the far end of the square, and an apple was placed on his head. Quite a crowd had gathered in the square by this time. Everyone was horrified. Outwardly calm, William Tell took the crossbow from his shoulder and fitted an arrow to his bow. Walter stood very still and appeared not to be afraid. The child had unconditional faith in his father's skill. William Tell took careful aim. The arrow left the shaft, and whistled through the air, finding its mark in the center of the apple splitting it into two parts." We all sighed. And then Mr. Kunstenaar quoted an old Northumbrian English ballad. He quoted it with great emotion and I remember it still. I have a son seven years old; He is to me full dear; I will tie him to a stake - All shall see him that be here - And lay an apple upon his head, And go six paces him fro. And I myself with a broad arrowe Shall cleave the apple in towe. For a moment afterwards it was quiet – the class all picturing the cleft apple lying on the ground in front of the boy Walter, who, no doubt, had a huge grin on his face. "William Tell sprinted towards his son, and as he did so a second arrow fell from his coat. Gessler, puzzled, asked him why this second arrow was necessary. And Tell replied: 'That second arrow was for you, if the first had wounded my boy.'" We were all delighted with Tell's bravery and gleefully visualized the look of helpless anger on Gessler's face. Jaap Kunstenaar went on: "A conversation reported between a Swiss diplomat and a German in 1939 at the onset of the Second World War, went thus. The German said, 'You Swiss are so proud of your 500,000 men militia. But what will you do if a 1,000,000 man German army comes marching across your border?' The Swiss diplomat calmly replied, 'That's easy. Each of us will shoot twice and go home.'" We roared with laughter, at which point Nienke Jongsma fainted and Mr. Kunstenaar and some of the older girls did everything they could to revive her. It took some time, but after she was sitting up again, pale and hollow-eyed (as indeed we all were), Mr. Kunstenaar decided that it was time to go home. "What happened to William Tell after that?" Jan Bezem asked as we filed out into the hall and from there into the street. "He led a rebellion against the invaders." "Did he win?" "Yes," Mr. Kunstenaar smiled and patted Jan on the head, "and I'll tell you about that some other time." Chapter 3. The pilot While the other students went straight home, I only passed by our house long enough to pick up an old baby carriage from our shed. My father, who would visit us once a week or less and always under the cover of darkness, had instructed me to walk to Farmer Dikkens after four o’clock. It was already close to four when I picked up the carriage. Inside it, hidden in a false bottom, were two packages of cigarettes and two chocolate bars, placed there by my father to be used in bargaining for some wheat and potatoes. Farmers didn't take kindly to people coming anymore. There wasn't much left of anything for people to barter with. But father had said that Farmer Dikkens would be expecting me. So I went, albeit reluctantly, because I knew that my bargaining powers were less than spectacular. We lived on the east edge of town. I lived there with my father, when he was home, and with my grandfather. My mother had died the first year of the war and I had no siblings. There were just the three of us. We had no other living relatives as both my father and mother had been only children. At this time we also had living with us a Canadian pilot who had shown up a few weeks earlier with a bad burn to his right arm, as well as a cut in his right leg. We doctored him as best we could. His mother was from Holland, so he spoke a decent amount of Dutch, and consequently our communication was good. Sometimes he stayed with father in his hiding place, and sometimes he came to the house. He was the one who had given us the cigarettes and the chocolate. "Nico," father had said, "these cigarettes may very well be the saving of our lives; God-given they are." So I prayed before I came to the farm. "Dear God," I said, not out loud but within my heart, "please let Farmer Dikkens be generous so that I can come home with some food for grandfather." It was quiet outside. The fields were bare and during my half hour or so of walking, I saw only one German soldier and he paid no heed to me, a skinny boy pushing a baby carriage. The Germans, very edgy now that the end of the war was coming, had dug holes the size of small rooms by the side of the road. In case of an air attack, they would have somewhere to hide. These holes appeared like graves to me, although had a plane appeared overhead I would have jumped into one without any hesitation. My walk that late afternoon was a lonely trek and I felt the atmosphere heavy with danger. Miraculously, Farmer Dikkens, a big man with a pot-belly and large jowls, was agreeable. An admiring smile on his small lips, he held the cigarette packages in his hand, turning them over and over, in his fleshy hands. "What do you want for them?" "What are you willing to give?" I inwardly congratulated myself on this answer. "Fifteen pounds of wheat." "I think not," I answered, "there are others who will..." He did not let me finish. "All right, then, twenty-five pounds and that's my final offer." Sliding my hand into one of my pockets, I produced one of the chocolate bars and put it on top of the cigarette packages in his hands, saying nothing. He studied me with piercing eyes, suddenly wary. "You're not in cahoots with the Germans, are you?" "You know my father," I answered, "how can you ask such a thing." In the end he gave me thirty pounds of wheat and fifteen pounds of potatoes. His wife, it turned out, had been addicted to chocolate before the war and would be very pleased with the treat. I walked back home as quickly as I could. It was a going against the wind and the carriage wheels, which had no rubber rims, kept digging into the many ruts in the road. There was a gnawing worry within me. Grandfather had been so tired lately. And so very thin. He rarely got up out of his chair anymore although sometimes he surprised me. Pushing the carriage past an abandoned house, I noticed some scrap pieces of wood by its door. Our woodstove had not been burning this last month. Wood was very scarce. One night, months ago, people had cut down many of the trees lining the center road in town. I'd heard that one man who had no axe had fanatically hugged a tree tearfully claiming it as his own, until a neighbor had lent him an axe with the promise that he might share some of its wood. Others had hung on low-lying branches, breaking them off, pulling the branches behind them to their homes. There was no brushwood left close to the town. Out in the country there were still woods. But few dared to go for these trees because the Germans had issued an order after that night, saying that anyone caught cutting down any more lumber would be arrested. Leaving the carriage on the road, I ran up to the entrance of the abandoned house. Picking up the scrap pieces, I decided there was just enough wood for one good fire – a fire that would surely cheer grandfather's bones tonight. As well, I thought I would be able to concoct a meal that would taste better than the pancakes I had been making out of mashed tulip bulbs and other bits of leftover food. And the remaining chocolate bar still stashed in my pocket could be our dessert. In rather high spirits, I pushed the carriage back into our shed. Who knew but that the war would be over next week. I prayed again, quietly inside my heart, "Thank you, Lord, for this food. Thank you, Lord, for this bit of wood." Leaving the wood in the shed, I carried the potatoes under one arm and the bag of wheat under the other. When I pushed open the front door, it creaked horribly. One of the first things I would do after the war was oil its hinges. No familiar call of welcome hailed me from the livingroom. Perhaps grandfather was sleeping. He slept much and sometimes, or actually very often, was rather befuddled about the situation we were in. I could see his head resting sideways against the back of the chair. It faced the east window where he could look out on the fields. "Grandfather," I called, but there was no answer. I walked through to the kitchen and deposited my bargaining trophies on the counter. Then I walked back into the livingroom, approaching to the edge of the chair. "Napping, are we?" I joked, "Sleeping while your favorite grandson is bringing you not only a good supper but also a warm-bellied stove for the evening." Moortje, our black cat, was sitting on his lap. We never fed him anymore as there was no food. Although thin, the animal was wiry and did an admirable job catching mice and rats on his nightly raids. Moortje was inordinately fond of grandfather. No wonder, for the black creature received innumerable scratches behind his ears, under his jaw and along his furry back. As I came closer, Moortje stood up and began to meow, at the same time licking the top of grandfather's hand – a hand, I now noted, that hung slack over the edge of the chair. Suddenly afraid, I pushed the cat onto the floor and nudged the still figure. But even as I put out my hand, I knew. I knew that my grandfather had died before I could make the room warm, before I could boil the potatoes, and before I could make some sort of pancakes out of the wheat. Undeterred by my gesture, the cat jumped back onto grandfather's lap and began butting his black head against the unmoving chest. I knelt down on the floor in front of the chair, resting my head on the still lap. The cat half-sat on my head and began purring. I vaguely took in the familiar smell of grandfather's pipe, for even though it had been years since he had last smoked the odor of it permeated his clothes. I did not weep, but was overcome with weariness so great that all my limbs felt as if they had turned to jelly. I sat there for an hour or more - I don't know quite how long. But eventually I heard the front door creak open. Then there were footsteps and Paul came into the room. Paul was the Canadian pilot. "Nico?" His voice showed his surprise at seeing me on my knees with my head in grandfather's lap. I stirred but very slightly. "Yes," I answered softly. "Nico," he repeated, and there was something in his voice that made me raise my head and look at him. "What is it?" "Your father," he answered, and then there was a catch in his voice that gripped my heart with fear. "My father?" Standing up I repeated his words mechanically. The cat jumped to the ground and ran past Paul's legs. A minute later we could hear the door creak – Moortje had the uncanny ability to somehow paw it open on her own. All the while Paul stood still and I knew again, for the second time within a few hours, that something devastating was going to occur. "Is your grandfather sleeping?" Paul asked. "Yes," I answered, reasoning to myself that he was asleep, for weren't the dead asleep according to the Bible? "Somehow," our Canadian pilot continued, beckoning me over to the kitchen where he was heading, "somehow the Nazis became aware of your father's hiding place in the woods." I trailed him to the kitchen, not able to say anything. He continued, speaking more slowly, leaning his left arm on the counter next to the potatoes and the wheat, his voice low and showing no emotion, "This afternoon they raided it and your father..." "My father," I regurgitated, feeling surreal and hearing my words as if someone else had said them. "He was killed, Nico." "No one knew where he was hiding," I protested then, "no one at all. There was just grandfather and myself who knew." But within me I was aware that there was another person. And my heart pounded with the knowledge that I had confided in one other person where my father was hiding and that person was Lieneke Goudswaard - Lieneke with the blond, honey-colored braids. I stared at Paul. His eyes were full of compassion. "We'll not wake your grandfather," he said, "not yet, anyway." "But he," I stuttered, "he is dead too, Paul. He is dead too." A half-scream, half-groan erupted from my heart and from my belly and Paul's arms closed around me until I stopped. I was quiet afterward but could speak no words; neither could I weep. A great weariness overtook me again as I gazed at grandfather sitting in his chair, head tilted to one side while the potatoes and the wheat stood upright on the kitchen counter. And then things went black. Chapter 4. The judge I awoke on my bed later that evening, and I awoke because the door creaked. My head was fuzzy and it was hard to immediately remember what had happened. But the realization of death, loneliness and betrayal returned full force as soon as I sat up. Candlelight shone in from the livingroom. Swinging my feet over the edge of the bed, I peered through the small hall. I could just make out the figures of three men standing in the livingroom, one of them holding a candle, standing around grandfather's chair. They were Piet Winter, Hugo Enkel and Klaas Boks – all part of father's team, all part of the underground. I must have made some sort of noise, because all three simultaneously turned to find me looking at them. "Ah, Nico," said Piet, "I'm sorry, son. I'm deeply sorry about your father and," he added, "your grandfather." The others murmured agreement and I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. "We're going to bury your father tonight," Piet went on, "and we thought perhaps it might be a good thing if we buried your grandfather and your father next to one another." I nodded again. Klaas, a big man, lifted grandfather's body out of the chair and began carrying it towards the front door. It could not have been a difficult task for him because grandfather was light as air, so thin he had become. "Where," I asked, "will you bury them?" "In the church cemetery, next to your mother," Piet said, "we've already had some men dig the holes. We can't wait, Nico, because the liberation is coming closer each day and the Germans are getting so nervous that we're not sure what they'll do. But we're pretty certain they won't take the time to dig up graves. Do you want to come?" I walked towards him rather unsteadily. "Let me come with you afterwards too, Piet," I pleaded, "I've got nothing left here." He said nothing, but held out his hand and I took it – me, a grown boy of sixteen years, hanging on to someone as if I were a toddler. When we reached the churchyard several people emerged from their hiding places behind some of the larger tombstones. One of them was the dominee. No one spoke. As one body, we all moved forward silently towards the west side of the church. This was where my mother was buried. Wasn't it just last week that I had visited her grave with my father? And now, in the moonlight, I could see that two yawning hollows had been dug next to it. I watched silently as my father's body and my grandfather's body were lowered into those black mouths. There had been no wood for coffins for a long time now. "There are three things that are never satisfied, four that never say enough! The grave..." Like arrows from the bow of a hunter, the words from Proverbs found their mark straight into my heart and a great anger overcame me so that I turned away from the small group bunched around the gravesite and ran blindly away between the markers. Reaching the metal gate, I lifted the latch eventually finding my way home. And all the while I was thinking about what I would do next, all the while I was scheming how I could avenge...and I did not leave the end up to God. *** Paul came to the house some time later. He always came and went; I did not know the full extent of how involved he was with the underground. As I lay in bed, feigning sleep, I could feel him bend over my still form. He whispered my name but I didn't answer. Then he went to my grandfather's room and I knew he would sleep there for the night. But I did not sleep. *** Even before the morning light touched the horizon, I was up and into my clothes. My bow and arrows were stashed away in the shed under an old wheelbarrow. I checked them carefully before I headed in the direction of Lieneke's house. It had rained during the night. Puddles lined the road but there was a sweet south wind – a warm wind – and I thought of how grandfather would have enjoyed this day. He might even have sat behind the house if the sun proved to be warm enough. No one was about. Certainly a year ago, or even a half a year ago, I couldn't have walked out as freely as I did now or as I had done yesterday on my way to farmer Dikkens. The Germans badly needed manpower so they had been randomly conscripting men and young boys off the street. But the war was almost over now. Or so it was said, and Germans could be seen leaving town. Every day we saw small groups of soldiers walking through our streets, heading northeast. No matter though, during this particular pre-morning hour there was quiet and not a soul was about. Lieneke lived on the opposite edge of the town and upon reaching her home I stood for a long moment under the window that I knew held her bedroom. Then, taking the few pebbles I had collected from the roadside, I began to toss them gently and steadily, hitting her pane with a soft ping each time. It would not do to waken her father who would not take kindly to seeing me. Before long the curtains parted slightly to silhouette Lieneke's form. She opened the window and whispered. "Is that you, Nico?" "Yes," I answered, making my voice bland, giving away none of the emotion that roiled around inside me. "What is it?" "I'm going for a walk. Will you come?" She was silent, and for a few moments I was afraid that she would not come. We had often gone on walks together, she and I, and had been able to talk about many things. What these things were, I can't recall now – only that our rapport had been excellent. The reality of the bow and arrow under the wheelbarrow in the shed lay heavy on my heart. I heard birds begin to sing, only just now starting to wake. "I'll be there in a minute, Nico. Wait by the road." I breathed in deeply. She would come then. Slowly I sauntered back to the road. Spring, though late, had come and almost gone. I could smell it. Ragged robins, marjoram, and wild balsam flowered, flowered while people died. "Here I am, Nico." She had come up behind me so softly that I was startled. "Lieneke." "Where shall we go for a walk?" I did not answer but began to lead the way back in the direction of my house. "I'm sorry about your father and grandfather, Nico." There was something within me, something that pushed all other emotions away except for an overriding sense of ... of something I did not know how to define. Lieneke's hand gently stole into mine. It was a very thin hand and I could feel the bones. "I am truly sorry, Nico," she repeated. No response found its way to my lips and my right hand roughly pushed her hand away. She did not seem overly hurt by the gesture, supposing that my bereavement entitled me to rudeness. Blackbirds whistled their songs in fields, mingling their voices with those of finches. A lark rose up high above our heads, strong and proud, flying straight up to heaven. It was almost morning – almost. We walked without speaking for a long while, and eventually came to my house. I turned in, walking towards the shed. "What are we going to do, Nico?" I said nothing, simply holding the door open for her. She slipped into the semi-darkness of the interior and sat down on a broken chair propped up against the east wall. The earliest sunrays faintly fell through the cracks in the wall, shining on her blond braids. I noticed that she had not taken the time to comb her hair. It was slightly disheveled, with strands escaping from the thick plaits. But it did not look unkempt to me, rather it gave her an aura of being totally caught up in my welfare. I was not happy with that thought and forced myself to visualize my father being lowered into his grave. I sat down as well, on the dirt floor straight across from her, and took a deep breath. "Someone," I began in a neutral voice, "betrayed my father. Someone informed the police where my father was hiding." She nodded, her blue eyes fixed steadfastly on my face. "There was no one," I continued, "no one except myself, my grandfather and you, who knew where he was hiding." Her eyes became clouded, as tears formed. I could see them pooling, then overflowing, and finally falling down her cheeks. "Oh, Nico," she whispered, "you don't think that I..." "It is a fact," I said, "that there is no one else who knew." She said nothing but just looked at me. Tears ran down her face. I wanted a denial, a strong denial, and hot anger flooded my being. "You," I pushed out vehemently, "You're a traitor, just like your father! You wicked girl!" I stood up then, balling my hands into fists. Backing out through the shed door, I knelt down on the wet ground and picked up a pile of dirt. Packing it into a ball, I stomped back in. Lieneke still sat in the same spot. She hadn't moved. It was as if she were frozen. I hesitated but only for a moment. Slowly coming up to her, never taking my eyes of her face, I heavily deposited the huge clump of dirt on top of her head. Part of it oozed down, down past the honey-colored hair, onto her cheeks, mingling with the tears; but most of it stayed on top of the blond pile of hair. Walking backwards, I took my bow and arrow from under the overturned wheelbarrow. Fitting the arrow into the shaft, I aimed at the apple of dirt on Lieneke's head. "Why did you tell them?" I cried the words in agony. My fingers trembled. She did not contradict me but sat so still that she could have been a painting. The sound of loud, raucous laughter coming down the road startled me – startled me so that my fingers let go of the arrow. It whistled and struck Lieneke's left cheek, narrowly missing her eye. She flinched and her hands flew up to her face at the same time as the door behind me opened revealing Paul. "Nico! What are you doing?" I could not answer. For suddenly it was as if the dam of grief within me had burst its bounds and the waters swept me away so that I no longer had any control over my body. Paul was at Lieneke's side in an instant, speaking as he moved. "There is a German patrol coming down the road. I do believe they're totally tipsy. But neither of us had better be here if they decide to check on the house, or search this shed." "Run! You must run!" The words were Lieneke's and woodenly through my tears I saw that she had stood up. Blood trickled down her left cheek even as she spoke. What had I done? "I think you're all right," Paul said, addressing Lieneke, and then coming for me, he added, "Nico, we have to make a run for it. Those Germans will shoot us on sight." "But what about...?" My words slurred and I could not stop looking at the blood running down Lieneke's face. "I will be fine." She spoke the words almost formally, the wet dirt on her head continuing to seep downwards to mingle with the blood on her left cheek. "As you know, most of the Germans in town are acquainted with my father." She lifted one of her hands in a mock salute, a hand wet with her own blood as she added, "So you need not worry about me at all." Rooted in my spot, Paul had to push me alongside him towards the shed door, talking to Lieneke as he did so. "Go to the house and wash that wound," he instructed, looking at her over his shoulder, "Don't let any of that dirt infect it." Opening the door, and peering around the corner, he next pulled me out with him and we began our escape. Our house was built on a slope and the field behind it curved downwards towards a small stream. Even now I remember the shouting, the loud voices calling us to halt. We did not halt. Miraculously the shots that were fired missed us. Slipping and sliding, we reached the water, and all the while Paul dragged me behind himself. He dragged me until I lost consciousness. It was then that he carried me. *** When I awoke, I was lying on a cot in a small room. Paul was sitting at a table, as were some other men. I recognized Piet Winter and Klaas Boks, but there were others I did not know. Shifting slightly, the movement alerted them to the fact that I was awake. Paul stood up and sat on the edge of the cot. "So how do you feel?" "Where am I?" "That doesn't matter. What matters is that you're safe." "How long have I been here?" "Well, you've been sleeping for about two days now." "Two days!" He nodded and smiled. I was struggling to remember everything that had happened and closed my eyes at the immensity of the memories that hit me. My father and grandfather were gone. There was no one at all now except for Lieneke and she... "How is...?" But I could not bring myself to say her name out loud, and repeated, "How is...?" "First I want to tell you that we know who it was who told the police where your father was," Paul said in a low voice. "Who was it?" "It was your grandfather." Paul uttered the sentence softly. He knew the words would hurt. The men at the table had gone back to playing cards, to speaking quietly among themselves. "How could he? How could grandfather?" "He didn't mean to. The Gestapo came to your house that afternoon. Only they were not dressed like officers. They were dressed like ordinary folks. They questioned your grandfather and led him to believe that they were loyal Dutch citizens and that they were friends. They promised to bring some food for your grandfather and you if he would only tell them where his son was. They said they had an urgent message for your father from the queen." "The queen?" "Yes, and your grandfather believed it, and was more than willing to point them in the direction of your father's hiding spot." Paul stopped for a moment and eyed me compassionately before he continued. "You're grandfather was suffering from aging, Nico, and did not quite know what he was doing or saying the last while. Surely you know that." I did know it. I had seen him talk out loud to the cat as if she was my mother. And I also recalled that he had told me only a week ago that Prime Minister Gerbrandy had come to call, asking for his help in fighting the Nazis. "How do you know for a fact that he really told them?" I asked the question with a sigh and moved my feet under the thin blanket covering my form. "Because one of the German officers told Hendrik Jansen. The officer thought it was a huge joke. Hendrik is one of our men, but the officer didn't know that." I knew Hendrik Jansen. He was Tom's father and I'd gone to school with Tom for a long time. "So it was not Lieneke?" Paul shook his head. "No, Nico, it wasn't her at all. "How is she? Is she hurt very badly?" He replied rather indirectly, and I vaguely sensed that he was keeping something back. "The wound on her cheek was not very bad, just a scratch really." I sighed again, partly in relief this time, but when I wanted to get up, dizziness overtook me. Paul pushed me down. "Sleep, Nico. Sleep." Chapter 5. The substitute Two weeks later the war was over. So was my life as I had known it. Our house had been burned down to the ground. There was nothing left. There were only the three graves in the cemetery and I could not bed down there for the rest of my life. But I had no other family except for those three. It was Paul who provided me with a solution of what I ought to do. "Come back to Canada with me, Nico." "Come back with you?" "Yes," he said with a warm smile on his face, "my mother and father would love you. After all, it was your family, your father and grandfather and yourself, who saved my life." I talked with the dominee, and with Jaap Kunstenaar, both of whom encouraged me to accept Paul's offer and go with him to Canada. I tried very hard to see Lieneke, but every time I knocked on the door of her home, no one answered. The windows had been boarded up and the property appeared untended, unkept. The neighbors raised their eyebrows when I asked them about Lieneke and would tell me nothing. Neither was dominee or Jaap Kunstenaar able to relate anything to me as to the whereabouts of the family Goudswaard. I was ashamed to tell anyone what I had done to Lieneke the day after my father and my grandfather had died – Paul was the only one who knew. For all intents and purposes then, it was as if that whole episode, together with the Goudzwaard family, had disappeared from the face of the earth. And so I left my village without saying goodbye to someone who had never shown me anything but kindness. But now here was the mystery. Lieneke was in Canada – not only that – but she was in Canada with a child. That child was seven years old, born the year after the war was over, so he had been conceived during the war. Echoing, loud laughter in the hallway reminded me keenly of the loud, raucous, crowing laughter of the drunk soldiers coming down the road – coming down the road that morning when the birds had just begun to sing. And it came to me that Lieneke had offered herself as a substitute – offered herself so that Paul and I could live. I groaned out loud. Someone knocked at the door. Still absorbed in the past, I stood up and opened it. Little Nico Goudswaard faced me, or was it Lieneke? His grin sang at me. "I came back because you forgot to tell me your name." "Nico," I answered, "my name is Nico, just like yours. And," I added, "I think that I would like to ask your mother..." I didn't finish the sentence. I couldn't because I was weeping. This story first appeared in the December 2014 issue under the title "I Have A Sonne Seven Years Old; He is to me full deere..." Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books including "Katherina, Katherina," a novel taking place in the time of Martin Luther. You can read a review here....

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Book excerpts

The Reformation comes to Strasbourg

This past year we celebrated the 500th anniversary of the Reformation, and with the focus on Luther, but also other big names like Calvin, Knox and Zwingli. But there were countless others used by God and in this excerpt from Christine Farenhorst’s novel “Katharina, Katharina” (which is reviewed here) we learn of the Reformation as it happened in the city of Strasbourg, 400 miles from Wittenberg, and as it happened in the life of Katharina Schütz Zell. The following is an excerpt from chapter 23.   In the early fall of 1518, when the heat was beginning to ease off just a breath, and trees were setting up their easels of autumn colors, Matthis Zell, a new priest, took charge of the cathedral parish of St. Lawrence. **** It was Katharina’s friend, Annalein, who first informed her that St. Lawrence had acquired a new parish priest. "What does he look like?" Katharina asked, her curiosity piqued. They were sequestered in the Schütz sitting room, side by side, heads drawn close in conversation. She poked Annalein, who was dreamily staring out at the rectangular-shaped windowpanes through which the afternoon sun was shining. "What does he look like?" she repeated impatiently. "Who?" Annalein asked, almost as if she were waking up, "Whom does who look like?" "The new parish priest," Katharina said, resisting an urge to shake Annalein. "You just told me that St. Lawrence had a new parish priest." Annalein had always been rather absent with her thoughts. But Katharina knew that there was not a kinder girl in the whole of Strasbourg. "Oh, the new priest," Annalein responded, a slow smile appearing at the corners of her mouth, "He seems quite nice, actually. But Katharina, you will never guess whom I saw at Mass this morning. Herr Burrman and his wife and ...." "I didn't ask if the new priest was nice, Annalein," Katharina patiently replied, "but I asked what he looked like. You know as in: Was he tall? Did he have dark features….?" "Oh," Annalein said, "is that what you meant?" "Yes, it was." "Well, I only saw him from a distance and could not make out his features very well. He was of medium height – neither short nor tall. And whether or not he had a dark complexion...." She stopped, shrugging a little helplessly and then went on, animation lighting her pale face. "But Herr and Frau Burrman had their son with them. He is quite tall and rather good-looking, I think. They remembered me and stopped to speak with me. The son was very kind also. He asked after my health." During the somewhat rapid flow of words cascading down from Annalein's lips, Katharina observed her friend carefully. As far as she could recall, she had never heard her speak of anyone of the male gender with such praise. "What is his name? What is the son's name?" "It is Reinhart." "Reinhart," Katharina repeated, adding, "a very noble name." "Yes, indeed," Annalein agreed, "I did think so as well." Katharina smiled indulgently, before adding, "So might you see him again?" Annalein blushed most becomingly. "Well, he did say that he might call on my Mother, just," she added innocently, "to ask about some particular matters with regard to her tapestry work. He was thinking of buying something for the church because he is so thankful about his mother's complete recovery." "Oh, I see," Katharina said, "a devoted son. And that is," she added, "the way it should be." "Indeed," Annalein agreed demurely, hands folded in her lap, "he appears to be very devoted." Then the girls caught one another's eyes and they both began to laugh – first softly, but their peals of laughter increased by the moment. It was at that moment that Katharina’s sister Margaret walked in. "What are you laughing at?" she demanded, almost beginning to laugh herself because the merry sound that met her was so contagious. "Oh, nothing," Katharina spoke with difficulty, heaving a big sigh to control the mirth that kept bubbling up. "Nothing?" Margaret said disbelievingly. "Well, actually we were speaking of... of the new parish priest at St. Laurence," Annalein added, trying hard to speak seriously. "Well, what is so humorous about him?" Margaret asked, "I have heard him preach a few times and he is quite...." She stopped. In spite of herself, Katharina was intrigued. "He is quite what, Margaret?" "Well, I would say, he is quite stern." "Stern?" "His eyes," Margaret said, sitting herself down on a chair opposite the two girls, "his eyes are quite piercing and when he speaks, you must listen for you cannot look away." "You have not spoken of him before," Katharina observed, "but it seems that he has made quite an impression on you." "He carries himself," Margaret went on, "with a quiet dignity and not at all like many of the priests we are wont to see who...." She stopped, rather at a loss. "Yes," Katharina encouraged. "I would not," her sister said softly, "I would not malign those of the church and thus incur... incur...." "I know," Annalein finished her hesitating words, "you are not eager to incur a lot of disapproval, especially when you will feel bound to confess in the booth to your local priest what you have just said. For he is likely to fine you and give you a week's worth of 'Hail Mary's' to boot." "Annalein!" Both of the Schütz girls gasped at her audacity. Annalein placidly stared at them. "It is true what I said, is it not? I think I am not the only one to scoff at those who preach good works but who steal from the poor." As the sisters continued to stare at her, she added, "And, from what Margaret has just said, I would like to hear brother Zell preach, and not," and here she poked Katharina in the side, "just look at him." It was Katharina's turn to blush. "I merely wanted to know what he looked like, so that I would recognize him on the pulpit," she responded with what dignity she could muster. "As I said, I have heard him," Margaret repeated, noting her sister's blush with interest, "and I do learn from what he says." "How old," Katharina asked, "is he?" "I think that he would be in his late thirties, maybe about forty years of age," Margaret said, "quite old really. But not so old as Father. And," she added as a non sequitur, "he has a rather large, longish nose." **** It was not until several of months later, not until the spring of the new year of 1519, that Katharina finally met the new pastor of St. Lawrence in person. She had gone visit a woman whose only son, an eight-year old, had become ill with a severely swollen stomach. Steadfast at the boy's bedside, the mother had barely had any sleep. The child's stomach was so distended he continually screamed with pain. Purgatives had been administered, but the boy repeatedly vomited them up. Just prior to Katharina's visit, the doctor had concocted a powder which the child had kept down, soon afterwards passing a great many worms in his stool. "May Almighty God," the mother whispered, "still grant His grace in letting Kristoff live." Katharina patted her hand, then guided her towards a small cot made up in the corner of the boy's bedroom and made sure she lay down. Satisfied when both mother and child appeared to be sleeping, she went outside into the small yard with a bucket of sudsy water to clean the soiled sheets and blankets. She was thus occupied when she saw a priest approach the dwelling. Because she was aware that both child and mother were trying to sleep, she quickly ran to intercept the man. "Pardon me," she called, crying out just as he was lifting his hand to knock on the door, "but have you come to visit Frau Freiburg?" He stopped, hand in mid-air, and nodded. Somewhat shyly, she went on to explain that she was helping the family, putting her own soapy hands which held an old towel behind her back. "They were sleeping, both she and her child, when I left them some fifteen minutes ago," she finished. The priest had a rather longish nose and remembering her sister Margaret's comment, Katharina suspected that it might be the new priest of St. Lawrence parish and bit back a smile. "Truth be told," she went on, as the man did not respond but simply gazed at her, "the sleep will do both mother and child a world of good as the boy has been, and still is very, ill. But you are undoubtedly aware of his illness." While she spoke, she dried her hands on the towel. "So I take it," he spoke, and his voice was a rich, deep baritone, "that you suggest I not come in." "Far be it from me," she replied, "to tell you what to do. But, yes, given the severity of the boy's affliction and that he has been but a foot from the grave, I would deem it wise that you not awaken them." "You are quite right," he smiled, "and I think they have a fine neighbor in you, for you are a good Samaritan. Would that all the people in Strasbourg were so blessed." She blushed and he regarded her deeply for a long moment without speaking. "My name is Matthis Zell," he finally spoke. "Yes," she responded, "so I thought." There was another quiet. "And what might your name be, if I may be so bold as to ask?" "Katharina - Katharina Schütz." "Ah," he responded, regarding her with his great brown eyes, eyes which reminded Katharina of a faithful dog. She experienced a certain amount of regret that she had not worn a better gown, one with, perhaps, elaborately cuffed sleeves. But this man, this priest, did not seem the type of fellow to whom a matter such as dress would be important. Nevertheless, she felt a strange desire to appear pleasing to him, to appear neat, with a hair net hiding the ever-rambunctious hair strands that always escaped from beneath her cap. "Well, I must...." Katharina eventually said, blushing as he chose that same moment to also speak. They both left off words again and Katharina was quietly contemplating a return to her labors on the sheets and blankets, when they heard an agonized cry come from within the house. "I think," the priest said, "that we... that you, at any rate...." Katharina lost no time and bolted past Master Matthis Zell, who stepped aside to let her enter the front door. The wailing that met their ears, as soon as the door opened, was heart-rending. Katharina ran towards the bedroom. Although she had left both the mother and the boy in slumber, a state of turmoil and disorder met her eyes when she entered the bedchamber. Frau Freiberg was attempting to hold Kristoff, her son, down. But he, talking constantly, although not in such a way that one could understand him, was frantically trying to get out of bed. His breathing was labored and difficult and his eyes were bulging. Katharina knelt down on the opposite side of the bed and attempted to help Frau Freiberg get Kristoff to lie down again. Matthis Zell stood in the doorway, but then also drew near to the bedside. "Let me help," he said, "I am stronger. Perhaps if I lift him up and carry him about, he will be more comfortable." The two women immediately stood up and Matthis bent over the child, easily lifting the lad up in his strong arms. Initially Kristoff quieted in the priest's embrace, but just as Katharina was about to heave a sigh of relief that a crisis had been averted, the child began to convulse. Within a few minutes, the boy was dead – dead in the priest's arms. Gently he laid the boy back on the bed, closing the wide-open eyes. Then turning to the bereft mother who had fallen down on her knees by the edge of the bed, tightly gripping the blanket in her hands as if by doing that she might hold on to the life of her little one, he laid one hand on her head. "May God keep Kristoff safe until we come to him!" "Indeed," Katharina echoed, even as she, coming around the bed, put her arms about Frau Freiberg. A little cowhide-covered horse stood in the corner of the room. Herr Freiberg, a merchant, had brought it back for Kristoff from one of his business trips the last time he had been home. A brown jerkin and some skin-colored stockings hung over the toy's side. How long ago had it been since the boy had worn them? How long since he had played with the horse? How vain life was! Soon this child, Katharina fleetingly mused even as she patted Frau Freiberg's shoulder, would be buried to the tune of clergy's chanting and the sound of bells would carry his memory away. For who would remember him in the long run? Who would? **** Later, after Frau Freiberg's relatives had come to be with her, Katharina and the black-robed Matthis Zell went home, walking together side by side for a considerable length of streets. Katharina was somewhat lost in thought, her mind overly occupied with the loss that Frau Freiberg had to sustain. Why did such things happen? It was true, all men had to die - but such little ones?! Hard put to keep up with Katharina's quick steps, Matthis was uneasy. He was impressed by the girl's gentle and yet decisive manner, by her way of helping the family they had just left, but she seemed so far-off with her thoughts now. He studied her profile as she paced next to him. It almost seemed as if she had forgotten that he was there. "Which church," he began in a low tone, curious but also genuinely interested in the young woman that providence had placed on his path, "do you attend, Fraulein Schütz?" She began walking slower, suddenly realizing that he was still there, and turned her large blue eyes towards him. They were troubled, he noted. "Which church?" she repeated slowly, "Well we, that is to say, my family and I, always attended Dr. Geiler's church. After he died his nephew, Peter Wickram, took over the pulpit but Peter Wickram is not his equal in preaching, I am afraid." He inclined his head to show that he had heard this, but did not say anything else, as he believed it was in bad taste to criticize a colleague. "You are at St. Lawrence?" Katharina asked him. He nodded again. "Yes, I am and I have been given comfortable quarters on the Bruderhof Strasse just behind the Cathedral." He did not know himself why he volunteered this information. Surely the girl was not interested in knowing where his place of residence was. She smiled, slowing her pace even more, "I am glad for you. It must be difficult to come to live in a new place where you know very few people." "The ones I have come to know have been kind," he rejoined. "Where," she hesitatingly went on, not wishing to appear nosy, "are you from?" "From Kaysersberg." "Oh, that is where Dr. Geiler was from. It was his home town." Her face shone now and he remarked within himself that the smile which transformed her face exposed a sweetness that was very pleasant to behold. "Yes, I have heard that he was." "And did you know," Katharina went on eagerly, "that forty years ago Dr. Geiler was on his way to a preaching post at Wȕrzberg when he was waylaid by Peter Schott, who was one of the chief magistrates of Strasbourg, and was persuaded by him to come here instead?" "I have heard the story," Matthis Zell replied. "And Peter Schott, who was also curator of the Cathedral, had the magnificent stone pulpit built for Dr. Geiler, with its nearly fifty saints, from which he preached for some thirty years to us here in Strasbourg. Perhaps you will also...." Matthis Zell nodded and smiled as she halted her account. "I had indeed heard." Katharina had stopped because she was suddenly embarrassed. Here she was again, dominating a conversation and comparing this man to Dr. Geiler. Perhaps he was intimidated by her words. Indeed, it was perhaps most unkind. Katharina herself did not like to be compared to others. It was sometimes humiliating and oppressing. She began another topic, trying to cover up her enthusiastic endorsement of Dr. Geiler. "And your parents live there - in Kaysersberg? And have you brothers and sisters whom you will surely miss?" She stopped again. She was such a waterfall of words and knew herself to be speaking overly much, something her mother was always warning her not to do. "I," she continued, suddenly shy and withdrawing her smile, "do apologize for talking too much and for asking such questions as are not really mine to ask. I surely over speak." "No, indeed," he responded quickly, "too few people are interested. They think a priest is made only of black robes and has not a background of flesh and blood and is not interested in stories and such." This made Katharina grin in spite of herself, for she knew that there were indeed a great many priests who were very much made of flesh and blood, priests consisting mainly of bellies and greed. "Why do you smile now?" Matthis Zell's curiosity was piqued. "It is just," and she spoke slowly now, not certain as to what she should reveal of her thoughts, "that I have known a great many priests who hid money pouches and slack flesh underneath their robes." He was quiet for a great many steps and she was afraid that she had been too bold once more and that she had offended him. "I am sorry," she began, "I did not...." But he interrupted. "No, you need not apologize. I am only too well aware of the iniquities of a great many men of the cloth." He sighed deeply at he made this statement. "I am sure that you," she began again, "especially from what I have heard of you...." He cut off her words. "Do not listen to what others say, Katharina. It is often only exaggeration and this often leads to disappointment." Katharina blushed. She knew herself rebuked and stared pointedly at her shoes before reverting the conversation back to the question she had asked him before. "Do have you have family?" This seemed a safe topic, and one that would not lead to controversy. Besides that, inside herself she was for some inexplicable reason so very glad that Matthew Zell came from the very same city in which her beloved Dr. Geiler had made his home and she wished to hear him speak of it. "Well, I have a housekeeper, Mey-Babelli, who was cook to my aunt in Freiburg. When my aunt died, Babelli came to live with me and she takes care of me. So she is like family. But, yes, I also have one sister and one brother. My sister's name is Odile." "Odile," Katharina softly repeated, "that is a very nice name. I know no one by that name. Perhaps some day I will meet her." "Yes, perhaps you shall," Matthis Zell nodded as he spoke. "As for me, I did not stay in Kaysersberg, and have not been back for a number of years except briefly to visit my brother who still resides there." "Where have you lived then?" "Well, I served in the army for a short time. And this was the time during which I moved away from Kaysersberg and lived neither here nor there as the regiment I was with moved about quite a bit. And after serving in the army, I went on to enroll in the university of Freiburg in Breisgau. When I received my master of arts there, I continued with theological studies." "Why?" Katharina knew it was another rather impertinent question and she looked back down at her shoes even as it flew out of her mouth. But Matthis Zell did not appear to be put off by it. "Because I did so love to study and the more I studied the more I loved it." "You felt not that you ought to study, in order to....? You only did it for the sake of the pleasure of studying? That is to say, you were not motivated by an inward call....?" She stopped here abruptly. Her speech had consisted of unfinished phrases, and she knew quite well that her words sounded muddled, probably making very little sense to him. "Motivated by an inward call from God?" he finished her last phrase, noting that her face was clouded. "Yes," she looked up at him now as she spoke, her blue eyes bright with interest, "for it seems to me that God has a purpose for all people and it also seems to me that if priests were to take such a purpose seriously we would not see all the vice that is so rampant in Strasbourg today." A voice within her, a voice that sounded remarkably like her mother, warned her that once more she had overstepped her oral bounds and had spoken too much and too quickly. After all, she had only just met this man. After all, her words accused the priesthood and the man walking next to her was a priest. She glanced at his face. In profile his nose seemed longer than it actually was. That nose was now pointing at the ground. It was almost as if the nose was sad. "I'm sorry," she murmured, truly repentant of perhaps having caused him discomfort. He had been a source of easement to Frau Freiberg and Kristoff and the fact remained that she had only heard good things about him. He put her worries to rest by smiling, revealing even, white teeth. Luther posting his 95 theses in 1517, by Ferdinand Pauwels "No need to feel sorry. I'm glad you feel that you can speak your mind to me," he replied. "What think you of Luther and his views?" she said, blurting the words out rather quickly, for this indeed was a matter which nagged at her often, nagged her at night and in the daytime as well. "Luther?" "Yes, Herr Luther. You surely know of the priest in Wittenberg who has written at length about indulgences and who posted, just this last year, some points on the church door of that city." He smiled. "Yes, I am acquainted with Herr Luther. I am, and have for some time, been reading a number of things that he has written. My parishioners obviously read him, and I ought to be aware of what they are reading." He smiled as he said this, but she did not smile in return. "I would know what you think of his charter, of his theses," she said, "for his words do touch my soul." "As they do mine," brother Zell immediately rejoined, "as they do mine." "Do you think he speaks the truth?" Katharina asked. "He is a very courageous man, in any case, to speak as he does. As you may know, he appeared before Cardinal Cajetan at Augsburg last October. They spoke for three solid days. Initially, I understand, Luther prostrated himself on the floor in a gesture of humility before the Cardinal, and the Cardinal raised him up as a gesture of goodwill. But Luther refused to take back anything that he said." "Yes," Katharina very nearly stood still, turning her body towards him, her feet moving at a snail's pace, "so I have heard." They had almost arrived at an intersection. "He has said," she cautiously went on, "that the person who truly repents has full forgiveness both of punishment and guilt, even without letters of indulgence." Matthis Zell looked at her rather quizzically. "So I have read also," he responded. "And what thought you?" "I think that the trafficking in indulgences is shameful," Matthis replied, his eyes serious, "and it grieves me deeply." She heard that he meant his words and, although she knew the truth of them, was rather shocked by the sentences that followed. "The public perception of the priesthood is appalling. Nearly all people disrespect the priests. There are so many examples of gluttony, of ambition, of lives of lasciviousness, of harlots being allowed into monasteries...." He stopped rather abruptly. It was almost as if he had forgotten that she was there. She wished to reply; to say something intelligent, or, at any rate, something comforting, for she gauged that he was lonely. But there was nothing that came to mind. And his voice, almost metallic now, continued. "They say that the nearer people live to Rome, the less religious they are. How incredibly strange and despairing is that thought! And I have heard tell that there are those who care not what evil they do, for they say they can always get a plenary remission of all guilt and penalty by absolution and indulgence granted by the Pope for four or six or ... or whatever sum of money they carry." The metallic tone in his voice had given way to a tremendous sadness - a sadness which distressed Katharina and which made her want to hold his hand to guide him away from such black thoughts. This she could do with little Jacob, but with a priest? No, of course not. But he did appear so mournful. She swallowed and was about to say something about the weather, when he went on again. "Rome has become a harlot. The church has become blind to all but that which brings monetary gain. And we have so many poor, so many who stand in need of love and help." He stopped, seeming suddenly to remember that he was speaking with someone and was not alone. "I am sorry," he said. "I do indeed apologize for speaking so freely." She shook her head, cautiously replying, "I speak too much and too hastily myself. And what you say is true." She forgot that but a few moments ago she had sincerely worried about her hair coming undone, about a few stray strands flying about her face, for truly there were so many more important things to worry about. "I have to turn off here at this corner," she swallowed as she spoke, regretting that they were now close to the Johanngasse, "and you will have to keep on straight to reach the Bruderhof Strasse." "I know," he said and she bit her lip yet once more for appearing to know the way better than he did. "Well, Katharina," and he spoke softly, as if to guide her into humility, "I have very much enjoyed speaking with you and hope we can do so again. I think I can tell you a story, perhaps the next time we meet, of an encounter I had with Dr. Geiler when I was but a small boy." Her eyes widened at this. He had stopped - stopped walking and stopped talking. She did too. "You met Dr. Geiler when you were a little boy?" "Yes, indeed. It was only a small encounter, but I should like to tell you about it as I gather you really loved him, this great preacher of Strasbourg. I also hope," he then added warmly, "that you feel you might want to hear me preach some time."   She vigorously pumped her head up and down, feeling several more hair strands escaping her hair net. In spite of herself, her hands flew up to smooth out and tuck in the rebellious curls. "I would very much like to hear the story of your meeting with Dr. Geiler. And, yes, I would also like to hear you preach and I thank you for helping Frau Freiberg," she ended the conversation rather lamely, sensing innately she had used a great deal too many 'I's' in these sentences, yet adding, "and I bid you good-day, brother Zell." He smiled at her and the corners of his mouth, as well as the corners of his eyes, crinkled with the many laugh lines that the years had placed there. She was glad of it, for some of the weariness and sadness that had lined his face but a few short moments ago, disappeared. Looking into his friendly face, she flushed even deeper before she turned and walked towards the Johanngasse. After staring at her retreating figure for a few moments, Matthis Zell also turned and walked towards the Bruderhof Strasse. Pick up your copy of Christine Farenhorst’s “Katharina, Katharina” at Sola-Scriptura.ca/store/shop....

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What are we to make of gambling?

And He said to them, "Take heed and beware of covetousness for one's life does not consist in the abundance of the things he possesses. (Luke 12:15)  ***** The thesaurus defines the Victorian Age, (1837-1901), as a period in British history during the reign of Queen Victoria. It is said that her character and moral standards restored the prestige of the British monarchy but also gave the era a rather prudish reputation. Strangely enough, however, a number of happenings recorded during this time period were wagers – bets which certainly cannot be defined as prudish but which can be defined as coarse and as lacking in compassion. Strange wagers For example, once when a passer-by collapsed in the street, a number of aristocrats inside the building into which the poor man was brought, bet on whether he would live or die. Another example is that of rich Lord Alvanley, (1789-1849), a gambling dandy, and a member of the Prince of Wales' circle, who triflingly bet on a race between two raindrops slowly trickling down a fancy club window. The amount he put down on the raindrop he favored was a whopping 3,000 pounds, an amount 300 times the annual earning of a general servant. Many of these inappropriate wagers were minutely recorded in a book published in 1892. There were other ridiculous bets placed during this era – bets which indicated a desire for fame and attention. In 1891, in Bristol, a sixteen-year-old boy named John Magee, wagered that he could swallow fifty-three marbles. Why fifty-three? Perhaps those were the number of marbles the other boys standing around owned between them. John Magee proceeded to swallow all fifty-three of the marbles, and apparently seemed none the worse for the swallowing, although perhaps a little heavier in weight. A friend, a little anxious about possible repercussions, took him to a hospital where he was kept for observation and where doctors later extracted forty-three of these marbles. Again, with the desire to appear strong and to become famous, in 1899 a High Wycombe citizen placed a bet during the town's Christmas fair that he could enter a cage of lions and emerge unscathed. Perhaps this in itself was not so spectacular, but he actually vowed that he would sit down in the cage, smoke a cigar and drink a bottle of champagne to the health of his friends, all the while in the company of the large cats. This he did, while a crowd of onlookers gaped and wondered what would happen. The lions, part of a circus, left the man alone during this suicidal feat and he descended from the cage amid wild applause. Victorian England was not the only place in which strange bets were made. In 1896, and again in 1900, in the United States, William McKinley ran against William Jennings Bryan for president. In 1900, McKinley won for the second time. Prior to the voting, a Henry Winsted of Kinkley, Indiana said he would engage in a butting match with a full grown ram if McKinley was elected, whereas a John Burns, of the same town, said he would drink three pints of hard cider while standing on his head in a barrel, if Bryan was voted in. Another fellow, a Samuel Carpenter of Wisconsin, who was an ardent supporter of Bryan, said he would wear all his clothes backwards for four years if McKinley won the election. What are we to make of gambling? How people love attention, and how they are apt to magnify themselves! So what are we to make of gambling? We can chuckle at the above stories and anecdotes and tell ourselves we would never go this far and that such ridiculousness would never touch our lives. Leland Ryken, who served as professor of English at Wheaton College for more than 50 years, wrote in his book World Saints: the Puritans as they Really Were: It is true that the Puritans banned all recreation on Sundays and all games of chance, gambling, bear baiting, horse racing and bowling in or around taverns at all times. They did so, not because they were opposed to fun, but because they judged these activities to be inherently harmful or immoral. My father, a man who loved to play games, was very opposed to his children playing card games upon our first moving to Canada from Holland. He had seen, in his youth and later in his ministry, too many people who had lost their paychecks because they played card games in local pubs – card games in which wagers and money bets were all too common. The Bible actually contains no specific command that says: You may not gamble. But it does contain principles for walking in a way which is pleasing to God. The tenth commandment, for example, clearly speaks of the sin of coveting. And coveting is one of the reasons people gamble and play the lottery. We had some pleasant neighbors, Bob and Jane, in a previous home in which we lived. During the last years we knew them, the wife took a job as a waitress and Bob and Jane decided together that they would use her tips, for fun they said, to visit a casino and place some bets. They would only use the tips – no more and no less. Sometimes they won a little and sometimes they lost it all. But before they knew it, they were hooked. As a matter of fact, the husband became so hooked he gambled away his home, his mother's home and his marriage. Governments hooked on gambling In 2014, the Quebec government made over $1.2 billion in gambling profits. Almost 70 per cent of the people in Quebec gamble – mainly on lottery tickets. It seems to be a popular pastime. It has been studied and recorded that 0.6 per cent are pathological gamblers, and 1.2 per cent are at risk of becoming so. There are sad consequences for families as seen in the case of our erstwhile neighbors. Before gambling was legalized in Canada and before lottery corporations were set up, it is said that these things were run by organized crime. On the defensive, the Quebec government has set up treatment programs for pathological gamblers with free accessible services. As of 2016, the province of Ontario has 33 casinos containing more than 25,622 slots and gaming machines. There are a whopping total of 651 table games through which a person can lose lots of money. In the United States, land-based casinos made approximately $315 billion dollars in 2015. Meanwhile, Macau, China, is the largest casino market in the world, the gaming industry contributing significantly to the economy of Macau. Its gross gambling revenue in 2014 was $44 billion. Staggering amounts of money! Wasting God-given resources 1 Timothy 6:10 states: "... the love of money is the root of all evil." It is a clear statement. It is a statement which calls gambling sin. The talents given by Jesus to each and every believer are to be used by us. These talents include time, money and witnessing ability. We are going to be asked how we, as servants, have used our talents. If they have been wasted, gambled away, we need only look to the end of the parable told by Jesus in Matthew 25 to find out what happened to the man who was wasteful and abused his talents. Our time and our resources belong to God Who bought us with a price (I Cor. 6:20). We may not fritter away His resources. General Cadwallader Colden Washburn, (1818-1882), an American business man, politician and soldier who was the governor of Wisconsin from 1872-74, said in his annual message to the state in 1873: Some law seems to be required to break up the schools where gamblers are made. These are everywhere. Even the church, (unwittingly, no doubt), is sometimes found doing the work of the devil. Gift concerts, gift enterprises and raffles, sometimes in aid of religious or charitable objects, but often for less worthy purposes, lotteries, prize packages, etc., are all devices to obtain money without value received. Nothing is so demoralizing or intoxicating, particularly to the young, as the acquisition of money or property without labor. Respectable people engage in these chance enterprises, and ease their consciences with the reflection that the money is to go to a good object. It is, therefore, not strange that the youth of the state should so often fall into the habits which the excitement of games of hazard is almost certain to engender. Perhaps we never will and do not even contemplate disgracing our persons by crossing the threshold of a casino. But are we making correct choices in all the areas of our lives? It is good to recall how godly men in times past have exhorted others in matters of living godly lives. One Joseph Alleine, an English noncomformist pastor (1634-1668), and one who was imprisoned several times for his steadfast perseverance in ministry, wrote these sound words: The unsound “convert” takes Christ by halves. He is all for salvation, but not sanctification. He is all for the privileges, but neglects the person of Christ... Many men do not love the Lord Jesus in sincerity... they desire salvation from suffering, but do not desire to be saved from sinning. They would be saved and keep their lusts; they are content to destroy some sins, but cannot leave the lap of Delilah. They cannot be cruel to the right eye or hand. O be infinitely careful here, your soul depends upon it! One of Webster's definitions of gambling is "to risk losing (something valuable or important) in order to do or achieve something" Mind what you do with your time, money and daily witness. This article was first published in the October 2016 issue under the title "Beware of covetousness." Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books, her latest being Katherina, Katherina, a novel taking place in the time of Martin Luther. You can read a review here, and buy it at www.sola-scriptura.ca/store/shop....

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Parenting

On reading together

It used to be, a generation and a half or so ago, that reading out loud was family entertainment. My own childhood memories – although not so idyllic as to picture my Mom knitting or mending every evening while my Dad whittled away on some useful wood carving to the tune of Dickens – do still include fond recollections of family story telling. Every holiday season we rented a cottage on an island in the North Sea. While we were there we did a lot of hiking. Mom always took along a blanket and a bag full of Groninger koek, a chewy and filling type of bread-cake. We’d settle down somewhere – either on the edge of a farmer’s pasture with mournful, dark-eyed cows cozying up to the fence, or in a grove of sweet-smelling fir trees. After we played some games Dad would pull out his copy of a book by the unlikely title of Pa Pinkelman. We savored the flavor of his voice as much as we did the hearty flavor of the koek. It’s a good memory and I hope it’s a memory our children have as well. Today’s parents, however, are faced with a problem that appears to thwart memories of togetherness times. This problem is called television and computer technology. It’s a push-button age we live in and children are brought up in an environment that encourages sitting back and watching - an environment that can encourage a negative attitude towards reading. Reading Together, Longer But is reading to a child really that important? It is a fact that children read to in childhood read easily when older and will keep that interest in reading in later years. Many parents make the mistake of no longer reading aloud to their children when they reach the age of being able to do so on their own. The example is used of learning to ride a bicycle. When a child learns, you give him a shove and off he goes on his own down the road. But is it not pleasurable, to both you and the child, to have occasion to ride together? Shared experience heightens pleasure and fosters a desire to keep going. The Christian aspect to this, and it cannot be stressed enough, is that of shared Bible devotions after mealtimes and before bedtime. “Listen, my son, to your father’s instruction and do not forsake your mother’s teaching. They will be a garland to grace your head and a chain to adorn your neck.” (Prov.1:8-9). Reading out loud improves reading skill and more difficult books can be progressively introduced over time promoting conversations on many topics. Many parents feel uncomfortable reading out loud to children when the children get to be a bit older. They are unsure of the choice of books and afraid of being rejected in favor of other pastimes. Sad to say, they often, especially if a mother works outside of the home, are too tired and too occupied with other household chores. Yet, developing the desire and ability to read in a child is a parent’s God-given task. This is not a mandate to teach ABC’s and ensuing words, but a mandate to communicate to a child a number of truths. The foremost of these are that an all-powerful God has created; that we have fallen; that we need repentance and forgiveness in Christ; and that all of creation awaits the second coming of Christ. Parents are also to teach responsibility intertwined with providence; they are to show children that there is reprobation as well as election; they must ensure that children are aware of hell as well as heaven; and they must make children acutely aware of the antithesis. Much of this is accomplished by teaching a child what and how to read. What’s Out There Some years ago, twelve parents analyzed 45 books selected at random from major book lists recommended to librarians that year. Their purpose was to graph what authors were telling the teens of the day about the world through fiction, and to work with the library to add books for diversity. These parents made some startling discoveries. There were no books from Christian publishers on the lists and dominant themes in these books were classified as follows: - most fathers are absent or bad - sixty percent of mothers work outside the home full time - marriage is boring or dangerous - parents and their kids are estranged half the time - clergy are bumbling hypocrites - the spirit world helps kids more than it hurts them - I can solve my own problems. God doesn’t help - sex outside marriage isn’t wrong unless it’s forced - death is prominent, even pervasive - profanity is in seventy percent of the books The above are another ten good reasons why parents should be aware of what their children could possibly be absorbing. And this was from back in 1988, and things are not getting better. Children are given a fair amount of alarming baggage when they read current books. Developing Habits If parents drink on a daily or weekly basis, it is easier for their children to become accustomed to alcoholic beverages. If parents are not respectful toward one another, children are apt to be disrespectful and unkind to their peers. If parents don’t go to church, it is not likely their offspring will develop the habit. If parents don’t read the Bible on a daily family basis and discuss what they have read with their young listeners, their children will not become aware of God’s values, unless the grace of God intervenes. If parents allow children unsupervised access to public or school libraries, they are treading on thin ice and their children are apt to fall into cold and numbing waters. If children are left by their parents to feed on an ample diet of TV and to snack voraciously on computer games, they will end up with scurvy of the soul, osteoporosis of the heart and die of spiritual hunger. It is rather obvious that parenting is a full-time job. A child left to himself, Proverbs 29 tells us, disgraces his mother. There are also Christian family do’s. For example, do know what is in your church, school and public library. Recommend good books to the librarians in all three and be prepared to give reasons why you recommend these books. Do know what kind of magazines are in these libraries. Do put God-centered books in every room of your house. Do communicate with other Christian parents as to what they are reading. Do pray daily with and for your children. Do have daily devotions and discussions with your children. A couple recommendations The fact that many Christian parents are unaware of what is available in the area of Christian books and magazines is sad. The following is meant to fill this void just a bit. Books Children Love by Elizabeth Wilson 2002 / 320 pages A nice guideline to reading. God’s World Publications  This organization publishes different age level magazines - the first level is kindergarten and the last level is high school. As well they publish an adult weekly magazine, a sort of Christian Time periodical, called WORLD magazine. These magazines are excellent in that they teach children as well as adults to be discerning in what they read. Highly recommended Endnote What are Your Kids Reading by Jill Carlson, Wolgemuth and Hyatt Pub. Inc., Brentwood, Tennessee, 1991, page 3. For another resource for good books, check out Reformed Perspective's children's fiction reviews and non-fiction reviews, and picture book reviews. Christine Farenhorst is the author of a number of books that would make for great read-alouds – you can find them listed here. This article is an abridged version of one originally published under the title "And a Chain to Adorn Your Neck.”...

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Go to the ant, you sluggard…

"Go to the ant, you sluggard consider its ways, and be wise! It has no commander, no overseer or ruler, yet it stores its provision in summer and gathers its food in harvest."  – Proverbs 6:6-8 ***** Often when we go shopping on Tuesdays we pass men who stand at intersections at various parts of the city of Kitchener. Usually wearing a hat, mittens and some sort of great coat, often a dog seated at their side, these fellows are shamelessly panhandling. With their hands they display a sign which reads something like "No Job - Anything will Help," or "Hungry and Homeless, Thanks so Much." One of my daughters sometimes takes a lunch bag with her in her car prior to going out. She will put a sandwich in there, a piece of fruit and a tract and will hand that out. On December 12, 2016, the Dallas Morning News published an article about a new initiative to recruit panhandlers for day labor. The job program which was being proposed would pay people $10.37 an hour for cleaning up litter or working in parks. This particular program, however, did not work out, the article went on to say, because some panhandlers were reportedly making more than 50 dollars an hour just by begging. The city of Bloomington, Indiana recently installed 28 signs downtown that read, “Please help. Don’t encourage panhandling. Contribute to the solution.” The sign has a large "no panhandling" symbol in the middle and a web address at the bottom that links to a webpage which lists several organization combating homelessness. One of these organizations is Shalom. Shalom Community Center is an all-inclusive resource center in Bloomington for people who are living in poverty and experiencing hunger, homelessness, and a lack of access to basic life necessities. Last year, Shalom's re-housing program helped nearly 200 people, a third of whom were children, move off the streets and into homes. Although concerned with bodies rather than souls, Shalom's effort to help the homeless, does seem to be a laudable effort. Work is a blessing There have been both workers and sluggards throughout history. British Field Marshal George Wade, (1673-1748), was an enterprising man and one who would have been ashamed to stand on British street corners for a hand-out. An officer who served in several wars, he worked hard to attain the rank of Field Marshal. (The rank of Field Marshal has been the highest rank in the British army since 1736.) Between 1725 and 1737 Wade oversaw the construction of some 250 miles of road, plus 40 bridges. Roads linking Perth, Inverness, and Fort Augustus appeared where previously there had been tracks suitable only for single file passage of men or horses. Wade was popular with the British people and is the only person mentioned by name in the English national anthem. It's not a stanza with which people are familiar or one that is often sung. Lord, grant that Marshal Wade May, by thy mighty aid, Victory bring. May he sedition hush And, like a torrent, rush Rebellious Scots to crush. God save the King. Field Marshll Wade did have a sinful weakness. He loved gaming, which is a polite way of saying that he really enjoyed gambling. When he was occupied in this pursuit, he was not greatly concerned about the company he kept and could so totally lose himself in the moment of concentrating on his cards, that he became oblivious to all else. Gaming houses, or casinos, for that matter, are not mentioned in the Bible. God does, however, warn against temptations associated with gambling. There are numerous verses which warn against the love of money. One evening as Wade was totally absorbed in a card game, he noticed that his valuable gold snuff box was missing. Snuff, a smokeless tobacco, is made up of pulverized tobacco leaves. It is inhaled or "snuffed" into the nasal cavity, delivering a shot of nicotine. These pulverized leaves were usually kept in a snuff box. As Wade absently reached for the box in his pocket, his fingers could not detect the coveted container – a container which had diamonds set into its frame. "Stop the game!" he cried in a booming voice, suddenly very much aware of his rank and military prestige, "and no one shall leave this room without being searched!" Every eye was on him and quiet descended on the gaming room. There was a rather destitute gentleman seated next to Wade at the table. Dressed very shabbily, he was a soldier as well. The man had lost several times at the games and with great politeness had asked that Wade back his bets. When the problem of the missing snuff box emerged, and Wade insisted that everyone be searched, he alone objected. "You will not search me," he repeated several times rather vehemently, "I'd rather fight a duel to defend my honor or die in the attempt." His challenge was accepted with alacrity by Wade, who thought to himself that the fellow was obviously the thief. The two men retired to an anteroom with two other men who had volunteered as seconds and the duel was about to take place. Upon reaching for his sword, however, Wade suddenly detected the snuff-box in a secret pocket compartment – a compartment he had completely forgotten to check while searching. Stopping short, he walked over to the other soldier. "Sir," he began, and his voice did not boom quite as loudly as before, "Sir, I have every reason to believe that I need to apologize to you and ask your pardon. And I hope that in the morning you might do me the honor of having breakfast with me." The other man looked surprised, but agreed to the arrangement. The next morning, as they were eating together, Wade posed the other man a question. He was intensely curious. "Why, friend, did you refuse to be searched?" "Because, sir, being upon half-pay and alone, I am obliged to watch every penny. Yesterday I had little appetite; and as I could not eat what I had already paid for, nor could afford to lose it, the leg and wing of a chicken were wrapped up in a piece of paper in my pocket. I would have been mortified had these been found on me and I preferred fighting a duel rather than facing that embarrassment." Wade stared at the man opposite him at the table, weighing him, before exclaiming: "Enough said! You, sir, will also dine with me tonight. And afterwards we will talk about what to do regarding your dilemma." That night Wade presented the shabby-looking soldier who had been reduced to penury, with a commission, and a purse to enable him to join the regiment. The man who had attached such a great value to his dignity, received the commission with gratitude and began work immediately. How best to help? For Christians, work ought to be a great blessing especially when it is pervaded with gratitude to the Creator God. Work alone, however, will not open the gates of heaven for someone. Only the perfect work of the Lord Jesus Christ can do that. Nevertheless, Christians have a working God. In creation God worked for six days and rested on the seventh. Our days, which have for the most part been reduced to a five-day work week, should reflect God's work ethic. We see and read of many people who are unemployed. There are those who truly want to work and can't find employment, but there are also welfare recipients who prefer to remain welfare recipients. The Biblical welfare system, as described in Lev. 19:10 and Lev. 23:22, was a system of work. Panhandling was never prescribed for Israel. The Bible is quite clear in its condemnation of those who are sluggards – those who are lazy. The Christian work ethic is straightforward. In I Tim. 5:8 we are taught: "If anyone does not provide for his relatives, and especially for his immediate family, he has denied the faith and is worse than an unbeliever." Should we give money to panhandlers? The desire to give is a good one. Generosity is a virtue and should proceed from a heart which knows it has been given all by Jesus Christ. To give money to someone on the street is a personal decision with both positive and negative aspects. Perhaps satisfying an immediate relief that you have helped someone, the truth is that you will not know whether or not your gift will be used for alcohol, tobacco or drugs. It might be better to search for a Christian organization, so that you can be assured that your money will go towards definite needs. Or it might be better to take the panhandler out for a sandwich and a cup of coffee. It is true that we presently labor among thorns and thistles and in the sweat of our brow. Yet our attitude should be the same as that of our Lord Jesus, whose food was to do the will of the Father Who sent Him and to finish His work. Someday, in the new heaven and the new earth, the sweat, thorns and thistles will be gone. Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books, her latest being "Katherina, Katherina," a novel taking place in the time of Martin Luther. You can read a review here, and buy it at here....

A sheep and his shepherd
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To be known

It is a good thing to be known, that is to say, to be familiarly recognized. When someone greets you by your first name and gives you a smile, it is generally an indication that this particular person knows you and is fond of you. My mother-in-law, who knew a great many people, had the strange knack of addressing people whose names had slipped her mind by saying, "Hello, Mr. _____," filling in the blank with something unintelligible. That something unintelligible could be interpreted as a possible pronunciation for their name. It was very amusing, but something which I've never attempted to pull off myself. Sheep know their shepherd There are several amazing videos on YouTube which feature sheep which come running to their master's voice – a voice they know and recognize. Consequently, when a shepherd comes to the door of a sheepfold where his sheep are bedded down together with other sheep and he calls out, his sheep will stand up, come towards him, and follow him. They will only follow his voice. They will not follow someone else's voice. J. Douglas MacMillan, (1933-1991), had twelve years of experience as a shepherd before he became a pastor. In his excellent book on the twenty-third Psalm, The Lord Our Shepherd, he wrote: I remember one day, almost three years after I had left my shepherding to go to Edinburgh to study, that I was back home for summer holidays, and working with my brother. We were looking at lambs in one sheep pen that had been separated from their mother in another pen, and I was standing with my hands just dangling idly by my side, admiring some of the lambs and despairing of others. Suddenly I felt a sheep's nose nuzzling into my hand. I looked down, and there was a sheep almost five years old – a sheep that for six months I had looked after as a lamb, taking it home to the farm and feeding it with a bottle every so often. Although it went back to the hill after six months, that sheep would always come for me. The other sheep knew their shepherd, but they would not come as close as that to him. But this one would. That sheep had not seen me for almost three years. She was in from the hill, and she lived on a part of the hill that was almost three miles away from the farm. I was standing with my brother, and he had been the shepherd for three years. Yet I looked around and here she was! I was thrilled. Why? Because she knew me; and she was letting me know that she knew me." Forgotten Conversely, it is unpleasant not to be known. More than a century ago, in 1884 to be exact, the Bristol newspaper, The Western Daily Press published an interesting article about a case of mistaken identity, a case of not being known. A rather frightening piece, it describes a visit to a lunatic asylum by an unnamed woman. It appears that this woman, whom we will name Susan, travelled to the town of LIttlemore, a small hamlet some four miles from Oxford, to visit a friend who had been committed to the Littlemore Asylum. The Asylum had been founded in 1846. From its onset its buildings were criticized as being inadequate (but it remained open until 1996). Throughout the nineteenth century, Oxford received payments from other counties for looking after their patients. As ill people arrived from a number of other boroughs throughout the year, Littlemore Asylum was often overcrowded and treatment was at times not what it ought to be. Confinement, restraint, padded cells, and rough handling were all par for the course if patients proved recalcitrant. So, in any case, Susan found out. Susan knocked at the door of the Asylum hoping to visit and find her friend on the road to recovery. The porter admitted her cheerfully enough when she told him she was to “visit a female patient” and called one of the matrons. The matron, however, perhaps being somewhat hard of hearing, only caught the latter part of the porter's words as he introduced the visitor - those latter words being “female patient.” Susan was escorted, quite unaware as to what had been established in the matron's mind, to one of the top floors of the Asylum, in the belief that she was being led to see her friend. When she and the matron, rather out of breath from the long climb up the stairs, entered a room empty of everything save a bathtub and a bed, Susan was a trifle taken aback. Perhaps she thought the room was a waiting room, although the tub and bed were strange, and she walked into it with a puzzled expression on her face. "Where is...?" she began, turning to face the matron whom she believed to be behind her. But the matron was gone and Susan perceived that the door to the room she had entered was closing. As a matter of fact, she could hear the click of a key turning the lock. She was perplexed, and walking back towards it, she turned the handle, becoming rather distraught when it would not give. "Excuse me! Please open the door!" But no one came and thinking the situation rather ridiculous, Susan strode over to the window, gazing out at grounds below. She was on the fourth or fifth floor. She could not remember which. A number of stone buildings comprised the Asylum and she appeared to be at its center. She clutched her purse and turned back towards the door. She tried the handle again, but it still would not give. Her voice, when she repeatedly cried out to be freed, appeared weak and ineffectual. It echoed somewhat freakishly against the whitewashed walls of the room. There was no chair on which to sit down and Susan meandered over to the window again. What should she do? After some ten minutes of waiting, minutes that seemed like hours, the door handle finally turned, the door reopened and a nurse entered. "Oh, I'm so happy to see you," Susan exclaimed, stepping quickly towards the rather heavy-set woman, "You see, there's been some sort of mistake. I was..." The woman did not speak. She was a trained professional, used to handling inmates. The door had once more closed behind her and she proceeded to begin to undress Susan. "What are you doing?" the distraught girl called out. "Calm down," the nurse soothed, "it's all right." Another nurse came in. Helping the first one, who was a strong woman, they brooked no opposition. All Susan's protestations were hushed gently but firmly and Susan ended up being placed in the bath. She was in a frantic state of alarm. She knew no one in this place except the woman whom she had intended to visit. It only took two signatures to get someone admitted to a lunatic asylum. Some of the reasons for admission were, interestingly enough, hereditary predisposition, hysteria, dissolute habits, epileptic fits, imaginary female trouble, opium habit, overstudy of religion, snuff eating, etc. There were, in effect, four classifications for lunacy: mania, melancholia, dementia and paranoia. Treatment was mostly restraint, seclusion and sedative drugs. Lunacy institutions were not pleasant places to be and they were not easy to leave once a “patient” had been admitted. One third of the patients who entered the hospital, never came out. After the bath, Susan was forcibly put to bed. Her nerves were fraught with fear, her hair matted, and her demeanor very much shaken. Overcome, she gave up her struggle and lay quietly. Providentially, the mistake was discovered later that day – whether it was through a talk with the porter who noticed that Susan had not exited when visiting hours where over, or through the initial matron's perusal of admission papers. In any case, she was taken out of the bed, dressed with care and apologized to profoundly and abundantly. It was to her credit that Susan did not lodge any complaint against the hospital. She had not been known and she had not known anyone in the asylum. To know that you know Him It is indeed a good thing to be known, that is to say, to be familiarly recognized. At the same time, it is also a good thing to know. In that same wonderful, little book on Psalm 23, Pastor MacMillan wrote about the Shepherd knowing the sheep as well as the sheep knowing the Shepherd. He said: It is a great thing to have personal assurance in the Christian life. Now, that personal assurance of David's is not ill-founded: he knows the Shepherd, and he knows that he knows Him. That is where the Christian's assurance rests - not only in the fact of knowing that we are redeemed by the precious blood of Christ, but in the fact that we know we know. I say that because I believe it is possible for grace to come into a life, and for that life to go on without always knowing it for certain. I have met people who seem to lack Christian assurance, and yet I and others see the grace and the work of God's Spirit in them. They know the Saviour, but they don't always know that they know Him. It is a great blessing not merely to know the Saviour but to know that you know Him, so that you can say, "The Lord is my Shepherd." Goodness and mercy all my life Shall surely follow me; And in God's house for evermore My dwelling-place shall be. - Scottish Psalter, 1650 This article was first published in the Sept. 2016 issue, under the title "Recognition."Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books, her latest being Katherina, Katherina, a novel taking place in the time of Martin Luther. You can read areview here, and buy it at www.sola-scriptura.ca/store/shop....

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On being separated

"For this reason the Father loves Me because I lay down my life in order that I may take it up again. No one has taken it away from Me; on the contrary, I lay it down of my own accord." - Jesus, in John 10:17-18a **** It is a sad thing to be separated from the ones you love. I distinctly remember being separated from my parents after my father had a serious car accident and my mother had to leave to be with him in the hospital. The separation introduced a number of difficult months. It was a time of loneliness and grief. I was thirteen years old and desperately missed both my mom and dad. But not as much, I suspect, as one little girl did back in the 1700s. Separated by revolution Charlotte Haines was born in 1773 in New York. She was the daughter of an extremely zealous American patriot. As a matter of fact, father Haines was so zealous that during the Revolutionary War, he strictly forbad his little daughter to see her cousins, all of whom were Loyalists. But for a ten-year-old child, such a prohibition is incomprehensible. When you have played with, laughed with, and eaten with friends all your born days, how can you suddenly ignore them? Consequently, when the Loyalists were evacuated from New York, it was in Charlotte's heart to bid her dear cousins farewell. Instead of going to school, she ran to her uncle's house and spent a wonderful day of fellowship with her cousins before heading back to her parents' home. Her father was waiting at the door. Demanding to know where she had been, she confessed that she had disobeyed his orders – that she had visited with her cousins for one last time. Enraged, and perhaps not thinking clearly, John Haines pointed his finger towards the door through which she had just come in. "Leave," he barked, "and don't come back." The child was devastated, and begged his forgiveness. But he would not listen to her words and insisted that she abide by his decision. There is no record, strangely enough, of Charlotte's mother interfering. Without anything except for the clothes on her back, the little girl returned to her uncle's house where she was received with love. Although David Haines, the uncle, used all his power of persuasion to reason with his brother, it was no use. Unreasonably and stubbornly, John Haines insisted that Charlotte was a traitor and that she was not welcome in his home any longer. Consequently, when the David Haines family sailed for what later became New Brunswick, Canada in May of 1783, they took with them a surrogate orphan of sorts. Little Charlotte Haines grew up in her uncle's household and at the tender age of seventeen, married a young fellow by the name of William Peters. They had fifteen children and eventually more than a hundred grandchildren. There is no historical data, to my knowledge, to indicate that Charlotte Haines was ever reconciled with her father and mother. Separated by conscience Sometimes stories relate that older people are exiled from beloved surroundings. In the year 1527, at Easter and during the Reformation, Elizabeth of Brandenburg, wife of Joachim I, Elector of Brandenburg, received communion in the Protestant manner. This was a strange matter, at least to some, as she had been a staunch Roman Catholic her entire life. Forty-two years old, she was of an age where she knew her own mind, where she was fully aware of what she was doing. How her conversion to the Protestant faith came about, is not known. Perhaps tracts written by Luther had fallen into her hand; perhaps her brother, King Christian II of Denmark had witnessed to her; perhaps evangelists disguised as merchants had sung Protestant hymns which had found their way into her heart; or perhaps, and this is the most logical conclusion of all, she had simply read Luther's translation of the Bible. After all, God's Word will not return to Him empty. Whatever the case, Elizabeth through some means, was moved by the Holy Spirit to become a Protestant believer. Her husband, Joachim I, and father of their five children, was not at home. When Elizabeth received the Lord's Supper for the first time, her teenage and married daughter, also named Elizabeth, was very much aware of what her mother was doing. Whether hiding in the background, or listening to servants' talk, she knew. And she did not at all approve. When her father came home, she immediately reported to him what her mother had done. Consequently, her mother's life began to manifest hardships. She was given a year to repent. Towards the end of that year, mother Elizabeth, aided by her brother, escaped from Brandenburg to Saxony, to the realm of her Protestant uncle John of Saxony. Her husband, who was and had been unfaithful to her, raged and ranted. He wanted her returned. She was indeed willing to return but only on her own conditions: that she be guaranteed safety of body and goods, that marital relations should be resumed, that she be allowed to have a preacher of her own choice; and that she be allowed to partake of the sacrament of communion in the Protestant manner. Her conditions were rejected by her husband and she did not return to him. Elizabeth of Brandenburg could forgive Joachim his adultery, although it pained her deeply, but she would not compromise on her faith. She therefore lived in exile for most of her remaining days. There were many years of poverty, worry and loneliness. Joachim refused to send her money. For a while she lived with the Luthers before traveling on to Lichtenberg. In the end, she turned into a crusty, and rather complaining elderly lady and was not easy to host. Her husband, Elector Joachim I of Branderburg, died in 1535. It was not until ten years later, in 1545, that Elizabeth finally returned to Brandenburg. Her son John brought her back, paid her debts, agreed to support a minister of her choice and granted full freedom of conscience to her and her household. She wrote to him: I cannot conceal from you, out of motherly love, that the dear God, our heavenly Father, has laid upon me a heavy cross with sickness, poverty, misery, trouble and terror, more than I can tell. I would not have believed that such trials could be on earth and would comfort myself with the words of Job, "The Lord has given. The Lord has taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." You should know how long I have lived in misery and great sickness and have had to suffer such shameful poverty in my old age as not to have a penny on earth, nor a bit of sausage in my mouth. If God in His especial grace had not upheld me, it would have been no wonder if my heart had broken in two for sheer misery. Just before she died, Elizabeth expressed the wish and recorded it in her will, to be buried without ceremonies in a grave beside the husband from whom she had been exiled twenty-seven years before for the sake of religion. Sacrifice of family, of being exiled, of being hurt, can do many things to a person. Loneliness, bitterness, weeping, tears of anger – all these can dominate lives to such an extent that everything else is secondary. Separated by war There is another story dating back to the First World War – a story which concerns a young French soldier who was badly hurt in battle. His arm was severely damaged and when he was brought in to surgery there was no choice but that it be amputated. The surgeon, a caring man, felt very badly that this young fellow would have to go through such a procedure and had a difficult time relaying this to the soldier. "I am so sorry," he began, "that after all you have gone through, you will have to lose your arm." "Doctor," the young patient replied, "I did not lose my arm – I gave it – for France." Separated from His Father This last story illustrates, to some small degree, what it actually meant when Jesus, the greatest Example of suffering and pain, voluntarily left His home in heaven to give His body as a sacrifice. Of His own accord, he lived a human life; of His own accord, He was despised and rejected; of His own accord, He suffered an excruciatingly painful crucifixion; and finally, of His own accord, He experienced the agonies of hell as He bore the Father's wrath for our sins before He died. He did that all – for us. "A new commandment I give you, that you keep on loving one another; just as I have loved you, that you also keep on loving one another," Jesus said in John 13:34. Of His own accord - what a phrase on which to meditate. Of His own accord - what a phrase on which to pattern our attitudes, actions and relationships towards one another. Of His own accord – for us. This article first appeared in the October 2013 edition under the title "Of my own accord." Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books, her latest being Katherina, Katherina, a novel taking place in the time of Martin Luther. You can read a review here, and buy it at www.sola-scriptura.ca/store/shop....

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Afterward...

Then David crept up unnoticed and cut off a corner of Saul's robe. Afterward David was conscience-stricken for having cut off a corner of his robe (1 Sam 24:4b-5). **** We all have a conscience, and whether we acknowledge it or not, we also all have an afterward. David certainly did, not just in the incident of cutting off a piece of Saul's robe, but also in the incident of the census taking (2 Sam. 24:10). Only the Holy Spirit can so direct the conscience of a person that after accusing him, that person can be led by Him to the comfort of confession, peace and knowledge of forgiveness. David is a prime example of being conscience-stricken by the Holy Spirit, giving way to an amazing confession and experiencing the peace of being forgiven. Just read Psalm 51 written after his infamous adultery with Bathsheba and his murder of Uriah the Hittite. And examples of the Holy Spirit nudging consciences are found throughout history. **** A command often repeated in the Old Testament, the command to honor the Sabbath, is one about which God is very particular. And yet there is no longer a great deal of respect for the Sabbath, for the Sunday. It used to be that when my family drove to church in the late 1950s in Toronto, that the streets would be bereft of most vehicles and that the stores we passed were closed. It was a quiet drive and you could sense it was the Lord's Day. Sad to say, that is no longer the case. There is the story of a gravestone cutter who resided in Wakefield, Yorkshire. An amiable and jolly fellow, he was a pleasant man, one who had been born and raised in the area. Well known and well-liked for his endearing character, he also held the post of sexton, taking care of the church premises and faithfully ringing the church bell to call people to worship each Sunday service. A lettered man, he served as clerk for the area as well, keeping records and undertaking administrative duties. A practical man, he was not at all superstitious and much enjoyed inscribing words and texts on tombstones. It was on a Saturday evening in March of 1790, that Peter Priestley, for that was his name, kissed his wife goodbye and set off for some unfinished work, the work being the touching up of an epitaph on a gravestone. Intent upon being done sooner rather than later, he walked briskly, whistling as he strode through the dark. He carried a lantern and had his bag of tools slung over his shoulder. It was rather late and the church clock struck eleven as he traveled on. He should have begun his work earlier, but he reasoned that there were only a few letters in the epitaph which remained to be chiseled out and he was quite confident it would be done quickly and easily. Arriving inside the church, which place he had been using to give him shelter in the still chilly March weather, Peter Priestley put down the lantern and lit his candle which was set inside a hollow potato. Placing the potato-candle on the tombstone, he began work. However, as he bent over the flat gravestone, hammer and chisel in his hand, a noise stopped him short. It was a strange sound – more like a hiss actually – and one he had never heard before. He straightened up, gazed about, but all was silent. Neither seeing nor hearing anything untoward in the next minute, he concluded that he must have imagined that he heard something "I am a little deaf," he grinned to himself, "as my wife often tells me." Shrugging lightheartedly, he picked up the mallet and chisel once more, bending over again with great care to concentrate on the matter at hand. But, although not immediately, the noise returned. "Hiss." It was very marked. Not only that, there was a smell which accompanied the sound - a rather unpleasant smell. Peter straightened up slowly and peered around. He walked over to his lantern, relit it and began a search of the premises. But he could find nothing – nothing unnatural, nothing strange – all was as it should be. Nevertheless, strange thoughts began to huddle about in his mind, and uncertainty hovered over his shoulder. Sighing, he contemplated the stone. There were only a few letters left to be touched up. He could do it quickly. Setting down the lantern once more, he returned to the table where the stone lay. Once more, chisel and mallet in hand, he bent over. "Hiss." Peter's body jerked upright even as the clock in the church steeple began to strike twelve. Then the awful truth hit him and fear took over. He had almost profaned the Sabbath; he had almost broken one of the Ten Commandments. He dare not waste any more time. Blowing out his potato-candle, and throwing his instruments into his bag, he picked up his lantern with a trembling hand. Heart beating wildly, he left the church premises and trotted home in what resembled a gallop. Bursting through the door, Peter was sufficiently disoriented for his wife to be concerned. "What is wrong, Peter?" He would not tell her for he could not speak to her of a matter so troubling his conscience. His wife coaxed sweetly by making him a hot toddy, rubbing his back and stroking his cheek, but he offered no explanation. Eventually they retired to bed, Peter tossing and turning most of the night. When first morning light dawned, Peter's wife happened to glance over at the chair where Peter had cast his wig. "Why, Peter!" she exclaimed, "What have you been doing to burn all the hair off one side of your wig?" "What did you say, woman?" "I said," repeated his wife, "what have you been doing to burn all the hair off one side of your wig?" It is an amusing and supposedly true story. The fact is that God uses all sorts of means to probe and sear consciences. **** Conscience stories abound and we should learn from them and praise God for them. In January of 2018 a man by the name of Brian Hawkins walked into a KRCR-TV station in Redding, California startling the crew by saying that he wanted to confess to a murder. The station agreed to tape and air his conversion on the condition that he turn himself in at the police station. A conscience-stricken man, he confessed: "God and Christ and these things that have happened over the course of twenty-five years have pushed me and pushed me to do the right thing. I know the wrong can't be changed but this is the closest I can come to doing the right thing." In 1993, Hawkins and two accomplices murdered a twenty-year-old young man by the name of Frank McAlister, after robbing him of his money. Stabbing him to death, they left his body in a wood, and dumped his car in a Costco parking lot. Police had never been able to solve the murder. Calvin once said, and rightly so: "The torture of a bad conscience is the hell of a living soul." Hawkins confirmed this statement when he added this to his confession: "Horrible, horrible, horrible, absolute horror, absolutely horrible since that day. Every minute of every day has been a nightmare. It's kind of weird, Frank never got to have a life, but we were teenagers and now I'm forty-four and still haven't even had a life and now most likely won't anyway. I've been through hell my whole life because of this. There hasn't been a moment that I have not been remorseful for what I have done." Centuries before, Athanasius, (328-373), said, "The Saviour is working mightily among men. Every day He is invisibly persuading numbers of people all over the world, both within and beyond the Greek-speaking world, to accept His faith and be obedient to His teaching. Can anyone, in face of this, still doubt that He has risen and lives, or rather that He is Himself the Life? Does a dead man prick the consciences of men...?” There is a hopeful afterward for Brian Hawkins; there is a hopeful afterward for all of us. But only if we repent and are baptized, every one of us, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of our sins (Acts 2:38). Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books, her latest being Katherina, Katherina, a novel taking place in the time of Martin Luther. You can read a review here, and buy it at www.sola-scriptura.ca/store/shop....

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If only for this life we have hope in Christ...

But if it is preached that Christ has been raised from the dead, how can some of you say that there is no resurrection of the dead? ....if Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins. Then those also who have fallen asleep in Christ are lost. If only for this life we have hope in Christ we are to be pitied more than all men (1 Cor. 15:12-19). **** My husband and I have already attended a few funerals this last year. They were peaceful funerals – funerals of saints who lived in the hope of Christ and saints who are now rejoicing in heaven with our Lord. There were tears at these funerals, to be sure, but they were tears that were spilled into the cup of the new covenant established by Jesus' blood. The truth is that we live on a slope. That truth is that all life tilts towards the grave. Human beings – from the very first moment of conception, slide towards death. Most people are afraid of burial. There are many who quip: "I'm not planning to die" and then they laugh. To be put into a coffin, into a small confined space, and to have a lid closed over your face – that is not a pleasant thought. For people who have not spent much time contemplating a Savior, it is an experience they would rather avoid. WHERE THE SCARY STORIES BEGAN? Stories abound about people having been buried alive throughout history. There is the tale of Alice Davies. In 1656, Alice married a man by the name of William Blunden of Basingstoke. The Blundens were a well-established family who ran a flourishing business. Alice could consequently be congratulated on her very fine match. William was a maltster, that is to say, he was a brewer of malt. The malting process converts raw grain into malt. Malt is used mainly for brewing or whiskey making, although it can also be used to make malt vinegar. William Blunden seems to have brought his work home with him. Both Alice and William often enjoyed downing a glass of ale. It is not surprising therefore that an old text describes Alice as “a fat, gross woman who had accustomed herself many times to drink brandy.” Perhaps Alice was, for some unknown reason, deeply unhappy and tried to drown whatever it was that discomfited her. She did have two children and was not in any material want. Besides brandy she also regularly imbibed poppy-tea. Poppy-tea is an herbal infusion brewed from poppy seeds. The dried pods contain opiate alkaloids, primarily consisting of morphine. The tea is consumed for its narcotic effect, and in small amounts was used as a sedative. Alone one evening, her husband having traveled to London on business, Alice, drank a sizable quantity of this tea. Afterwards she fell into a deep sleep – a sleep from which she could not be wakened. The household servants called the local Basingstoke apothecary. After checking her, the apothecary concluded that Alice had died. Alice was, as stated previously, a very heavy woman. Although husband William had sent instructions that the funeral be deferred until he returned from London, other relatives deemed it necessary that the body be interred as quickly as possible. Old manuscripts spell out that “the season of the year being hot, and the corpse fat, it would be impossible to keep her.” They did not heed William's request to wait and Alice was buried without any delay. A few days later some boys, playing a game near the cemetery, heard a voice calling out. It is not recorded what the voice said. In panic they ran home and told their parents. Initially no one believed these boys, but then the same voice was heard by others passing the graveyard. Following the sound of the voice, they arrived at poor Alice's grave. Upon opening the coffin, they discovered her body to be most “lamentably beaten.” It was concluded that Alice appeared to have regained consciousness in the coffin and had tried very hard to escape. No one could detect any signs of life in the woman at this point and so the lid was put back on and the coffin lowered into the earth once more. A coroner was sent for to examine the body the next day. Great was everyone's consternation, however, when upon opening the coffin for the second time, the body was found to have “torn off a great part of the winding sheet, scratched herself in several places and beaten her mouth until the blood ran.” The coroner, upon examining the body very carefully, did pronounce Alice Blunden finally dead. She was reinterred once more. Those responsible for her initial burial were summoned to court, but although they were fined for neglect of duties, no one was ever convicted. A fairly gruesome tale, to be sure. A “safety coffin” featured in the January 1, 1901 Medical Art and Indianapolis Medical Journal: Volume 4. The fellow inside demonstrates how he can ring a bell, raise a small ball high up in the air to alert passersby, and also open a passageway for air. SO VERY FEARFUL There is another story of a man by the name of Robert Robinson who lived in the mid 1700s. In his youth Robert attended the dissenting seminary at Plasterer's Hall – an academy which trained young Christian men for the ministry and a school which had teachers who were devoted to Calvinism. Robert abandoned Calvinism, however, while at the academy, and began leaning heavily towards Unitarianism. After graduating, he served several parishes, but resigned amidst controversy in 1777. Uncomfortable with the thought of dying and worried about being buried alive, Robert Robinson made preparations for his interment. When he died one day in December of 1791, his coffin was placed in a square, red-brick building which had been built on his property. At his instructions a movable glass pane was inserted into the coffin, and his little mausoleum also had an inspection door. A watchman was instructed to pass along daily after Robert's death to see if there were signs of breath on the glass pane. His relatives, as well, were requested to visit his grave periodically and to check for signs of life. These are interesting stories, telling stories and stories which reveal a great deal about human nature. The truth is that if people rely on their own reasoning and philosophy, they have no hope at all. The fear of being buried alive is called taphephobia (Greek for grave + fear). In the early 1900s this rather widespread fear led to the creation of so-called safety coffins. These coffins had some sort of mechanism installed in them for communicating with the living – mechanisms such pulleys and ropes which were attached to bells above ground. Hence the term “saved by the bell.” Hans Christian Andersen, the fairy-tale writer, was petrified of being buried alive. A note on the table next to his bed read, “I only appear to be dead” and when he was not sleeping he wore the note around his neck. Frederic Chopin wrote to someone: “The earth is suffocating. Swear to make them cut me open so that I won't be buried alive.” President George Washington requested of his secretary: “Have me decently buried; and do not let my body be put into a vault in less than three days after I am dead.” THE ANSWER TO FEAR Most people are afraid to die, let alone be buried in a coffin. Most people are afraid of what happens after they die. God has, however, in His great mercy, given us a note, and has left us instructions with regard to our fears of death and burial. He has penned, through the Holy Spirit, the factual story and the reality of an empty tomb in all four of the Gospels – an empty tomb, a resurrection and an ascension. The answer to the fear of death and burial is to become well-acquainted with this reality of the empty tomb; to become well-acquainted with the Savior, Jesus Christ, the eternal Son of God. He teaches that although our earthly sojourn will end one day, and that physical death will end our earthly life, it is but our doorway into eternal fellowship with Him. The tomb did not hold Jesus. “Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the first fruits of those who have fallen asleep” (I Cor. 15:20), and it will not hold anyone who believes in Him. “The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable” (I Cor. 15:42b). ...thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ (I Cor. 15:57).   Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books, her latest being Katherina, Katherina, a novel taking place in the time of Martin Luther. You can read a review here, and buy it at www.sola-scriptura.ca/store/shop....

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Top 10 RP articles of 2017

At year's end it seemed a good opportunity to review the top articles of 2017. This past year we changed from being a subscription-based print magazine to being a donor-supported multi-media enterprise, and we've seen God bless this transition in many ways, including increasing our reach and impact. Of the more than 300 articles we've published in 2017, these Top 10 11 (a late entry, published after this list was released, slipped in to the #3 spot, so for the sake of simplicity this is now a "Top 11 list") were read by anywhere from 3,000+ to as many as 15,000...though we're not sure about that last number, because the traffic for our #1 article kind of broke the website, and also the counter. We were forced to move to a faster server that could better handle the large number of visitors -  it was a problem we were happy to face because it meant the article was being noticed. So, here are Reformed Perspective's top articles for 2017, starting at.... #11 - Wikipedia: reader beware and Did Adam have enough time to name all the animals? Ties are a sneaky way to fit just one more into this list, with both of these articles registering roughly 3,900 views. The first is an article by Dr. Wes Bredenhof on how, while Wikipedia can be very useful, there are occasions where it can be not only biased but unfair. Thus there is a need for readers to beware. The second article is a fun and thorough response to an objection sometimes raised that there wasn't enough time on the sixth day for Adam to name all the animals. #10 - Jorge’s Heresy Christine Farenhorst relates how the pope has elevated Mary and in so doing diminished the need for salvation through Jesus Christ alone. #9 - Sales as a noble calling Rene Vermuelen was a columnist in RP for more than 25 years, and in this blast from the past he relates how the calling of salesman - sometimes looked down upon - is an area where Christians can let their light shine. #8 - Call me Billy This satirical poem mourns what our society is doing in affirming those who say that their "feelings" can remake reality. #7 - Princeton scientists announce discovery of “sex chromosome” Another satirical take, this time asking how or culture would react if sex chromosomes - XX and XY - had only just been discovered today. Would there be pressure to deny this reality? Of course there would be! #6 - Here’s the problem with just closing your eyes during the sex scenes We know R-rated sexual content is problematic. But sometimes we watch it anyway. This article encouraged readers to consider the psychological and spiritual harm done to the actors themselves when they perform sex scenes. If the harm we're doing to ourselves isn't enough to stop us from watching these sorts of films, then maybe the harm being done to the actors will shake our consciences. #5 - Overpopulation is a myth and we should have known it The overpopulation myth is one that has killed millions - it's why China implemented their one-child policy, and around the world it has had a hand in popularizing abortion. And while this myth is starting to be torn down it does still keeps reappearing in popular media – this lie has staying power. But it's also a lie that Christians should never have fallen for. Those who pushed it viewed children as a curse, seeing a baby as just another mouth to feed, which stands in stark contrast to how God speaks of children as a blessing. Each child is a mouth to feed, yes, but God has also given us hands to work, and brains in which to create - we consume, but God has so made us that we can produce even more than we consume. While Christians should have known better than to believe the overpopulation lie, instead our witness was compromised because too many doubted the Scriptures, and believed the skeptics. This is a mistake we can learn from. #4 - Is Recreational Marijuana sinful? More than 5,000 took in this article which offers up four Scriptural reasons to abstain from smoking recreational marijuana. With legalization just around the corner in Canada, the hope is that this article can serve as a conversation starter for parents and their teenage and older children. #3 - Heaven-bound: What will it be like? We all have questions about what comes next and they can be important to ask. #2 - 21 Things I learned living with teenagers Sarah Vanderguten shares the joy and troubles that come with parenting teens. It's a fun piece that will get any parent, and many a teenager, laughing. #1 – Investigating the Birth Control Pill And the number one article this year is about the birth control pill and how it has an abortive action that many Christians have never heard of. This is an article to pass on to friends and family because this is information that, on the one hand, is almost unknown, and on the other, is literally a matter of life and death....

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The Gift: an allegory of sorts

"Why do you always have that small string wrapped around the top button of your sweater, father?" The father smiled at his son. "Have I never told you?" he replied. "No, sir." The father fingered the small, grey string thoughtfully. It was almost hidden within the confines of the thick wool of his sweater. Then he sat down, held out his arms to the child and took him onto his lap. "Once," he began, "Once..." Chapter 1 - The eagle awakes At precisely six thirty, when the sun had already risen, Arend heard the alarm rattle in Cousin Janie's bedroom. He had woken up to it every morning for the past six months. The urgent shrillness traveled insistently and angrily through the thin walls of one of the little houses on Tooker's Road, rudely tweaking Arend's earlobes, making him pull the blanket over his head. Tooker's Road was not really a road, but a small lane. About twenty-five homes stood next to and across from one another along both sides of a gravel path. The adjoining land had once belonged to a farmer by the name of Tooker. In need of a little money, he'd sold off twenty-five parcels of two-acre lots for four hundred dollars a piece. That's how the houses had been born. Small homes they might be, but they were homes boasting a bit of acreage. Although narrow and barely qualifying as thoroughfare, cars did use Tooker's Road enough so that when you crossed over to the other side you had to keep an eye out. Arend lay quite still under his blanket, waiting for Cousin Janie to wake up, waiting to hear her trudge across the linoleum tiles of her bedroom towards the bathroom. He had listened for her sleepy footfall every morning this past half year and he continued to be perplexed as to how Cousin Janie could not want to wake up. He was constantly amazed that she would not want to peek out the window to see if the grass was still green; that she would not want to ascertain whether the sky was still as vast and magnificent as it had been the day before; and that her blood was not throbbing with the desire to embrace the very air around her. Pushing the blanket back down, Arend folded his thin, little arms under his head and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling. One of the cracks ran all the way from the light bulb in the center of the ceiling down to the right corner. It was a crack that split off into other smaller cracks. A fat fly crawled over the naked bulb and buzzed down to the floor. There were many such flies who called this room their home. When the sun shone into Arend's bedroom in the late afternoon, they all vibrated and spun around on the floor simultaneously. Cousin Janie called it their death dance. She vacuumed them up every chance she got, but Arend rather liked the sound of the buzzing. The tap stammered water in the bathroom. The yellow faucet only produced thin trickles of water at intervals. It was enough though, to fill cupped hands so that you could splash wetness onto your face and sputter into a towel. He could imagine Cousin Janie standing on the bathmat in front of the oval sink, shivering in her blue nightie. Grinning, he sat up, turned around onto his knees and stuck his head under the green curtains which hung just behind the iron headboard of his bed. There was a robin on the lawn. It was pulling hard at a worm. Arend itched to go out. He didn't really know what it was he desired to do. Just to go out would be enough. He ached to hear the birds singing their cheerful, early songs in the tree tops; he wanted to feel the dew wet his feet; and he yearned to feel the smooth blades of the lilac bush leaves between his fingers. Sighing deeply, he leaned his chin on the palm of his right hand. Cousin Janie's car stood on the driveway. It was an old, blue Pontiac and rust had eaten away a great deal of the body. Sometimes she had trouble starting it and then she would grumble because the bus was the only other recourse to get to work. The problem was that she had to walk a half mile towards the city bus stop and in Cousin Janie's high heels, that was no picnic. The tap stopped running. A few minutes later the toilet flushed. Arend lay back down. It was only a matter of a few minutes now before Cousin Janie would pass his bedroom, calling as she passed to tell him that there were corn flakes on the counter and could he please clean up afterwards and could he remember to peel potatoes for supper tonight? Yes, he nodded to himself, for had he not always remembered these things in the time that he had lived here? Always was a very long word. There was a time, he pondered, as he folded the thin arms under his head again, a time before always. Cousin Janie was not really and truly his cousin. She was his mother's cousin and actually she had not really known his mother that well. And his father... well, he did not like to think of his father. "Arend," Cousin Janie's voice startled him, even though he had been waiting for it, "Arend, the cornflakes are on the counter. Please remember to clean up after you eat and please remember to peel the potatoes for supper tonight." "Yes, Cousin Janie." Arend grinned at the cracks in the ceiling. A few minutes later the side door opened and closed, the screen slammed shut, and he could hear Cousin Janie's footsteps patter down the steps and crunch on the gravel as they headed for the car. Then the car door opened and closed, and a minute later, after a bit of coughing, the car started. Sighing in relief, Arend resisted the temptation to peek out the window again. It was truly the beginning of his day now. Lithely he swung his feet over the edge of the bed even as the car wheels ground over the fine stones of the driveway. Sitting up, he took off his pajama top. Reaching for his shirt, socks and pants, he scooted off to the bathroom. The blue linoleum was cold under his bare feet, but that was no matter. After he had splashed himself in the face and dried off with a clean but hard hand towel, he pulled on his cotton tee shirt. It was a black tee shirt and underneath the crew neck a picture of Davy Crockett, gun in hand, stared out courageously from his small chest. He loved that tee shirt and Cousin Janie literally had to sneak it off his bedside chair for washing when he was asleep or he would wear it all the time. He'd seen the movie "Davy Crockett, Indian Scout" at school the last day before the Christmas holidays, just before he'd moved in with Cousin Janie. And ever since he'd seen it, he'd had a keen desire to be an Indian scout himself. School was finished for the year now and there would be no bus to pick him up today. He was his own master and could truly do what he liked. Cousin Janie had been insistent that he stay within distance of the house while she was at work. He had faithfully promised her that he would, clearly envisioning within his mind that he could walk a long, long way into the field behind the house and still see the house, and that there was a great deal of exploring he could do while keeping that promise. Chapter 2 - Petrus & peanut butter He cleaned up as tidily as he could after eating breakfast. Diligently wiping the counter clean after he washed his plate and spoon and cup, he even swept the floor with the broom. Surveying the kitchen afterwards, he nodded, quite pleased with himself. Why Cousin Janie complained about housekeeping was a mystery to him. There was nothing to it. He would leave the potato peeling until later. First he had to get out and see if there were any tracks in the field. It had rained last night and surely if deer had come around, there would be tracks. He had marked their hoof prints before, indented large as life between the wide and growing rows of corn. But today, on this first day of his holidays, he would be able to follow those tracks, follow them to wherever they led. Making himself a peanut butter sandwich, he scouted around the cupboards for something in which to wrap his lunch. Finding nothing, he decided the sandwich would have to fit into his back pocket. Then he was off, the screen door slamming shut behind him. The next few hours were blissfully wrapped up in the knowledge that freedom was his: freedom to catch tadpoles in the small creek between Cousin Janie's house and the farmer's field; freedom to climb an oak tree and scan the horizon for Indians; freedom to lie down between the corn stalks watching their green leaves gently sway in the breeze; and freedom to lazily observe black beetles lumber past dew puddles on the ground. And then, strangely enough, Arend fell asleep. **** "Hey, boy! Hey, boy, what are you doing here?" Arend groggily opened his eyes. He thought he was waking up in his bedroom and tried to decipher the cracks in the ceiling. But all he saw were the cracks in a face, an old, old face. "Hey, boy!" the voice repeated, "Wake up!" Then the face smiled and one of the eyes in the face winked at him. "Are you running away from someone and hiding?" Still lying down, Arend shook his head even as he began the process of sitting up. "No," he said. "Well then, what are you doing here?" "School's over and I'm exploring," Arend explained. "Exploring?" He was a tall, a very tall man. His bony jaw jutted out and his eyes, although one of them had just winked cheerfully, were a piercing dark blue. "So you're not running away?" "No, I'm not," Arend answered again, and then, because he had been told by Cousin Janie over and over to speak with two words, he added, "Sir." "Well, I am." The old man promptly sat down next to him, put a finger on his lips and motioned that Arend should keep quiet. The boy was not afraid but rather fascinated.  "She'll be shouting in a minute. Don't say anything, mind." Arend nodded and sure enough, a few moments later a woman's voice rang through the air. "Petrus! Petrus, where are you?" The man poked Arend with his elbow and gleefully whispered, "Didn't I tell you she'd shout?" "Petrus, come out this very minute. I'm getting angry!" "Sometimes Cora gets so angry," the man confided softly to Arend's left ear, "that she turns redder than a tomato. Sometimes I think she might explode." This so amused him that he began to chuckle and had to clap his hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter. Arend couldn't help it, but he began to grin. They sat in silence for a few minutes while the woman's voice kept on calling and calling. Finally a screen door slammed shut. Arend presumed Cora had given up and gone inside. "The only thing is," the man went on, sobering up, "I'm so hungry. I think lunch time is soon and Cora does make a good lunch." As he spoke, his face fell. Arend turned onto his knees and put his hand into his back pocket. The peanut butter sandwich was still there. It had stretched out flat, like a square pancake. He extracted it and held it in front of the old man. "Peanut butter," he whispered, "and you can have half if you like." To show that he meant what he said, he tore the sandwich in two and held out one half to the man. A smile twinkling in his eyes again, Petrus regarded Arend with joviality and readily accepted the half proffered to him. "You are my friend, and friends give their names. What is yours?" "Arend." "Mine is Petrus." Contentedly Petrus took a bite from the bread and began to chew. Suddenly a look of apprehension crossed his face. Taking the half-chewed bread out of his mouth, he put it on his lap. "I forgot to pray," he said. "Pray?" Arend repeated. "Yes, don't you pray?" Petrus didn't wait for an answer, but folded his hands and respectfully recited, "Lord, bless this food for Jesus' sake, Amen." Satisfied, he popped the bread back into his mouth and resumed chewing. But he regarded Arend carefully as he chewed. "Don't you pray for your food?" he asked, his mouth full. "I don't know how." Arend truthfully replied. "Well, you fold your hands and ask God to bless your food. Unless, of course," Petrus added, as he took another bite, "you are going to bed. In that case, you ask Him to take care of you during the night and," he went on as he took another big mouthful, "you also ask Him to forgive your sins for Jesus' sake." "Oh," Arend said, not understanding exactly but rather taking it all in as if the teacher at school were explaining the new sound in a word. "So you try it," Petrus encouraged, "Just fold your hands and I'll help you." "Cousin Janie doesn't pray," Arend whispered, beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, "and I don't know God." Petrus' eyes opened wide at this revelation and the grooves in his forehead deepened. He said nothing, but took another bite. It was his last bite. "Well," he finally commented, swallowing the oddment, "if you're not going to pray for your food, you may as well give me your half of the sandwich. It's better, I think, for me to eat it because I prayed, and you didn't." "Does it taste better when you pray?" Arend ventured to ask. "Yes," Petrus confidentially answered as he took the other half out of Arend's hand, "much better." They sat for a while in silence, Petrus chewing and swallowing assiduously. Then Arend asked, "Is Cora your mother?" This set Petrus off into gales of laughter, almost choking on the peanut butter. "My mother?" he finally managed to gasp, "My mother?" "Yes," Arend replied, "isn't that why she is looking for you?" "If she was my mother," Petrus explained, savoring his last bite, "I'd have to do what she said. I'd have to come. But she is my sister, so I don't have to do what she says." They sat for another long while in silence, Arend stealing glances at his companion, wondering who he was and why he did not want to go and see his sister. "You know," Petrus eventually spoke, licking his lips, "I'm still hungry. I think I'll go now." He stood up. His tall frame was twice that of the growing corn. Without any further ado, he took several strides through the cornfield towards the ditch. Reaching that, he crossed a small bridge leading to a grass backyard. Then he stopped, turned around, and called back to Arend. "Do you want to come, Arend? Do you want to come to my house and have some lunch too?" The boy had stood up as well. He was quite famished, his sandwich was gone and, more importantly, he was suddenly lonely. He could see Cousin Janie's house clearly outlined to the far left. He was definitely still within the bounds of the promise he had made her. "All right," he answered Petrus, walking toward him, "I'll come to your house for lunch." Chapter 3 - Beginnings It was a small house - white with black shingles on the roof and black shutters on the window. Situated just a bit farther down the road than he traveled on the school bus, Arend hadn’t been aware of it. Jumping the ditch rather than using the minuscule bridge, he landed on the grass with a thud before running to catch up with Petrus. "Won’t Cora mind that I come for lunch?" he asked, a bit anxious about the voice that had called so insistently for Petrus to appear. "No, she won't." "Will she still be angry that you didn't come?" Petrus stopped dead in his tracks and looked at Arend. "She never gets angry in front of company - and you are company." He grinned and held out his right hand to Arend. Arend was about to take it when the old man suddenly bent down and, putting his hands under Arend's shoulders, lifted the boy onto his neck. "Now I am really tall." Petrus pranced around on the gravel stones of the driveway. Arend clung to the grey head, half afraid, half excited. "Petrus, put that boy down!" Both looked towards the door of the house. It was open and a small woman stood in its frame. "Put that boy down right now and come in, Petrus!" Arend supposed that the woman must be Cora. He felt Petrus' hands reach up for him and gently lift him down to the ground. Then one of those hands took his own and pulled him along towards the door. "This is Arend, Cora. I found him in the field." The same piercing blue eyes that graced Petrus' face, were in Cora's - only hers were a lighter blue. "Hello, Arend." "He's hungry, Cora. I ate his lunch." "Well then, he'd better come in for a bite to eat, hadn't he?" There was soup, cornbread and a cup of milk. And if that was not enough to make a belly stuffed, there was also a jelly donut on a stone plate for dessert. Petrus had explained in a rather matter-of-fact way that Arend did not know how to pray and Cora had not said anything about it. But after the meal, when Petrus yawned, appearing rather drowsy with the weight of a double lunch in his stomach, she had taken out a book. "Are you going to read a Bible story, Cora?" Petrus asked. "Yes, I am. Why don't you lay down on the couch for a snooze and I'll read out loud. You can listen with your eyes closed." Petrus obeyed with alacrity and Cora sat down at the kitchen table next to Arend. "Have you ever read from the Bible before, Arend?" He shook his head and Cora smiled. "Well, then it's about time you heard about the very beginning of all time." She opened the Bible and Arend heard, heard for the first time in his life, the words, "In the beginning God..." Now there is within every soul on earth the knowledge of eternity - and so this knowledge was also lodged deep within Arend's soul. But when the window of one's soul has been covered over with the dirt of birth for years, this is hidden. But the breath of the Word can blow away that dirt. As Arend listened, the words "In the beginning God..." were blown so violently across his heart that he caught a glimpse, a glimpse of eternity. "What is the beginning?" Petrus had begun snoring lightly and Cora absently smiled in the direction of the couch where her brother lay sprawled out. "The beginning," she repeated, "Well, Arend, the beginning is when God was and we were not." "Where were we then?" And, after a moment he added, "And Who is God?" If Cora was surprised at his naked ignorance, she did not show it. She merely answered, "God is the One Who made you and me and Petrus." "And Cousin Janie?" "Everyone, Arend. God made everyone." "How did He do it?" "By speaking." "By speaking? You mean by talking?" "Yes." Arend was silent. He had never heard this before; he had never thought of this before; he had never contemplated the fact that he came from somewhere and that someone had made him. His mind briefly wandered to his mother and father. "Is God still alive?" he asked. "Yes," Cora answered quietly, "He surely is. He was always alive. He is alive now and He will always be alive." Arend thought about this for a moment before responding. "My father and mother died." "Did they?" "Yes." Cora said nothing else but waited patiently. There was quiet for another minute before Arend went on. "My Mom, she died when I was born. I didn't know her, but Cousin Janie says she was nice as far as she can remember. And my Dad, he had an accident. He was riding his bike on the road on his way to work and a truck went by and a piece of his coat got caught in the wheel of the truck or something like that. And he was dragged and then he died." "I'm sorry." Arend's words had come out in a rush. He didn't know why he had told Cora these things. He had not even spoken to Cousin Janie about what had happened to his Mom and Dad. "You must miss your Dad." Arend stared past her to where Petrus was peacefully splayed out on the couch. He did not really miss his Dad. What he did miss was the sense of belonging to someone. His Dad had never spoken much with him and had often gone out at night, but his Dad had been the person with whom he had lived. There had been foster homes, a lot of foster homes, in the last two years. And he had never stayed anywhere longer than a few months. Cora put the Bible down. She stroked Arend's head. "I'm glad you met Petrus," she said, "because Petrus needs a friend. I hope you can come over often." "Petrus is old," Arend said, looking up at Cora and pulling away from under her hand. "Yes," she answered with a smile, "but I think you will still find him a friend." "Why does he ...?" Arend stopped, unsure of how he could ask why Petrus was different, was rather odd in the way he spoke and behaved. But Cora anticipated his questions. "Petrus had an accident a few years ago. He was a farmer and a good farmer. He knew everything there was to know about farming. But a loose beam from the barn gave way and fell on his head. It knocked him unconscious. We thought he might die. But eventually he did wake up and he woke up the way that he is now. He woke up like a child, but a child whose knowledge and faith often puts others to shame." Arend did not comprehend everything Cora told him and reacted only to the obvious. "What happened to his farm?" he wanted to know. "Well, my son, who was working for him at the time, took it over. He runs it now." "What is his name?" "Andrew Peter." "Why don't you and Petrus live at the farm with Andrew Peter?" "Because sometimes Petrus doesn't see danger and runs after the tractor or goes into the bull pen by himself. He has forgotten many things about farming." Arend nodded. He understood that part. He settled back in the chair as Cora returned to the Bible reading. "In the beginning God.... created the heavens and the earth," and, "Then God said: 'Let there be light.'" And Arend listened. Chapter 4 - A good deal That evening after supper, the child related the events of his day to Cousin Janie as she was sitting on the couch with her feet up. It was tiring work, she said, standing up as a teller at the bank all day and her feet desperately needed a rest. Cousin Janie was a cheerful, very direct person, a person who generally said what she thought. "Well, Arend, little cousin," she remarked, her hands cupped around a mug of coffee, "I gather from what you are saying, that I might not have to worry about you being alone all day after all." And that was the truth. She had worried about Arend being home alone all day. "Cora's going to teach me how to play checkers and parcheesi," Arend further informed her, "and read to me. She has a Davey Crockett book too. And Petrus is going to show me how to shuck corn and hoe the garden and he might even help me raise chickens or rabbits." Cousin Janie sat up, setting her empty mug on the coffee table. She regarded Arend thoughtfully. "It sounds like a busy summer for you, little guy. But I think I'd better go over there and make sure that you won't be a nuisance - that you haven't misunderstood." "Cousin Janie," he said, ignoring her statement for the moment, as he watched her stretch her arms over her head preparing to stand up. "Cousin Janie, did you know that God was in the very beginning? And that He made us?" She did not answer but looked at him rather strangely, her arms dropping down to the couch. "And I wouldn't be a nuisance," Arend went on, going back to her previous caution, "I really wouldn't." The last words came out rather vehemently. "I know," Cousin Janie responded soothingly, "but just in case you misunderstood, I think I'll pay them a call. Why don't you get ready for bed and I'll be back in a jiffy to tuck you in." Arend sighed. What if Cora and Petrus didn't like Cousin Janie? What if she spoiled things for him? But when she came back some twenty minutes later and sat on the edge of his bed, she had a smile on her face. "It looks like it's a deal, little cousin of mine," she said, "Cora's happy to have you come for lunch every day and to have you spend as much time as you like over at her place." Arend wiggled his toes under the covers and yawned simultaneously. He felt good - the kind of good you feel when it's your birthday the next day and you know there's a present for you in the living room. Once, three years ago, his Dad had actually remembered that he was going to turn four. He had set a present, elaborately wrapped, on the couch. Although Arend had barely dared surmise that the present was for him, he could not imagine who else it could be. His Dad had nodded almost imperceptibly when he had asked. From that time until bedtime that day, he had felt as if there was another person in the living room. It had been that big! He had woken up in the middle of the night. The temptation to get up and look at the present had eventually forced his feet out of bed. The moon shone in through the apartment window and had guided his steps into the living room. He had stood in front of the couch and stared. Then he had reached out and touched the wrapping - touched it ever so gingerly. "What are you doing out of bed!" Startled he had turned around. "I go to the trouble of buying you a present for your birthday and you, you sneak out of bed." "No, Dad!" Hands now dangling dejectedly at his sides, he had begun to walk backwards towards the door of his bedroom. As he lay shivering under the covers, he heard his Dad pick up the present. The paper crackled. Then his father's door closed. The next morning the present was gone and to this day he did not know what it had been; to this day he did not know if there had actually been something inside the wrappings. Perhaps there had been nothing. "So even though I know you don't intend to make a nuisance of yourself," Cousin Janie's voice broke into his thoughts, "be sure to help whenever you can. Offer to sweep, do dishes or just ask what Cora would like you to do. And never touch anything that doesn't belong to you." He shook his head vigorously. "I won't, Cousin Janie. I would never...." and then he stopped. It was a good summer, a great summer and, comparatively speaking for Arend, the best summer he'd ever had. He learned how to play checkers, parcheesi and horseshoes; he was instructed on the intricacies of weeding, hoeing and podding peas; and Cora unwrapped Bible stories for him each day. Together with Petrus he fashioned two wooden cages, and when they were finished, Andrew Peter, Cora's son, brought over three rabbits and five chickens, animals which he had bought at the local market. "Now you be sure to help my Mom in the garden all summer," Andrew Peter sternly admonished when he dropped the animals off, "and I'll consider that payment. Is it a deal?" But he had not admonished so sternly that his eyes had not smiled. Andrew Peter and Arend had shaken on it. Andrew Peter was a tall fellow, not unlike his uncle. In his thirties, he was blond, lanky and clean-shaven. And his face held the same pale blue eyes that his mother had. "He's a good farmer," Petrus said to Arend once, "I wish he were family." "He is your family, Petrus," Arend replied, "Don't you remember? He's your nephew." "What's a nephew?" "Well, a nephew is ... is ... family." "Are you family to me, Arend?" "Well, no." The boy shook his head as they spoke. "Are you family to anyone?" "Well, to Cousin Janie, sort of. She was my Mom's second cousin?" "Well maybe you can try to become a first cousin. Do you have to study for that?" Arend grinned. Petrus grinned too. "Was that funny, Arend?" Arend didn't answer. "I hope you stay my friend, Arend." The old man patted him on the back as he spoke. They were cleaning out the rabbit cage. "I will, Petrus," Arend promised, "but in September I have to go to school and then I won't be able to visit as much." "I'm so glad that I found you in the field. I think that you were a present to me hidden in the corn." "Yes," Arend answered, "I'm glad too, but Petrus, in a few weeks I will have to go to school." Petrus now stopped pushing the grass through the wire enclosure and turned his face toward Arend. "School?" "Yes." "Why?" "Well, because you have to go to grade two when you're seven and I'm seven." "Well, maybe I can come and visit you at school? I'm seventy and it's my birthday in October." Arend envisioned Petrus cramped into a small desk in his classroom and grimaced. He looked at the old man doubtfully. "Do you want to go to school?" Petrus went on. "No!" "Well, then don't go. Stay here with me." Arend tugged at some straw and wrinkles appeared in his smooth forehead. "They make fun of my name in school, Petrus. At least they did last year when I was in grade one." "Fun of your name?" Petrus was incredulous and clapped his hands together in surprise. Pieces of straw left his sleeves and danced through the air. "You have a fine name. Arend is a good name!" "Maybe it is," Arend replied slowly, "But the kids said, 'Arend. Aren't you here? Aren't you there? Arend isn't anywhere'. And then they all laughed." Petrus clapped his hands together again as if to reprove the teasing children. His tall frame backed away from the rabbit coop and then he spread his arms out wide. "Arend means eagle. Have you never seen an eagle?" "No." "They are great birds - really big birds. And eagles are in the Bible too." "In the Bible?" "Ask Cora." Petrus' attention was diverted by the big doe. She was heavily pregnant and he carefully bent down to peer at her nest, stuffing some more grass into the enclosure, stuffing it right next to the would-be mother. "Soon we'll have baby rabbits, Arend." Chapter 5 - Friends indeed Arend wished a few weeks later as he lay in bed, that his name had been that of another bird - a bird such as Hawk, or Robin, as in “Robin Hood,” or something like that. But there had been a grandfather in Holland on his mother's side – a grandfather for whom he had been named. But Arend did mean eagle. Petrus had said so and Cora had confirmed that it was true. Tomorrow school started. Cousin Janie had surprised him with a lunchbox sporting the picture of Davey Crockett. Last year he had carried his lunch in a paper bag. Cousin Janie had also taken him to the store and had bought him two new shirts and a pair of pants. Cora had knitted him a thick blue sweater and Petrus, not to be outdone, had whittled an eagle out of a piece of wood. "It fits into your pocket," he'd said, "and the teacher won't know it's in there." "Petrus," Cora had chided, "Arend isn't to hide anything in school." "That's true," Petrus had answered, his eyes twinkling, "and that's why I'm going to keep it in my pocket. Now I have an eagle in my pocket. I have you in my pocket, Arend. And you're going to stay there. I just thought you'd like to know." He'd emptied his pocket on the living room floor displaying a stone, a small, oddly-shaped stick, a blue jay feather and a dried-out dandelion. The eagle lay between these things. Arend smiled in the dark. It was, in a strange way, good to know that he was in Petrus' pocket. Things at school went much better the next day than Arend had expected. Although he found himself rather lost in the good-sized class of twenty-five rambunctious grade two, three and four students, he was not as scared as he had thought he would be. The teacher, Miss Wilcox, was pretty and she had each new grade two student take a turn to introduce him or herself. "I'm Billy Barber and my dad is a farmer," the boy in the desk next to Arend's spoke up forcefully. "What kind of farm does he have?" Miss Wilcox asked. "A pig farm." "A very fine thing to have," she smiled, "because ham is delicious to eat. You must be proud of your Dad, Billy." Billy sat down grinning. The next child was a girl. She stood up but her head was down. Her name was Isabel, she told the class with a shaking voice, and she had seven brothers and sisters. She sat down again and blushed. Miss Wilcox replied that she hoped she might meet them sometime. It was now time for Arend to stand. Isabel's evident nervousness had calmed him. He had rehearsed his introduction a few times inside his head as other children took their turns. He rose, leaning on his desk with his right hand. "My name is Arend," he enunciated in a clear voice, "It means eagle and this name is in the Bible." Miss Wilcox was taken aback for a moment, but then responded. "Arend is an unusual name. What country does that it originate from?" "Holland." "Indeed? Thank you for sharing that with us, Arend." Billy glanced at him from across the aisle. "Want to come to my house sometime, eagle?" At recess, as if by prior agreement, the boys gathered at one end of the schoolyard and the girls at another. The grade four boys started a baseball game and allowed the younger grades to be part of the teams. Arend was picked to be a leftfielder. He enjoyed it especially when Henry, one of the older boys, commented that he ran pretty fast for a grade two-er. A month and a half after school started, Cousin Janie slipped on the porch as she left for work in the early morning. She had called out the usual admonitions to Arend and he heard the screen door slam shut as she left for work. Her initial steps down the porch sounded normal. Then her heel slipped on a thin layer of frost coating one of the cracks on the wooden steps. October had begun chilly and the nights were below zero. Arend heard the noise of the fall. Still in bed and contemplating whether he would be allowed to bring one of his rabbits to “show and tell,” he immediately sat up, turned onto his knees and put his head between the curtains. Cousin Janie lay sprawled out in front of the stairs, half of her body stretched out on the gravel driveway. She was not moving. Arend jumped out of bed, raced through the house and catapulted out the front door in a flash. "Cousin Janie!" There was no answer even though he called her name so loudly that the syllables seemed to echo across the lane. He called again. "Cousin Janie!" Then he pelted, in his pajamas and on his bare feet, down the road to Cora's and Petrus' house. Banging on the door, totally out of breath and gasping for air, he brokenly told them what had happened. Petrus, wearing only his housecoat and slippers, as quickly as his old legs could carry him, immediately went back with Arend to where Cousin Janie lay on the driveway. He took a little mirror out of his housecoat pocket, bent down and held it in front of her mouth. "Look, Arend," he called out, "Look, there's mist on the mirror. She's breathing! That means she's alive!" Arend began to cry. Sitting down on the gravel next to his cousin, he softly stroked one of her limp hands. "Please don't die, Cousin Janie." Petrus sat down on the steps just above them, looking on. His blue eyes were grave. Then he took off his housecoat, bent over and tucked it around Cousin Janie. "We should pray, Arend," he said, "We should ask God to help." As Petrus' voice sincerely began to invoke God's help, Arend closed his eyes, all the while not letting go of Cousin Janie's hand. At the “Amen,” Cora appeared, fully dressed. "I've phoned for the ambulance," she said, "Arend, go and stand by the road so you can flag it down when it comes, but first go inside and put on your coat and your boots." Arend obeyed her woodenly. Letting go of Cousin Janie's hand, he got up, scarcely feeling where the gravel had indented his legs. He walked up the stairs past Petrus, opened the door and found his coat and boots. Putting them on, he came out again and descended the steps. He walked backwards down the driveway, his eyes never leaving the still form of his cousin. Cora then went inside, procured a blanket from one of the beds and came out again. Telling Petrus to put his housecoat back on, she covered Cousin Janie's figure with the blanket. Arend stood at the end of the driveway, and peered down the road for what seemed like an eternity, constantly checking over his shoulder to where Cora and Petrus were bending down. He loved Cousin Janie. Sobs welled up inside him bursting out in a howl of misery. The next instant Petrus appeared at his side and took his hand. "It's all right, Arend. I'm here." Arend snuggled into Petrus' side and then two hands lifted him up, not to the old man's shoulders, but to his heart. A car drove up from the opposite direction. It was Andrew Peter. He parked his car at the side of the road, turned off the motor and got out. Passing Arend and Petrus, he smiled gently and walked over to where his mother was hovering over Cousin Janie. He knelt down next to her, feeling Cousin Janie's pulse. "Arend," Andrew Peter called a moment later, "Arend, come here." Arend slid down from Petrus' arms and ran, scattering gravel in all directions. He could see that his cousin's eyes were now open. "Cousin Janie," he whispered, leaning over Andrew Peter's shoulder, "Cousin Janie, are you awake?" "Yes, and I'm OK," she whispered back, "Don't worry, little cousin." Carefully she moved her head to find Cora. "Please watch out for him today," she went on. Cora nodded, even as Andrew Peter took Cousin Janie's right hand and began to pray. "Dear Heavenly Father," he said, in a very normal voice, "Janie's had a fall and needs Your help. Please strengthen her, Lord." "The ambulance is coming!" Petrus called out through the prayer, "I see it coming!" "For Jesus sake, Father," Andrew Peter went on, unperturbed, "let Janie put her trust in You so that she might live forever." Cousin Janie's eyes were wide open now and riveted on Andrew Peter's face. "Tell me," she slurred with difficulty, and then her eyes closed. The ambulance turned into the driveway. "Let me go with her in the ambulance."  Andrew Peter spoke up softly but clearly. Cora agreed, and stood up rather stiffly. She took Arend's right hand and pulled him away from where he was leaning on Andrew Peter to stand next to her. Petrus, who had come back from his vigil at the end of the driveway, took Arend's left hand. Together they watched as Cousin Janie was lifted into the ambulance. Andrew Peter got in as well and took a seat next to the stretcher. After the white car drove off, it was very quiet. **** "What happened, Dad?" the little boy impatiently tugged at his father's sweater, "What happened? Was Cousin Janie all right? Did she get better?" The father smiled and shifted his position on the couch. "Yes, son. Let me just get my bearings here." Chapter 6 - A Father figure Arend stayed with Cora and Petrus while Cousin Janie was in the hospital. She'd suffered a concussion, a heavy concussion. Andrew Peter phoned from the hospital that she was to stay there for observation for a few days before she would be allowed to go home. That Sunday Arend went to church for the first time in his life. Cousin Janie had not permitted him to attend previously. "You visit Cora and Petrus a lot during the week," she'd said, and said it firmly, "I'll not have you overstaying your welcome. So on Sundays I want you home with me." Arend had not minded really. Because in her tone he'd heard that she actually liked and wanted his company and that made him feel good. He'd taught Cousin Janie how to play checkers and sometimes they hiked in the park or visited some of her friends. Arend felt a bit awkward at first. Sitting in the wooden pew, feet dangling, hair wetted down and neatly combed by Cora, he breathed as quietly as possible. He feared that if he were to make a sound, it would reverberate from the rafters and everyone would be sure to guess that he was new, that he had never been to church before. He was wedged into the corner spot and Petrus sat on his right. It was Petrus' birthday and there would be cake this afternoon at teatime. Cora sat next to Petrus. They were early and slowly people began to dribble in through the aisles - families with children, couples and single people. Then the organ began to play. Arend had never before heard an organ and started violently when the first rich tones swelled past him. Turning his head to see where the music came from, he spotted Billy Barber a few pews behind them. Billy waved. Arend turned his gaze away quickly, quite sure it was not proper to wave in church. Petrus nudged him and showed him a roll of peppermints in his pocket. "You can have one later," he mouthed and grinned. A tall boy from grade four sat down directly in front of them. He was the boy who had praised Arend for running fast, and his name was Henry Beenstra but all the kids called him “Beanstalk” because he was so skinny and tall. He flashed a look at Arend before he sat down with his parents, eyebrows raised in surprise. His eyes jumped from Arend to Petrus and then back to Arend again. There was something troubling in his glance and Arend felt uncomfortable. He knew it had to do with Petrus but was not quite sure what it entailed. Petrus nudged him again and bringing out the small carved eagle in his pocket. Arend smiled. Whatever it was that bothered Henry “Beanstalk” about Petrus, it didn't matter. The minister, a middle-aged man, welcomed everyone and smiled. It was a good smile and reached Arend's pew. There was singing and more singing and prayer. It was a very long prayer and from time to time Arend peeked to make sure everyone else was still praying. At one such peek, he caught Henry, face turned back towards them, staring straight at him. He quickly shut his eyes again, but not before he'd seen a smirk on Henry's face. He leaned into the pew corner and tried to relax. Avoiding eye contact with Henry during the entire ensuing service, he tried to listen – to listen carefully – so that he could tell Cousin Janie all about it later. It was a good story that the minister told – a story about a father with two sons. The younger one was tired of staying at home and wanted to go away. From everything the minister said it sounded as if the boy's home was a good home and Arend could not fathom wanting to leave your home if it was good. That younger boy was stupid. Imagine having a kind father who loved you and wanting to leave that love. He turned his face back towards the minister. The father gave the boy a lot of money and allowed him to leave and the father was very sad to see him leave. The boy traveled to a far away country and spent all his money. Arend had never had any money. He guessed that Cousin Janie giving him milk money for a carton of milk at school each day didn't really count. And he wasn't allowed to spend that money on anything else but milk. After the boy had spent all his money, he got a job feeding pigs. It would have been a dirty job, Arend imagined, and not at all like feeding his rabbits or his chickens. And the boy was so hungry that he wanted to eat the pig food. What would the pigs have been eating? Slop, the minister said and if it tasted like it sounded, then it would have tasted terrible. While he was in the pig pen, the boy remembered his father. Arend remembered his own father. His father had not really wanted him at home; had never given him money; had not even given him birthday presents. If he was living with pigs right now and his father was alive, would he go to him? It was a hard question and Arend began to dangle his feet back and forth, kicking the pew in front of him. He instinctively felt that his father would not have been happy to see him. Petrus put a hand on his knees to stop the kicking motion and Arend's feet became quiet. The boy went back home to say that he was sorry he had left, and when he was still far away from his old house, his father saw him coming down the road. Arend remembered standing at the end of the driveway watching down Tooker's Lane for the ambulance. It had been difficult to see very far because there had been a bit of a mist. He recalled straining his eyes. The boy's father must have had very good eyesight. Maybe he could see like an eagle. And then the father began running towards the boy because he so very much wanted the boy to come home; and when they met, the father hugged the boy. Arend's father had never hugged him. But Petrus had hugged him. The father then dressed the boy in a beautiful robe and he gave him a ring for his finger too. Arend stretched his right hand in front of him. Would it be sissy to wear a ring? And then a lot of food was made ready for a party and everyone celebrated because the boy had come home. Maybe cake was served - maybe cake like they would have this afternoon because it was Petrus' birthday. It was because the boy was sorry, the minister insisted, that the father was so happy and took him back; and it was because the boy knew that he was lost, that he was accepted back home. Arend reflected on that. It was easy to understand that if you were sorry, sorry about something you had done wrong, that this was a good thing. But to know that you were lost, that was more difficult to understand. How could you know that you were lost? Was he lost because he didn't really have a proper home? And how could he... ? His thoughts stopped. After church, Billy Barber and some other boys came up to him. Cora, with a backward glance over her shoulder, presumed that Arend would be fine with his friends. "Want to come over to my house, Arend? My Dad will bring you back this afternoon. I'll show you the piglets and we have puppies right now too." Billy was insistent and Arend felt flattered. "I'll have to ask Cora," he said, and together the boys looked for her but she said “no.” "It's Petrus' birthday. Did you forget?" Then seeing the downcast faces in front of her, she relented somewhat. "Why don't you come to our house instead, Billy," she suggested, "and have your Dad pick you up later today?" As Billy disappeared into the crowd of churchgoers around them in the foyer to ask permission, Henry “Beanstalk” walked over. "Hey, squirt," he said, "how's the number one runner doing?" "Fine," Arend answered carefully, a little apprehensive to be singled out by Henry and recalling vividly how Henry had looked at himself and Petrus during the service. "Want to play some baseball this afternoon with some of the guys?" "I can't," Arend replied, "it's Petrus' birthday and we're... well, we're having some cake and stuff. You know." Billy came running back. "My Mom says it's OK. I can come to your house, Arend." "Oh," Henry's face took on a look of mock hurt, "so you can play with Billy, but not with me." Arend didn't know what to say. He ground the toe of his shoe into the carpet. Henry turned around. "Well, see you guys." **** "Then what happened, Dad? Was there cake? His father nodded. "Yes, there was, son. But not until the afternoon. And it was a lovely chocolate cake, the kind that Petrus loved." "Tell me," the boy, insisted leaning back against his father. And the father continued. Chapter 7 - Carried home After Sunday soup, fresh bread and a hard-boiled egg, Arend and Billy helped Cora dry the dishes. Petrus was already on the couch half-asleep. "Now you boys play outside until tea time," Cora said, "and then we'll have a piece of that birthday cake." Arend showed Billy the rabbits and the chickens as well as Cousin Janie's house. Then they looked for deer tracks and rabbit tracks out in the field. Arend was about to get a container so they could catch some tadpoles in the little creek, when he saw Henry standing in the driveway. There was another boy with him. They were standing next to their bikes. "Hey, squirt," Henry yelled, "we came over to say “happy birthday” to your friend." Arend didn't know what to say. "Well, aren't you going to ask us in?" "I can't," Arend said, "Cora and Petrus are sleeping." Henry turned the handlebar of his bike and fastened his gaze on Arend. "Well, eagle-boy," he returned, "I sure would like a piece of that birthday cake and it would be a shame if we came for nothing." "Can't you give them a piece," Billy, who had come to stand next to him, whispered advice into his ear, "and then they'll go away." Uncertain, Arend slowly walked towards and up the steps. He carefully opened the door, making sure he turned the handle just right so that there was no squeaking. It opened into the kitchen and the cake smiled at him on the counter. Cora had put a knife next to the cake. Also, neatly lined up, were four plates and four forks. He tip-toed inside, swallowed deeply, took hold of the knife and cut into the chocolate cake. He'd never done such a thing before. The knife stuck. He pulled it out and tried again. This time he was more successful. Eventually he managed to get two pieces of cake onto two of the plates. Balancing them carefully in his hands, he retraced his steps and went back outside. Henry applauded and laid his bike down on the driveway. "Great going, squirt," he said, "I'd knew you'd pull through." He walked toward the backyard and his friend followed. Billy and Arend followed as well, Arend still carrying the plates with the cake. They all sat down on the grass and Arend handed the boys a plate each. "It'd be a waste if old drool mouth had this all to himself," Henry commented, "and how come you're staying with him, squirt?" Arend blushed. "Well, how come you're staying here," Henry persisted, his mouth full of chocolate cake. "My Cousin Janie's in the hospital and ... well, Cora and Petrus are neighbors." "Well, that's unfortunate, isn't it? Having a neighbor that isn't right in the head!" Arend looked down at the grass. He didn't know what to say. That is, he did know what to say, but he didn't dare say it. "I bet you're sorry your staying here, aren't you, squirt?" Arend didn't answer, but Henry repeated his remark. "I bet you're sorry Petrus is your neighbor, right, squirt?" He stood up as he spoke, leaving his empty plate in the grass. The plate was stained with brown crumbs. The other boys stood up as well. Henry walked over to Arend, linking arms with him, pulling him back across the grass towards the driveway. "I bet you'd much rather stay with me than with silly, old Petrus, squirt." Henry's voice was loud and invasive. It crept under his Arend's skin and slithered down the road. Arend wanted to pull away from the voice, but he couldn't. His arm was locked in Henry's grip. Nevertheless, he began to pull. "If you say, 'Petrus is a silly, old man,' I'll let you go," Henry promised and squeezed Arend's arm so hard it brought tears to his eyes. "Petrus is a silly, old man," the words burst out of Arend's mouth before he knew it. Henry suddenly let go of Arend's arm and Arend fell backwards onto the driveway. Henry laughed, laughed so hard he doubled over. Then he and his friend got on their bikes and rode off, tearing through the gravel of the driveway. Arend stood up, brushed himself off and glanced over at the still open door. Petrus was standing on the landing and he was staring right into Arend's eyes. Farmer Tooker's grandson, who owned all the property in and around Tooker's Lane, never harvested his corn until late in the season. As a matter of fact, sometimes he did not even harvest until the following year. Other farmers commented on it and said it was a shame to see a crop go to waste. After staring into Petrus' eyes for a moment, Arend took off towards the field, losing himself between the tall, dry cornstalks. Billy did not follow him and he was glad of it. He ran until the breath had totally drained from his lungs and he was forced to stop. Falling down onto the dirt, he curled himself into a tight ball and lay still. How long he remained there he didn't know. The late October ground was unrelentingly hard. It did not possess the dignity and support of a mattress, and yet the boy slept a dreamless sort of sleep. It had not been a sunny day to begin with and when Arend finally came to himself, he was numb with cold. Slowly he remembered what had happened and sick with shame, he sat up. His good pants had a grass stain and he wondered what Cora would have to say about that. But she would probably not say anything because he could not possibly go back. For surely after Cora heard what Arend had said about Petrus, she would not want him in her house again. And when Cousin Janie heard what he had done, she would never want to see him again either. He couldn't blame either of them. A lark flew overhead and in the distance he heard a mourning dove coo. He picked an ear of corn off the nearest stalk, peeling off its dried leaves. Shriveled and tiny, the kernels were uninviting and unappetizing. Perhaps he'd have to stay here all winter and eat hard, uncooked corn. His stomach both rebelled and rumbled. Billy had probably gotten a piece of chocolate cake and Billy's Dad had, without a doubt, already picked him up and taken him home. He wondered if the coyotes in the field ate people. He sometimes heard them howling at night. Petrus said there were packs of them about. Cora was making fried potatoes tonight and there was going to be egg salad too. These were some of Petrus' favorite dishes. He hadn't even given Petrus a birthday present. He did not have money and Cousin Janie was in the hospital. But he had made him a card. It said: “Happy birthday, Petrus - from your best friend, Arend, the eagle you found in the field.” The card was under his pillow. Was he like the boy in the minister's story? Had he squandered what had been given to him so freely? Were dried ears of corn like slop? The only thing missing here were the pigs. Billy had pigs. Maybe he could stay with Billy's family and live in the pigpen. The boy in the story had been sorry. In that way he was like the boy. He was so terribly sorry that he had said that Petrus was a silly, old man. Petrus' eyes had been so sad, as if they could not understand that Arend would say such a thing about him. “I hope you stay my friend, Arend.” “I will, Petrus.” That's what he had said a few weeks ago and it had been a lie. He picked up a clod of earth and threw it into the air. It landed with a small thud and broke into pieces. The strange thing was that the dirt, broken and black, was still part of the earth. You could not tell now that he had thrown it into the air, that it had been somewhere else but a few moments ago. Not so with himself. He had been tossed up by fear and he had landed flat on his face. Unlike that clod of earth, he was now part of nothing. His past was gone. There was no place for him anywhere. He was lost. He did not know where he was or where to go. He shivered miserably. Even if he went to Cora and Petrus and said that he was sorry, he would not belong to them anymore. They would always mistrust him and would never love him again. What if he said that they could punish him? What if he said that he would work for them and they didn't have to pay him ever? Unconsciously he stood up and his feet began to move through the rows and rows of corn towards the little white house in the distance. It was dusk now and the first stars were beginning to appear. The corn stalks crackled as he walked on, head down, towards the afternoon's disgrace. He could hear an owl hoot somewhere in the bush behind the field. Bats flew by in the air hunting insects. He lifted his head for a brief moment to stare at them as they darted through the sky like ashes scattered to the wind. Instinctively his eyes moved toward the horizon, moved toward the house. It was glowing with light. Cora must have turned the lamps on in the kitchen and in the living room. His gaze fastened on the glow and he wished with all his might that he were there and that it was yesterday. Then he stopped short for he suddenly perceived the figure of a person, a tall person, moving through the corn field just beyond the little bridge, moving toward himself. It was Petrus. He knew for a fact that it was Petrus – knew it within the pit of his being. Petrus had seen him too because at that moment the tall, spindly frame began to run, crushing plants as he did so. Without being able to stop himself, Arend began to run also – to run as fast as his legs could carry him. And when he reached the old man, he felt himself being lifted high, as high as the stars, and then he was carried home. **** "What about the string, father. You said it was a story about the string." The child was impatient and tugged at his father's sleeve. fingering the string. "Yes, I did." "Well?" "Petrus had tied a string around one of the eagle's wings. He said he had done this so that the eagle would not fall out of his pocket. He gave me the string that night because he said I needed to know that I would never fall out of his pocket."   **** Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books, her latest being Katherina, Katherina, a novel taking place in the time of Martin Luther. You can read a review here, and buy it at www.sola-scriptura.ca/store/shop....

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Adult fiction, Teen fiction

Katharina, Katharina: the story of Katharina Schutz Zell

by Christine Farenhorst 328 pages / 2017 Rating: Good/GREAT/Give In the past year, inspired by the 500th anniversary of Martin Luther nailing up his 95 theses (or did he?) I've read about a dozen works on Luther. This is a favorite. One reason I love it so, is because it offers something very different from the others – this about is Luther and his time, but he isn't the main character. He isn't even a minor character, never making an in-story appearance. The events take place miles away from Luther's Wittenberg, in the French city of Strasbourg, on the border with Germany. The story centers around a middle daughter of the middle-class Schutz family. Like their neighbors, the Schutz's read and discuss Luther's pamphlets. By taking a step back from the man himself, author Christine Farenhorst (as regular RP readers will know, she is a long-time contributor to the magazine) give her readers the opportunity to encounter Luther's ideas in much the same way as the people of his time did. They didn't debate his ideas at the start, so much as wonder what to think of them. Some of his points they could readily agree with – many saw a need for at least some sort of reformation of the Church. But his thoughts on indulgences... might he be right? We follow the title character from childhood up until her mid-twenties. Though Katharina Schutz is a real person, this is historical fiction – all the big events are true, but the day-to-day details of Katharina's life have been made up. This is why, even as a background character, Luther still dominates the story. Katharina's life is fascinating reading but because much of it is speculative, it serves as the foundation while what we learn about Luther here is his real, actual history. One of the strangest bits of true history in the book is the dancing plague of 1518 that hit Strasbourg. Victims couldn't help but dance. It would have been funny except that this stilted, clumsy dancing never stopped - as many as 400 dancers kept going for days and days, beyond exhaustion, and even to the point of heart attacks and strokes. Target audience This is a teen to young adult book, but like any good children's book, adults interested in their church history will find it fascinating. However, as a third of all children at that time died before they hit age 5, there are some parts to Katharina's story that would be bawl-inducing to anyone under, say, 10. The somewhat slow beginning – it took until chapter 4 to really grab me – also makes it better suited for readers with a little maturity to them. That said, one of my daughters loved it as a 12-year-old, and had re-read it a couple of times since. Conclusion There is a real benefit to learning about Luther in this one-step-removed fashion. I was fascinated by what I learned about the people and culture of that time. It gave me a deeper understanding of the pressures that Luther faced, and insights into how God prepared the ground for the Reformation Luther sparked. It is a fascinating story that I look forward to reading with my daughters. This review first appeared on ReallyGoodReads.com....

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Book lists, Book Reviews

Learning about Luther: 10 titles your family will enjoy

Five hundred years ago a learned monk drew up 95 pointed arguments and asked for a debate. What he got was a revolution. Fast forward five centuries, and on the very same evening that others are dressing up as demons and celebrating death, at least a few kids are putting on brown bathrobes and dressing up as a round Reformation giant. On Oct. 31, each year, we remember Luther posting his 95 theses, and we celebrate the man's courage, his insight, and his love for the Lord. Largely overlooked are his faults. Oh, yes, we know about his attempts at self-justification, and his crass insults, and even his anger, but in the books and films that are recommended below, Luther’s darkest side is hardly raised. Maybe it comes from a desire not to speak ill of the dead. After all, when we reminisce about our Great Aunt Ditty we fondly recall how she loved to sew doll clothes for all her grandchildren, but we don’t bring up the disagreeable face she made whenever a particular ethnic group crossed her path. The fifth commandment would seem to encourage us to talk only about what was good and praiseworthy about our dearly departed. That’s a good approach for the Great Aunt Dittys of the world, but something more is needed when it comes to Christian heroes. Then there is a reason to acknowledge both the good and the bad. As Calvin said, our hearts are idol factories – so much so that we can take the proper respect (Heb. 13:7) we have for one of God’s servants and twist and pervert it into something that blocks our view of God. We go from respecting the man, to worshipping the legend, and getting angry if anyone dares mention his faults. But acknowledging his flaws guards us against hero worship. It also keeps us from being blindsided by the critics who want to attack the good God did through him. When we understand that even a man after God’s own heart like David – giant-killer and slayer of tens of thousands – was also an adulterer and a murderer, we aren’t going to put him on a pedestal. And then we won’t have to worry about critics trying to knock him off that pedestal. It’s important, then, to acknowledge that Luther said some dreadful things about the Jews. In his earliest writings he was kind and winsome, trying to evangelize to them. But in his later years he concluded that God was done with the Jews, and he wrote a 60,000-word treatise called On The Jews And Their Lies. In it he encouraged that their synagogues and homes be burned, their books and money taken, and their rabbis killed if they didn’t stop teaching. He also repeated, as true, lies about Jews poisoning wells and kidnapping children. This is Luther at his worst, writing a book that Nazis reprinted. So how do we handle Luther’s dark side? We acknowledge it and clearly identify it for the sin that it is. And then we continue our 500th anniversary party. This was never supposed to be all about the man, but rather the wonderful truths he rediscovered about God’s grace and mercy and love. And when we understand our hero’s failings, then how can we help but glorify God all the more, appreciating how He can use fallen, frail, sinful sorts like Luther – and like you and me – to accomplish his glorious ends? ***** It’s been said there are more books about Martin Luther than on any other human being. But some are dry and dusty. Some need a forklift to pick up. And some need a dictionary in hand just to get through them. These aren’t the kind of books we’re after. Our focus is on engaging, and readable. So we're suggesting novels, pictures books and comics that parents will enjoy reading to their kids. And there's a movie, novels, and non-fiction for mom and dad, that they can finish in a quiet evening or two. These aren’t big books, and these aren’t long movies, but they are intriguing. My hope is that you’ll find a good match for everyone in your family. CHILDREN’S BOOKS Martin Luther by Simonetta Carr 2016 / 62 pages This is the perfect book for any 4th grader and up looking to do a school project on the Reformer. Like other entries in Simonetta Carr's series of "Christian biographies for young readers" Martin Luther is a gorgeous book. It is a beautifully bound, with thick pages, and includes 12 full-page paintings among its 44 illustrations. It is also well-researched, and wonderfully detailed. After reading more than a dozen works on Luther I was pleasantly surprised to still be learning so many new things from a children's book. For example, I don't think I'd ever before heard that Martin had a special relationship with his young brother Jacob, nor that Jacob might have been with him when Luther was "kidnapped" on his way home from the Diet of Worms. And it was interesting to learn that Luther's famous "brand" – the Luther rose – was designed for him at the request of his protector, John Frederick of Saxony. What makes this book special is how much Carr has managed to pack in its 60 pages. But that also means that even though this is a picture book, it is probably too much for children in Grades 1 or 2. I think the best bet is Grade 4 and up. Overall, Carr gives a generous assessment of Luther, focussing on his strengths. But she is willing to at least note his faults, the biggest of which is what he wrote about the Jews in his later years. Carr makes brief mention of it, noting that he "wrote against the Jews" and there is no "excuse for writing what he did." I'd recommend this as a wonderful educational resource, and by that I mean that while it makes learning easy, this isn't the type of frothy, brightly-colored picture book that young children will pick up simply for entertainment. It will need a teacher's or parent's prompt. Thunderstorm in Church by Louise A. Vernon 1974 / 132 pages It isn't easy being the son of a giant. In Louise Vernon's children's novel, we get to hear Luther's story told from the perspective of his young son Hans, who is worried that he won't measure up to his father. Though I'm a bit outside the intended demographic, I found it a very fun read, and I think that's because, with one of his offspring acting as the narrator, this is a really unique look at Luther. Hans reveals to us a father who is both funny and furious - a man of quick temper who also laughs a lot. Having Hans narrate also allows Luther to teach us, as he instructs his son, some of the truths that he uncovered about God's grace – that we don't have to buy the forgiveness that God freely offers. Some reviewers have faulted the book for being too dialogue-driven, and there is a lot of talking. But Vernon inserts a few actions scenes as well, like when the town's bullies want to teach the son of the famous Doctor Luther a lesson or two. If your child is a reader, this is a book that could be enjoyed simply as entertainment – it is fun, even if it has some slower sections. As an educational tool, the age-level this is aimed at – as young as Grade 3 – may have to be alerted that this is a fictionalized biography, and that this means only the general facts are true, but many of the details are just a matter of imagination. Overall, Thunderstorm in Church is a wonderful book that could make for a nice night time read with your kids. Also worth a mention Old Testament historian Paul L. Maier’s picture book Martin Luther: A Man Who Changed the World is simply gorgeous, and a wonderful introduction to the man for younger readers. RC Sproul also has a great picture book for younger children called The Man Who Wanted to Pray, about Luther teaching his barber how to talk to God. And what the barber learned from Luther, our children can learn from the barber. I should note that there is one picture of Jesus, with his face mostly, but not entirely obscured. GRAPHIC NOVELS Luther by Rich Melheim illustrated by Jonathan Koelsch 2016 / 72 pages I've reviewed other "comic biographies" and never enjoyed one more. Luther is scripted like a movie, has witty dialogue with actions scene interspersed, and the artwork is of the same quality you would find in Marvel or DC comics – it is fantastic! Educational comics, as a genre, are valuable in that they make learning history a lot less painful. But very few of these educational graphic novels are the sort that a teen would just pick up and start reading. Luther is the exception. I don't want to over-hype it – a kid who reads nothing but superhero comics will still find this a bit of a stretch – but it really is as good a comic as you will find. Since this is intended for teens, I'll note a few cautions. The word "crap" is mentioned three times, "ass" once, and "old fart" once. But when you consider this is a comic about the notoriously potty-mouthed Luther, this is really quite tame. I’ll also note there is a depiction of Christ on the inside back cover of the book that is not part of the story, but rather part of an ad for other comics by the same publisher. Also: the comic treats as fact that famous conclusion to Martin Luther's speech at the Diet of Worms, where he is said to have declared, "Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me. Amen." There is some dispute as to whether he ever said these words. The comic has several strengths including the overall picture it gives of the happenings going on in the broader world that made it possible for Luther to both spark this Reformation and live into old age and die a natural death. I’ve always wondered why the Emperor didn’t just have him killed. Perhaps it was because, as we learn in this comic, Charles V was busy contending with Turkish expansion and might not have wanted to risk alienating any of his German princes. Another strength is that while this account is sympathetic, it does note one of Luther's weaknesses: that sometimes Luther's pen got the best of him and he could write some "terrible and hateful words" denouncing Jews, Calvinists, and Anabaptists alike. Overall this is a comic that teens and adults (who aren't embarrassed to be seen reading a comic) will certainly enjoy. Luther: Echoes of the Hammer by Susan K. Leigh illustrated by Dave Hill 2011 / 144 pages I think this is the perfect compliment to the other Luther comic reviewed here. Whereas Luther is the more exciting of the two, it plays a little looser with the details. Meanwhile Luther: Echoes of the Hammer is a more reliable history lesson, but it isn't as dramatic. I tested this graphic novel on two of my nephews with mixed results. The older one, heading to grade 10, was happy to take a look, and thought it would be a great way to learn about Luther. The other, two years younger, seemed to think it was too much biography, and not enough comic book for his tastes. As far as comics go, this one is quite an involved, even heavy, read. Interspersed throughout are explanations of key events, like the Diet of Worms, key terms, like “indulgences,” and key figures, like Charles of Spain, the Holy Roman Emperor. These one or two-page insertions really add to the narrative and make this a highly educational comic. However, a few of these insertions will also trouble informed Reformed readers. In one list of Luther’s adversaries, Calvin is numbered among them! While it is true Calvin and Luther had their differences, it is surprising to see Calvin listed as an opponent. Especially when, some pages later, we find Erasmus listed as one of Luther’s supporters! While Erasmus was, like Luther, critical of the Roman Church, he never left it, and this led to strong, vitriolic disagreements with Luther. In fact Luther once called Erasmus, “the very mouth and organ of Satan.”  It is downright silly, then, for the authors to list Erasmus as a friend if they are going to list fellow Reformer John Calvin as an adversary. The only other quibble would be the overestimation the authors have of Philip Melanchthon, describing him as “a great Reformer, second only to Martin Luther.” Second? Really? How can they overlook Calvin like that? Those quibbles aside, this is a impressive book. The writing is crisp, succinct and engaging. The artwork is attractive and instructive – many of these pictures are worth a thousand words. For example, in the pages covering Luther’s visit to Worms illustrator Dave Hill shows us the man’s quiet passion, his many supporters, and his opponents marshaled together. This gives us a good understanding of the setting, and thus a better understanding of the courage it took for Luther to stand up for what he knew to be true. Older teens will enjoy it, and many an adult too. Also worth a mention The same folks who created Luther: Echo of the Hammer, created a sequel, focused on his wife. Katie Luther is a little shorter, and a little less involved, but also quite enjoyable. YOUNG ADULT FICTION The Story of Martin Luther by Danika Cooley 2015 / 231 pages This is a treat! The target audience is teens, but like any fantastic book, adults are sure to enjoy it too. In fact, this is the perfect book for any adults who feel a need to know more about church history but are a little reluctant to get started. That's how I'd characterize myself. As a student I hated history – learning dates and names seemed pointless. Now I understand it is important to know where we came from, and I want to learn more....but I have no interest in learning it from a dry, dusty tome. That's why this was such a treat. In the hands of a talented writer, it doesn’t take much to make Luther's life exciting. As doubt-filled as he was early on, the Reformer was bombastic after he understood that forgiveness is a gift given, not earned. This is a man who: was condemned by the pope as a heretic had 200 knights pledge to protect him didn't want to marry lest he quickly leave his wife a widow was kidnapped masqueraded as a knight helped formulate the German language cared for Plague victims ended up marrying a nun And it would be easy to go on and on. While much of the day-to-day dialogue is fictionalized, a strength of the book is the many genuine quotes that are interspersed throughout (these are identifiable by the endnote numbers after such quotes). One example: in a debate at Lepzig University, Johann Eck hits Luther with a stinging question: "Are you the only one who knows anything? With the exception of you, is all the church in error?" It stung because Luther, plagued by self-doubt, had been wondering this very same thing. But Luther also knows that God's truth doesn't depend on Luther being brilliant. Nope - God can spread his truth using even the dumbest of beasts, as Luther notes in his reply: "I answer that God once spoke through the mouth of a donkey." Another strength is how the book reveals more of the man – warts and all – than many other biographies. While Cooley largely skips over Luther's love of scatological insults (this is a book intended for younger readers, after all) she does share how Luther's anger stung not only the pope, but allies as well. She has Luther attempt to justify himself: "It is precisely because of my outbursts that the Lord has used me! I never work better than when I am inspired by anger; for when I am angry, I can write, pray, and preach well, for then my whole temperament is quickened, my understanding sharpened." There is a time and place for anger, and God made good use of Luther's righteous anger. But later, as Luther aged, it seems he came to indulge in anger, and that got him and others into trouble. Cooley shares how Luther's anger cost him friends. And it was in his anger that he wrote his tract condemning the Jews, who were already facing persecution. So he used his influence for great good, but his anger meant that at times his influence also caused great harm. When Lightning Struck! would make a great present to just about any reader, particularly if they have even the slightest interest in church history. I'd even recommend this to teens who have the same bad attitude towards history that I once did. For them, this might be a bit of a gamble, but if you can get your son or daughter to promise to read through the first 60 pages, that should have them hooked. Luther in love by Douglas Bond 2017 / 320 pages Luther in Love shows us the Reformer from the perspective of his better half. The story begins with 62-year-old Luther spending an evening in his chair. He's not in the best of health – worn out from a lifetime of controversy and conflict – and his dear wife knows that it can't be long before he is gone. So she has given herself a bittersweet project to complete. Others have written accounts of the Reformer, but always from one extreme or the other - either thinking him "the spawn of Satan" or "a living angel." She wants the world to know the real man, and she's going to record his story as he remembers it. But Katie doesn't want her husband to know what she's up to, so even as she's prodding him about the past, and has paper and quill at the ready, he thinks she's busy keeping track of the family finances and other business matters. It's a great premise and let's Bond explore Luther's life through the appreciative, but far from naive, perspective of his helpmeet. After all, who knows a man better than his wife? One strength of the book is the thorough research evident throughout - we are immersed in Luther's world! And then there is Bond's writing – this is the fourth fictionalized biography Bond has written about Reformers, and he is a master of this form. Again and again I had to get up to find my wife and read sections to her that were simply too exciting, or too sweet, not to share. Some of that sweetness comes up when the couple is teasing and debating each other. Bond gives us a wonderful look at how two souls can grow old together and continue growing in love for one another. It's a book about Luther, but it's also a model for marriage. Of the many books I've read about Luther, this is one of the biggest. But it might just be the fastest read. That's why I'd recommend it to anyone and everyone, teens and up. It is funny, entertaining, informative, sweet, challenging, and more. Also worth a mention Christine Farenhorst’s new novel, Katharina, Katharina is the Reformation as it happened far from the walls of Wittenburg.  While Luther never makes an in-book appearance, he is still a central figure – Farenhorst gives us an intriguing look at this monk and his work by showing us how he was being debated and discussed by the regular folk of his day. MARTIN AT THE MOVIES Torchlighters: The Martin Luther Story 2016 / 34 minutes The strength of this film is its short length. At just 34 minutes, it can be shown in the space of a single school period. For the pre-teens this is intended for, that might be just the right length, with the quick pace, and colorful animation sure to grab most students’ attention. But the biggest weakness of this short film is….its length. It is far too short to tell this story with the gravitas it needs – Luther’s spiritual wrestling is dealt with in just 7 minutes! It also ends abruptly, with Luther busy translating the Bible into German in Wartburg Castle. The narrator then spends just a single minute summing up the whole of the second half of Luther's life. And then the credits role. I should note a couple of inclusions that might have been better left out. Luther is told that the very night he nailed up his 95 Theses, his long-time protector, Duke Frederick, had a dream about a monk writing on a church door with a quill that was so long it extended all the way to Rome "where it toppled the crown off of a lion." This is presented as the reason Frederick was willing to defend his rebellious trouble-making monk: God had told him ahead of time that his monk was going to topple the pope. But while the movie portrays this as fact, there is reason to think this might just be a popular myth. Also, at the film's conclusion, there is a passing, two or three second shot of a title page illustration from one of Luther's books depicting Christ on the cross, with Luther and John Frederick I, Elector of Saxony kneeling below. I make mention of it, for any who consider this a violation of the Second Commandment. That said, this is a great film for children who don't yet have the attention span for a longer Luther film – it will certainly keep most children engaged, and does give a good overview. Check out the trailer here. Martin Luther 1953 / 105 minutes What sort of film is Martin Luther? The sort that gets produced by a church, and yet gets nominated for an Oscar – solid theology paired with high production values. How often has that happened? It does get off to a slow start; the first couple of minutes are more documentary than drama. But when we get introduced to Niall MacGinnis as Luther, his brilliant portrayal sweeps us into the story. We follow along, starting with his tormented time in the monastery, and continue all the way through to his marriage to an ex-nun. MacGinnis captures all the contradictions of the man – even as the Reformer stands before the Diet of Worms strong and defiant he is distraught and trembling. This is certainly among the best Christian films ever made. As a caution I will note that while there is nothing graphic in the film (it is G-rated), some scenes are psychologically intense. I think that would just go over the heads of most children, but for some young sensitive sorts, Luther's spiritual turmoil might be too much. This is a black and white film, which is a mark against it in many minds. But if you're considering showing this to your class or to your family, here's the secret to helping them get into it: make the sound your priority! In a dialogue-driven film it's the sound, much more than the visuals, that really matters. I still remember watching this with my Grade 6 classmates, years ago. The screen was small – minuscule by today's standards – but this big box TV had great speakers. There was no fuzziness, no straining to understand what was being said – we could all follow it. And after 30 minutes or so, we were all hooked. There are quite a number of films about Martin Luther, with at least a half dozen dramas, and more than a dozen documentaries. The best known is probably the 2003 Luther that played in major theaters, and starred Joseph Fiennes (of Shakespeare in Love fame). It is a wonderful film (and in color!) but marred by an instance or two where God's name is taken in vain. As well, it focuses a little more on Luther's external struggles with the powers that be, and a little less on his own internal struggles. That makes for more action, but less of a theological focus – more about Martin, but God somehow fades into the background. So the 1953 Martin Luther is the better educational film. This would be great for a family movie night. I've seen kids as young as 7 enjoy it, though with younger children you're going to want to break it into a few "chunks" so it's spread out over two or three nights. But for those 12 and up, so long as they are "forced" to give it a half hour ("No, you can't check your smartphone while watching this") it will grab them and give them a good understanding of the amazing work God performed through this man. Watch the trailer here. ADULT NON-FICTION The heroic boldness of Martin Luther by Steven J. Lawson 145 pages / 2013 My brother Jeff called this “a book that every Protestant minister should read….because it uses the story of the first Protestant minister, Martin Luther, to show what Protestant ministers should be doing with the word of God.” To be clear, this isn’t so much a biography as it is an examination of Luther’s “conviction about the Word” and his approach to preaching. Before the Reformation, church services were dominated by the Mass, and by rituals, but Luther and others made preaching central. And not just preaching, but biblical preaching that was willing to be controversial, not for controversy’s sake, but because apostasy needed to be challenged, and sin needed to be named. There was a need to have God’s Word set loose. Author Steven Lawson thinks that’s just as true today, so he’s hoping that Luther’s example – his respect for Scripture, his practice of reading through the whole Bible twice each year, his passionate delivery off the pulpit – can inspire others to go and do likewise. That makes this a book that might seem like it would only be for ministers. But while it does definitely have particular relevance for them, all of us can learn from Luther’s zeal to grow in the knowledge of his Lord. Martin Luther’s 95 Theses by Timothy J. Wengert 2015 / 90 pages If you want to understand Luther and the reforms he began, can there be a better place to start than his 95 theses? When I first got my copy in the mail, I was struck by how short it was. This is the Pope-shaking document that God used to start it all? Shouldn't it be...heavier? And if we were to take out the introduction, commentary, and study guide, Luther's 95 theses only amounts to 13 or 14 pages! Thankfully, Timothy Wengert stretches it out to (a still slim) 90 pages so he can present Luther's pivotal work in the right context. He uses his introduction to set the scene, explaining how the doctrine of indulgences evolved from bad to worse. He also includes two other documents – Luther's letter to the Bishop of Mainz in which he respectfully asks the bishop to consider the theses, and Luther's "Sermon on Indulgences and Grace" written a year later, in 1518, which was an explanation of his 95 theses intended for the common people. In the theses themselves, Wengert fills almost half of each page with footnotes to clarify Luther's more difficult points. So this is a short, but intense read – it will take some effort to work through it, but not all that much time. And to make the going a little easier, Wengert has sprinkled in all sorts of fascinating facts. Did you know Luther may never have posted his theses to the church door? The first published account of this particular detail occurs in 1546, four months after Luther's death. If he did post them he probably used wax, not nails. Luther's 95 theses were not the first he had written. This was a common communication form among students and professors, and just one month before, in Sept 1517, Luther composed 97 theses against scholastic theology. Outside of God's Word, Luther's 95 theses might be the key document that our Father used to reform his Church. It isn't long. It is an education. Also worth a mention John Piper’s The Legacy of Sovereign Joy is about Luther, Calvin and Augustine, and the joy the three found in knowing God better. It is short, at just 150 pages, and an informative encouraging read. It’s also free as an e-book here....

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Jacobus Arminius: professed the confessions even as he opposed them

The baby, baptized Jacob Harmenszoon, lay contentedly in his mother's arms. Warmth, food and love sheltered his small physical being. Even though his father was only a poor man who made knives for a living, the little one snuggled in his sleep. It was 1560 in the Dutch city of Oudewater and there was much trouble in the land – Spanish trouble, church trouble – and before long young Jacob would have and make his share of them. When Jacob was only a little boy his father died. He was taken from his mother's home to live with a former pastor of Oudewater in the city of Utrecht. The small boy mourned his father's death and he missed his mother, (and only brother), very much. But this is what had been deemed best for him. Times were not easy for a widow with two sons to provide for. The old pastor tried to raise the lad as his own. However, when Jacob was fourteen this foster-father also died. Fatherless a second time, he returned to his mother in Oudewater. The reunion was not to be for long. Shortly after arriving home he was taken to Marburg, Germany by a friend. From there he received the news that the Spaniards had attacked and murdered all the inhabitants of Oudewater. Jacob Harmenszoon, whose name had been Latinized to Jacobus Arminius, was an orphan at the tender age of fifteen. It is difficult to imagine exactly how young Jacobus felt. He was not a child anymore, and yet not a man either at this point. It is Biblical to suppose that suffering can produce a steadfastness in the sovereignty of God. For Jacobus this was not the case. He did develop an intense dislike of any fighting or quarreling – and yet, strangely enough, the false doctrines he later came to espouse have brought about fighting and quarreling to this day. Early schooling When the teenager Jacobus Arminius was orphaned, several pastors took pity on the young man and one sent him to the recently established University of Leyden. Jacobus was at an impressionable age – the age that most of today's students leave for college or university. This is why it is so crucial that teachers at this point in life are solid and impart true knowledge. Unfortunately, in Jacobus' case, this was not to be. One of his professors taught, with power and conviction, man's “free will,” as opposed to God's divine election and reprobation. He taught so ably that Jacobus became both convinced and adept at convincing others. He was a good student. His thirst for knowledge plus his excellent study habits earned him a bursary which enabled him to further his studies in Geneva. Here he heard Beza, friend and successor of Calvin, lecture on election and reprobation. But it was too late. His young mind and soul had already totally absorbed “free will” and found it to be an attractive doctrine. Jacobus also traveled to Italy where he met the famous Jesuit priest Bellarmino (1542-1621). Impressed by the man's great knowledge, Jacobus was subconsciously strengthened in his desire to stretch atonement to include more than just the chosen sheep specified by Christ Himself in John 10:25ff. After all, this man Bellarmino was kind, generous, extremely knowledgeable, active in good works, and surely God could not reject him? “Free will” consequently whispered in Jacobus' ear that atonement was not limited but universal. A teacher of men In 1587, at the age of 27, Arminius returned to Holland. One year later he was installed as minister in Amsterdam. In 1590 he married Elizabeth Reael, daughter of one of the rich regents of that city – a regent, one might add, who was quite liberal in thought – and whose daughter was likely of the same frame of mind as her father. This marriage seemed to encourage him in verbalizing the wayward thoughts he had already been harboring. A series of rather unreformed sermons on the book of Romans was begun. Although he was a popular man, soft-spoken, cultured, good-natured and of impeccable character, these sermons stirred up a great deal of unrest in his congregation. He surmised, among other things, that death had not come into the world through sin but through nature. In chapters 8-11 he concluded that the reason God elected some and not others was because God knew beforehand what they would choose. Although Arminius was accused many times of preaching heresy, he continually maintained that he agreed with the Church's forms of unity, (which at that time were the Heidelberg Catechism and the Belgic Confession). The years passed and the regents, (of which his father-in-law was one), protected Arminius. In 1603 Arminius was appointed as professor of theology in the University of Leyden. It had become the most important university in Holland – the university from which the state church called its ministers. The appointment gave Arminius the opportunity to sow seeds of heresy throughout the entire Reformed community. He won approval of the students easily enough, for he was a congenial fellow and an able teacher. Between classes he gave private lectures at his house and criticized Calvin, convincing a great number that there were errors in the confessions. A sad end Understandably, there was quite a bit of discord within the university halls and in the church pews. There was a civil court in 1608, and again in 1609, at which these problems were discussed. It was obvious from these sessions that Arminius led a minority and would certainly lose out at a proposed synod. This is why the government, which looked on Arminius as a protégé, refused to call one. By the time the Synod of Dordt finally did take place, (1618-19), Arminius had been dead for almost ten years. The final months of Arminius' life were marked with physical distress. Ill with tuberculosis, he also suffered a stroke, paralyzing one side and blinding him. Popularity had waned and was seen in the fact that people applied Zechariah 11:17 to him: “Woe to the worthless shepherd, who deserts the flock! May the sword strike his arm and his right eye! May his arm be completely withered, his right eye totally blinded!” Jacobus Harmenszoon, alias Jacob Arminius, died in 1609 before the age of fifty. When the Synod of Dordt finally did meet, the Arminian point of view was eloquently defended by Episcopius, student and very able successor of Arminius. For six months issues were debated. The doctrine of sovereign grace was at stake. Representatives from Reformed churches all over Europe were present. In the end, Synod roundly condemned the views of Arminius in five canons, (or statements). These statements can be shortened into the acronym TULIP: Total depravity, Unconditional election, Limited atonement, Irresistible grace and Perseverance of the saints. Christine Farenhorst is the author of the just published Katharina, Katharina, about the times of Martin Luther. This article first appeared in the January 2006 issue. ...

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Religion - Roman Catholic

Jorge's Heresy

People might not think they know Jorge Mario Bergoglio from Argentina. As a matter of fact, when asked, most will probably say they’ve never heard of the man. However, if you mention that the fellow changed his name from Jorge Mario Bergoglio to Francis and is currently residing in Rome in the Apostolic Palace, a light will go on and they will nod, “You mean the Pope.” Or perhaps they will use the familiar descriptor “Papa Francisco” to show that they indeed do know who the man is and that they rather like him. An affable looking, round-faced fellow, often smiling, Pope Francis has been touted in the press for humility; he has spoken out against abortion; and he seems not to care for wealth and material goods. Those are indeed virtuous marks with which no fault can be found. But ponder this: the man also prays the rosary three times a day. For those not familiar with praying the rosary, there is this clarification. To pray the rosary properly you begin at the bead holding the crucifix, starting there with saying the Apostles' Creed. Moving to the following bead the “Our Father” is recited. The next three beads take the Aves. That is to say: Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum, Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus, Sancta Maria, Mater Dei ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. Translated that reads: Hail Mary, full of grace, The Lord is with thee, Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus, Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen. The Gloria Patri follows, and so it goes on throughout the chain of beads. The usual number of beads on a rosary, by the way, is 59, although that can vary. Elevating Mary Pope Francis is very fond of Mary. In the 1980s, while studying in Germany, he found great solace praying in front of a baroque painting entitled “Mary, Untier of Knots.” The painting depicts Mary untying a knot while simultaneously stomping her foot on a serpent. He took the painting back to Argentina and urged people to be devoted to the Virgin. The pope sees her as an untier of problems. The knots represent sins to him, sins that separate people from God. Mary, as shown in the painting, unties these knots and brings sinners closer to God. The pope, and the Catholic Church, wrongly attribute mediatory qualities to Mary. The adoration of Mary is nothing new in Catholic circles. Many stories circulate with regard to her. One such story was reported on in the Nottinghamshire Guardian of September 9, 1864. In this article it was said that a soldier had appeared before the police court in Madrid, Spain. He had been charged with having stolen a gold cup, a gold cup of great value. Exacerbating this crime was the fact that this cup had been placed as a votive offering on one of the numerous altars dedicated to Mary in the city of Madrid. Hat in his hand, the soldier was his own defense lawyer. His family was in great need, he explained to the judge in the police court, and their straits so dire that he went to church to pray. We can imagine the judge regarded him rather blankly and ordering him to go on. The soldier spoke of how while he was engaged in prayer, before a statue of Mary, he beheld the jewels displayed on the statue's brocaded gown. And then, he said, the Virgin Mother stooped down to his person and "with a charming smile" handed over the golden cup to him. No one replied to the defense. It was decided that however inconvenient the admission of the miracle might be, it would be impolitic to dispute its truth. Consequently, the soldier was allowed to keep the cup to aid his needy family. He was also given the severe warning that, should a similar theft occur in the future, the court would be inclined to disbelieve his story. Not satisfied with Jesus alone On average, it takes fifteen to twenty minutes to pray the rosary. You keep track of the various prayers by using the rosary beads. Pope Francis is on record as saying that the Christian who does not feel that the Virgin Mary is his or her mother, is an orphan. The archives of the Vatican Radio tells the story that the pope met with a couple during the seventies, a young couple with small children who spoke quite beautifully of their faith in Jesus. At one point Pope Francis asked them, "And devotion to the Madonna?" They answered him, "But we have passed that stage. We know Jesus Christ so well, that we have no need of the Madonna." The archives then relate that because of their answer the future pope thought of the young couple as orphans, poor orphans, because Christians without the Madonna are orphans. And Christians without the Church are orphans. He said: A Christian needs these two women, these two women who are mothers, two women who are virgins: the Church and the Madonna. And to make a “test” of a good Christian vocation, you need to ask yourself: How is my relationship with these two mothers going, with mother Church and with mother Mary? This is not a question of “piety.” No, it's pure theology. This is theology. How is my relationship with the Church going, with my mother the Church, with the holy mother, the hierarchic Church? And how is my relationship going with the Madonna, my mamma, my Mother?  In a December 2014 address to Iraqi refugees, the pope said: Dear brothers and sisters... You are in the hearts and prayers of all Christian communities, whom I will ask to pray in a special way for you on December 8, to pray to Our Lady to protect you; she is our Mother and will protect you... That same December the pope sent Christmas greetings to prisoners: "May the blessed and Immaculate Virgin Mary keep you under her maternal mantle." And that same month, following the death of an archbishop, he wrote: "I entrust his soul to the maternal intercession of the Virgin Mary." What is good? Pope Francis is viewed positively by many people around the world. His concern for the poor, his statements about the environment, abortion and same-sex marriage, and so on – whether right or wrong – resonate with many. Many view him as a moral and humanitarian spokesperson for the world, (regardless of the sexual allegations leveled on a seemingly monthly basis against many priests). But the fact remains that he abounds and leads in idolatry. And does it really matter how the world thinks about you? As a young boy in Argentina, Jorge Mario Bergoglio suffered an infection and had half a lung removed. He is 80 years old and occasionally suffers from fatigue, sometimes has difficulty breathing and has lost some weight. How many more years does he have before his body turns to dust? How many more days does he have left before his soul will face the only Mediator between God and man - our Lord Jesus Christ? Will veneration of Mary stand him in good stead at that time? Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books, including an upcoming historical fiction novel, "Katharina, Katharina," about the times of Martin Luther. This article first appeared in the June 2016 issue. Some lines have been altered from the original version of this story to better reflect when statements are exact quotes....

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Choice words - a queen's folly

"The gossip's words are like choice food that goes down to one's innermost being." – Prov. 18:8 ***** There is an old adage which says, “Believe nothing of what you hear and only half of what you see.” Another saying rightly puts forth the idea that the phrase “They say” is often a great liar. The Bible advises us to live quietly and to mind our own affairs and the Bible also underlines that “Where there is no talebearer, strife ceases” (Prov. 26:20). When you dislike someone, however, it is quite easy to believe gossip about that person; and when you have a disagreement with an acquaintance, how tempting it is to listen to a wagging tongue to discredit that acquaintance? Before she was queen We all know many factual historical news items about Queen Victoria, the long-reigning English monarch (1837-1901). When she was born on May 24, 1819 at Kensington Palace, Victoria was only one of several heirs to the throne of England. But after the death of her father, her grandfather and an uncle, she became the sole heir to that throne. She was eleven years old at the time. Victoria's childhood was secluded. Much of it was spent isolated from other children her age. Her mother, the Duchess of Kent and a Fraulein Lehzen, the governess, were virtually the only people with whom she had contact. She played with 132 dolls and a pet spaniel dog, but these did not make up for the devastating loneliness she sometimes felt. The Kensington system Sir John Conroy had been equerry – a personal assistant – to the Duke of Kent, Victoria's father. After his death, Conroy offered his services to the Duchess as comptroller of her household. These services were accepted and the Duchess and Sir John Conroy grew very close. Together they set up a system called the “Kensington System” which regulated and oversaw every aspect of the crown princess' life. The idea of this system was to make the young girl so utterly dependent on both her mother and Sir John Conroy, that she would be totally unable to do without the pair of them once she became queen. The little girl had rarely been out of her mother's sight. She slept in the same bedroom, and possessed virtually no privacy. Conroy was not especially kind to the child, bullying her with disparaging words when he could, and she disliked him exceedingly. As well, she detested the power the man appeared to have over her mother, not to speak of the fact that he often inferred that she was ill-equipped to become queen. In May of 1837 the princess celebrated her eighteenth birthday. The celebration brought with it a coveted amount of independence, for it gave Victoria her own income. Less than four weeks after this milestone birthday, King William IV, her uncle, died. Not even five feet tall, Princess Alexandrina Victoria was immediately proclaimed Queen. Sermons were preached throughout England simultaneously mourning the death of William IV and celebrating the accession of the new queen. The young queen immediately made appointments to form her own household. She very deliberately excluded Sir John Conroy. As a matter of fact, she referred to him as “a monster and demon incarnate whose name I forbear to mention.” There was a move to Buckingham Palace and one of the first things the young monarch did was to secure her own bedroom. Her mother henceforth would not share her sleeping quarters any longer. Lady Flora Hastings Three years before this, a Lady Flora Hastings, the unmarried daughter of the first Marquis of Hastings, had been appointed lady-in-waiting to Victoria's mother, the Duchess of Kent. However, Lady Hastings inadvertently became part of the Kensington System. In addition to the duties of lady-in-waiting to the Duchess, she had been told to serve as companion for the young princess. Both the Duchess of Kent and Sir John Conroy believed this would deter confidences between the princess and her beloved governess, Fraulein Lehzen. Victoria sensed this and believing Lady Flora to be a spy doing Sir John Conroy's bidding, Victoria distrusted and disliked her. Given the whole history of the girl's repression and isolation, this can readily be understood. Lady Flora Hastings was a beautiful woman. She had an oval face, big eyes, an aristocratic nose, thick dark hair and a flawless complexion. She was also a Christian and a firm believer in her Lord and Savior. In 1839, after Victoria's accession to the throne, she made a trip to Scotland to visit her family. Afterwards she returned in a carriage with Sir John Conroy without the presence of a chaperone. A few weeks later, Lady Flora openly complained about a pain in her abdomen. As well, she developed a noticeable swelling in her stomach as she continued to have this pain. She wrote later: “...having been suffering from bilious illness since the beginning of December, I consulted Sir James Clark, her royal highness' physician, and placed myself under his treatment...” The noticeable swelling of the stomach caused tongues to wag. Gossip was rife. And Queen Victoria, that very new and young monarch, participated in many a demeaning conversation about Lady Flora Hastings. This woman, it was whispered, is unmarried, a prude, and probably pregnant. Unkind mouths went on that, very likely, the father was Sir John Conroy. The Queen's extreme dislike for Sir John Conroy and his cronies, probably added fuel to the fire. A shunned Lady Hastings later wrote: “On the 16th of February, Sir James Clark came to me, and asked me whether I were privately married, giving, as his reason, that my figure had excited the remarks of the 'ladies of the Palace.' On my emphatic denial he became excited, urged me to confess as the only thing to save me.... it occurred to him at the first that no one could look at me and doubt it, and remarks even more coarse. I observed to him that the swelling from which I had been suffering was very much reduced and offered him the proof of my dresses. He replied, 'Well, I don't think so. You seem to me to grow larger every day and so the ladies think.' He proceeded to say that it was the only supposition which could explain my appearance and state of health 'or else you must have some very bad illness.' I said that was possible. I had thought badly of my own state of health, but that his supposition was untrue and quite groundless. He ended by assuring me 'that nothing but a medical examination could satisfy the ladies of the Palace, so deeply were their suspicions rooted.... and the rumor has reached the ear of her Majesty. I said, feeling perfectly innocent, I should not shrink from any examination, however rigorous, but that I considered it a most indelicate and disagreeable procedure, and that I would not be hurried into it. It seems strange and hurtful that such wicked gossip should come to Lady Flora Hastings, not by the mouth of a female, but by a man. It would have been proper for a woman to convey these malicious rumors and for a woman to comfort her. The gossip about Lady Flora persisted after Sir James Clark's visit and the Queen continued to believe that she was pregnant. Both saddened and shamed, Lady Flora wrote: “It having been notified to me that it was her Majesty's pleasure that I should not appear (at court) until my character was cleared by the means suggested, and having obtained the permission of her Royal Highness to submit to it, as the most instantaneous mode of refuting the calumny, I sent....for Sir Charles Mansfield Clarke and for Sir James Clark, and the examination took place in the presence of my accuser, Lady Portman, and my own maid. In the evening Lady Portman came to me to express her regret for having been the most violent against me. She acknowledged that she had several times spoken a great deal to the Queen on the subject, especially when she found it was the Queen's own idea. She said she was very sorry but she would have done the same respecting any one of whom she had the same suspicion. I said my surprise is, that knowing my family as she did, she could have entertained those suspicions.” Even when it came to light that the doctors could find no evidence of pregnancy giving her a certificate to verify this, the ill rumor persisted. At some point, Lady Hastings, who was also a poet, penned these words: In every place, in every hour, Whate'er my wayward lot may be; In joy or grief, in sun or shower, Father and Lord! I turn to Thee. Thee, when the incense-breathing flowers Pour forth the worship of the spring, With the glad tenants of the bowers My trembling accents strive to sing. Alike in joy and in distress, Oh! Let me trace Thy hand divine; Righteous in chast'ning, prompt to bless, Still, Father! may Thy will be mine. Scarred still Although Lady Flora was re-included in all the festive and formal arrangements of the court after this most painful incident, it did not take away the shame and misery to which the young woman had been subjected. Her good name had been sullied. A few months later, she was unable to participate any longer in court functions. The illness which affected her kept her in bed. The queen, to her credit, did visit the bedchamber once before Lady Flora died. A post-mortem revealed that she had suffered from a cancerous tumor on the liver. It is recorded that no word of reproach or enmity escaped from her lips and that she died peacefully. When Queen Victoria was informed of Lady Flora's death, she wept and ordered that every mark of respect suitable for such a melancholy occasion be observed. Words can be swallowed, but once spoken, they can never be erased. The slander against Lady Flora Hastings is, consequently, a blot on Queen Victoria's reign, a blot she, no doubt, often regretted. Proverbs 10:18 clearly says that whoever spreads slander is a fool. Lady Hasting's sad story serves as a sharp reminder that we must be careful with our words. Christine Farenhorst is the author of many books, including a short story collection/devotional available at Joshua Press here. She has a new novel – historical fiction – coming out Spring 2017 called “Katharina, Katharina” (1497-1562) covering the childhood and youth of Katharina Schutz Zell, the wife of the earliest Strasbourg priest turned Reformer, Matthis Zell. Picture credit: Queen Victoria, painted by Franz Xaver Winterhalter, 1859; Lady Flora, unknown....

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Children’s non-fiction, Teen non-fiction

The Sweet Taste of Providence: 74 devotional episodes from history

by Christine Farenhorst 2016 / 296 pages Rating: GOOD/Great/Give Seventy-four! When Christine Farenhorst comes out with a new collection of short stories, the big question I have is, how many can I look forward to? And in The Sweet Taste of Providence she has given us an impressive 74. These short stories are packaged as 4-5 page devotionals. They take no more than 5 minutes to read out loud, and end with a couple of questions for discussion. That makes this a great book to read with your kids, maybe 8 and up, before bed…or a little earlier, because this might get them discussing and dissecting right when you want them calming down. The short story length could also make this a good, ahem, “bathroom reader.” What we see in this book is Christine's love of history, and the lessons that can be learned by looking backward. The slices of history she shares are most often bits most of us will never have run across before, so there is always something fun to learn. But she is after more than just fun. Since it can be easier to see God's hand in things when we’re looking at what's happened than when we’re looking around in the present (yes, God will turn even today’s evil to our good – Romans 8:28) these stories are maybe first and foremost a wonderful dose of encouragement – our God continues to uphold His people! But The Sweet Taste of Providence is also just a fun read. It's meant to be read to children, but mom and dad will enjoy reading it too. Christine's other short story collections Afterwards I knew: a seven-story collection about war The Great Escape: includes a story about Harry Houdini Hidden: Stories of War and Peace: “I was a Stranger” is simply wonderful ...

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Remembering the head nurse and other people

I remember the days of old; I meditate on all Your works; I consider the work of Your hands.  (Ps. 143:5) *****  Hope deferred, Proverbs 13:12 says, makes the heart sick. There are none who know this better than those who have hoped for a child month after month, only to be disappointed again and again. It is a sad thing to see young couples, when first married, opting for time to get settled, opting for the “security” of two jobs, opting for the “want” of more things, before they finally think they can opt for a family. Sometimes this family does not happen – the timeline they have posited is not the timeline which has been designated by God. The second half of Proverbs 13:12 tells us that “a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.”  No one understands this second part better than a Hannah, a woman who has prayed for a little one and who finds out one day that she is indeed to be a mother. We had been married for two years when our desire was fulfilled.  Suspecting for a week or two that this was perhaps the case, but having been disappointed before, we did not really think that the rabbit test would prove to have joyous results. For those unfamiliar with the term, a “rabbit test” was a pregnancy test that would surely be strenuously objected to by the extremist PETA-type people today. It was a test in which a female rabbit was injected with a woman's urine. If the woman was pregnant, her urine would cause the rabbit's ovaries to develop temporary tissue structures.  A doctor, or lab technician, could check this out after the rabbit was euthanized. We were visiting my Dad and Mom in Fruitland, Ontario, at the time of the rabbit's demise.  It was December 1971.  My husband was outside shoveling snow from the small sidewalk before tackling the long parsonage driveway. I was inside, doing some dusting for my Mom.  She was in the kitchen.  My father was in the study. It's strange how some details stick in your mind. The phone rang and since I was standing right next to it, I picked up the receiver.  It was the nurse from our doctor's office in Guelph.  My husband and I had been half expecting the call, half not expecting it. "Could I speak with Christine," she said. "Speaking," I answered, beginning to sweat. "Your test has come back positive," she went on, and then stopped speaking. Positive, I thought, and the word appeared as a foreign language to me. I dared not hope that positive meant pregnant. So I merely repeated the word, adding a question mark. "Positive?" I stroked the colorful runner on top of the dresser next to the phone.  My Mom had made the runner and it felt warm underneath my fingers. "Yes, positive. And the doctor would like to see you for a check-up sometime in January." "You mean I'm ...." I let the sentence dangle unfinished. "Yes, you are pregnant.  There's no doubt about it.” "Are you sure?  I mean...." Again I could not finish the sentence. "Yes." Her answer was short.  No doubt she had more work to do, possibly more phone calls to make. "Thank you." I half-croaked the words, meaning to say "Thank you for the phone call," but the sentence would not come out in its entirety because of the thickness in my throat. And oh, there are hardly words to describe the thanks I felt welling up inside me to God.  Tears coursed down my cheeks. Special insight into God’s character The truth is that God has allowed mothers a special glimpse of His character, of His all-encompassing love, in permitting them and giving them the capacity to bear children.  “As one whom his mother comforts, so I will comfort you,” the Lord says to His people in Isaiah 66:12.  There is a well of love which springs up naturally within a woman; there is a depth of nurture which was always there, as woman was in the beginning made to be the “mother of all living.” It is a sense which is good and true.  That is not to say that this innate sense cannot be suppressed.  Indeed, many women do suppress it, to their own detriment.  Like the miser who died in penury while his money was buried unused in his backyard, these women will die in poverty while their motherhood lies buried underneath abortion, careers, self-fulfillment, day-care centers, nannies, TV babysitters, computer games, and multitudes of outside-of-the-home programs. Walking over to the window, I tapped on the pane. The tears were still running down my cheeks.  Anco turned around at the sound, leaning on the snow shovel.  He looked at me and raised his eyebrows in a questioning glance. I nodded and sobbed.  His eyebrows went down and he smiled.  My mother came out of the kitchen and I told her that the doctor's office had just called and that we were going to have a baby. She called my father out of the study and he stood in the livingroom doorway and just looked at me.  All he could say was "Well, well!!" and again, "Well, well!!"  Then he disappeared into the study only to reappear shortly afterwards with a Dutch book entitled Moeder en Kind, that is to say, Mother and Child.  He put it on my lap, as I was at this point sitting in a chair in the livngroom drinking a cup of tea with my mother.  Anco had come in, had hugged and kissed me and had gone back out to shovel snow. "This book," my father explained, "greatly helped your mother when she was expecting you and your brothers and sisters." "Oh, Louis," my mother smiled, "that's a really old book.  They have different books now with a great deal more information." I laughed and thanked my Dad. The book became a treasured part of my library and I read it carefully. Beer barrel bassinet It was a providential thing that there was no morning sickness.  The only “abnormality” I developed was a strong craving for peanut butter and banana sandwiches, as well as a constant desire for hard-boiled eggs.  Also, if I stood for an indeterminate amount of time in one spot, a lightheadedness took over.  Nevertheless, I was quite able to continue my job as secretary in the Political Studies Department of the University of Guelph until two weeks prior to the baby's birth.  Anco was, at this time, a second-year student in the Veterinary program at the University and carried a full slate of subjects which often required cramming late into the night.  In spite of that, he was able to craft a cradle - a cradle fashioned out of an old beer barrel which we salvaged from someone's garage.  It turned out to be a most beautiful piece of work until he inadvertently took off one of the iron bands around the barrel nearly causing all the pieces of wood to spill off.  Angie Traplin, our seventy plus landlady, was most gracious in that she permitted us the use of her garage as a woodworking shop, and she and her bachelor brother, John, followed the progress of the cradle with great interest.  They had no children in their lives and shared in the excitement we so obviously exhibited. People are unconditionally kind to you when you are pregnant.  They often offer you their chairs, thinking your condition requires you to sit down all the time, and frequently ask if there is something which you would like to have. Neither Reformed nor unReformed, being pregnant is, in a sense, like having a “get-out-of-jail free card.” If you land in a ticklish situation, it is possible to use your “condition” to get you out of this situation. For example, no matter at what hour you are tired, you will be allowed to take a nap; if you don't want to play charades, you will be excused; if you don't want to eat your spinach, that will be tolerated.  And the list goes on. A "model" student In Holland, my mother had born all her children at home and my father had always been right there by her side, (except one time when she had delivered the baby all by herself while he was still running for the doctor). During the early 1970s in Canada, however, husbands were reckoned taboo in the delivery room. But Anco stood a chance of being permitted in to see our child born if he attended pre-natal classes.  So we enrolled together in one of these classes. There were approximately ten other couples in the class. Companionably we watched a film on childbirth, oohing and aahing at all the right spots; and together we received pep-talks on exercise, nutrition, and relaxation.  Into the third class we were told to select music that we really enjoyed and to use it as we were practicing simulated labor pangs. Lying flat down on the floor on a blanket, as Vivaldi's Winter or Beethoven's third piano concerto played, Anco, sitting next to me on the floor, would squeeze my right arm softly, indicating the onset of a simulated pain.  I would then have to take a deep, cleansing breath and begin to relax my whole body. The woman who ran the pre-natal class would come along checking each prostrate couple to see if the mother-to-be was thoroughly relaxed.  Legs, knees and arms would need to be floppy enough to fall right down again if she lifted them.  As Anco squeezed my arm tighter and tighter, my breathing was to become shallower and shallower, using only the diaphragm, and my whole body was supposed to become as relaxed as a bowl of jello.  This was difficult and though I don't think I ever totally reached the jello state, I did achieve a sort of pudding-like easement before our final class. This class included a tour of the hospital as well. In the class we were also taught how to walk and not “waddle,” in the words of the instructor.  We were shown how to pick things up properly, not bending over double but bending down through the knees.  We were also told how to stand properly – belly tucked in, back straight. "You. Yes, you, Mrs. Farenhorst.  Can you step to the front of the class, please." It was not a question. So I stepped out of the group line and walked towards the front. "This class," the instructor said as I stood next to her, "is a perfect example.... (I think I began to smile proudly here, until she continued) ...a perfect example of how not to stand." Fatherly advice As the months crept on, much advice was proffered on what to eat and what not to eat.  My father-in-law constantly told me not to use salt, whereas my own father told me to eat more and brought me pieces of Gouda cheese, hard-boiled eggs and fish.  And while I grew in girth, Nixon became president of the United States, Trudeau continued on in Canada, my mother sent for reliable cloth diapers from Holland, and God reigned supreme. That summer of 1972, Anco obtained a job with the Grounds Department of the University of Guelph. This was a wonderful blessing because we could continue to travel in to work together as well as eat lunch together.  We often sat in the shade of the campus trees at noon or we would walk over to our little blue Datsun and eat lunch in it after which I would have a small nap. There was an active mother kildeer on the parking lot.  She had built a nest somewhere on the gravel.  Feigning a broken wing, the bird would try to lead us away from the nest, emitting a shrill, wailing killdeer, killdeer sound.  Although it would only take twenty-four to twenty-eight days for her eggs to hatch compared to my nine months, I felt a great affinity with the protective mother as she ran helter-skelter across the parking lot. It was a warm summer.  I had begun knitting that previous December.  As the little stack of booties, sweaters, and blankets grew, so did my stomach.  Gaining between forty-five and fifty pounds, I felt there was much more to me than met the eye.  Although I spoke to the baby continually, and she kicked fiercely in response, it was still difficult to imagine that a little flesh-and-blood baby would actually occupy the beer barrel before too long. Beyond amazing But on Sunday, August the fifteenth, we definitely knew that something was up, or rather down.  We were also extremely thankful that it was a weekend.  After all, Anco was home and what a relief that was to me!  But aside from a heavy, low backache, and intermittent pains, nothing happened – even though we stayed up all night, nothing happened!  The doctor told us, the next morning, that we ought to check into the hospital by supper time and that I ought to eat nothing for supper.  Anco went to his landscaping job, poor fellow, with rings under his eyes. And that evening we checked into the hospital. After registration and an enema, (from the last two letters in that miserable word, I have surmised that an enema is a Frisian procedure), a nurse confirmed that I was, without any doubt, in labor.  At this point, I had somehow begun to doubt that I was actually pregnant, so I was quite happy to hear her confirm the fact. After being installed in a room, Anco was finally allowed to join me.  He looked a little nervous. I assured him that I was fine and so I was for the rest of that evening.  We had brought along a book entitled The Joys of Yiddish, and Anco read me jokes, talked to me and we had a relatively peaceful time of it.  As a matter of fact, the obstetrics nurse, who was in and out of our room, joked that I might be one of those unusual mothers who give birth with relative ease. Our doctor came in to check me around midnight and Anco was asked to leave the room.  The doctor was a tall, thin man with a pale complexion and a wispish smattering of reddish hair.  Blue-eyed, as well as slightly cross-eyed, he peered at me from the foot of the bed after he had examined me. The nurse, who had become an exceptionally close friend by this time, had held my hand throughout the procedure. "Well, Christine," the doctor informed me, "I'm going to break your water." The nurse squeezed my hand very hard but said nothing.  The doctor then produced a mile-long needle out of nowhere and without wasting any more words, proceeded to break my water. As he was leaving the room, he commented to the nurse, "This one will be an all-nighter." It was a very uncomforting thing to say and to hear, but I did not have much time to reflect on it.  The next eight hours plus were hard work.  It was what my mother had told me when I had asked her what labor was like. "It's hard work, Christine.  Just plain hard work and you have to roll up your sleeves and do it." Well, I couldn't really roll up my sleeves.  The hospital pajamas were too short.  But I did remember the breathing exercises and together with Anco's help became as relaxed as I could.  My poor husband was so weary.  It was the second night straight that he was not getting any sleep. Yet the words "Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning" (Ps. 30:5) flowed around us and rang true for at approximately 8:20 the next morning when little Emberlee Kristin lustily cried her way into the arms of her smiling father and mother. From the labor and delivery room I was wheeled into a ward – a ward which three other mothers already occupied.  Snug in a corner, I considered myself blessed to be next to a window. I had seen and held the baby for a moment, but had not really studied her closely as yet. When a nurse brought her in to me a bit later, I was absolutely amazed. Actually, amazed is too small a word. I had the feeling that, through God's help, I had achieved something which nobody else in the whole world had achieved before. This baby was incredibly beautiful! And although I thoroughly believed the doctrine of “conceived and born in sin,” I was convinced that she was perfect.  Anco totally agreed with me before he went home to sleep.  Then the nurse took the baby to the nursery and I also drifted off to sleep - a wonderful sleep, a sleep in which I conquered both Mount Kilimanjaro and Mount Everest and had energy to spare. Four at a time The head nurse of the obstetrics department, a woman whose name escapes me but whose militant figure will always remain embedded in my brain, was a dragon.  A short lady with grey, tightly curled, hair and glasses perched on the end of her nose, she breathed fire on any mother who did not explicitly follow the rules of her ward. When it was time to feed the babies, she would carry them in - all four at the same time, two under each arm.  We were always fearful that she would drop one, but she never did. Depositing the babies on the beds like so many loads of diapers, she would bark: "Make sure you begin on the side you finished on at the last feeding. Time yourselves carefully!  And remember, not a minute longer than designated!" The afternoon of the day I had the baby, the head nurse came in to inquire if I had as yet showered. When I shook my head, she regarded me balefully and clapped her hands. "Up, up then, Mrs. Farenhorst! No shilly-shallying mind you!  Up you go! The shower is just around the corner down the hall." I was a trifle lightheaded and actually had the gumption to tell her so.  She clucked at me disapprovingly. "Come, come! Don't be a baby. I'll be back shortly to check whether or not you've had the shower." There was nothing for it but to get up, put on my bathrobe and take a towel from the adjacent bathroom I shared with the three other women. Walking down the hall, holding on to the wooden railing attached to the side, I could feel that I was not quite up to the stroll. Then everything went black and the next thing I knew was that I was lying flat on the linoleum and a nurse was bending over me. "Are you all right?" Perhaps it was this small episode that earned me demerit marks in the eyes of the head nurse.  In any case, she had me pegged as a failure. No exceptions! Visiting hours were strictly adhered to.  My parents were in Holland and Anco's parents were in Australia that August, so visiting hours were poorly attended.  But my oldest brother and his family drove down all the way from Collingwood to Guelph, a good hour and a half away, to visit me. They did not, however, arrive during the specified hours allocated to visitors.  Sneaking up the back stairs, all five of them peeked around the corner of my room and grinned at me, lifting my spirits. "Hi, Christine", and "Hi, Tante Christine". Immediately after the greeting, my spirits sank again and terror struck me with the thought that the head nurse would see my brother, his wife and their three children and proceed to pulverize them. I fleetingly thought of hiding them all in the bathroom, but they had stepped into the room and were around my bed before you could recite the proverbial phrase “Jack Robinson.” The hugging and kissing prevented me from properly formulating a plan.  And then the dragon appeared behind them. "What are you doing here?" If there was one thing about the head nurse, it was that she kept a sharp eye out and hardly anything went by her unnoticed. "Er .... this is my brother and his family." My brother, ever the chivalrous gentleman, walked up to the dragon without any trace of fear, and extended his hand. "How do you do?" She totally ignored the hand and wagged a finger at me. "You know the rules. No one is to visit during the day!! No one!!" "But they drove all the way from ...." She did not let me finish. "Visiting hours are in the evening." "That's all right. We'll leave," my brother soothed, "but perhaps we could see the baby?" The dragon, however, had turned around and left, muttering to herself as she went, and his question remained unanswered. "The nursery is just down the hall," I said, "and Emberlee is lying on the left side right in front of the window. If you walk out that way, you can see her." They kissed me again and waved goodbye.  I accompanied them to the door of my room and watched them pace away down the hall eager to admire the baby.  But the dragon had preceded my brother and his entourage and, just as they reached the nursery window, she closed the curtains. They turned around to wave to me again, shrugging as they did so, and left. Close to tears, I was about to get back into bed, when the head nurse made another appearance. "Do you realize, Mrs. Farenhorst," she remarked, hands on her hips, face right in front of me, "how many germs you are now carrying because you kissed your relatives?" It was an interesting question, but one to which she did not really want an answer. "And you will pass," she went on  shrilly, "all these germs on to your baby." "Oh," I said, rather lamely. Then she was gone.  The other mothers comforted me and when Emberlee was brought in for her afternoon feeding, together with my germs I held her tightly. Conclusion Years later I found out that this particular head nurse's retirement, which had taken place not too long after the birth of our first baby, had been lauded by the entire obstetrics staff.  No one had mourned her leaving.  And she had died alone, in relative obscurity, a few years later.  What a sad life hers must have been!!  "The wisest of women builds her house, but folly with her own hands tears it down", Proverbs 14:1 tells us.  Was there some bitterness, some sadness, some secret anger that this woman had harbored in her heart which I might have sweetened with some kindness?  God knows.  There is time to keep silent and a time to speak, and perhaps I ought to have spoken. These things all happened many years ago.  Our little first-born Emberlee is now a godly mother with seven children of her own. I remember the days of old; I meditate on all Your works; I consider the work of Your hands. (Ps. 143:5)...