A Christmas Anthology by Sheila Deeth... Jesus is the Reason for the Season!

 

The Littlest Reindeer Tam was the littlest reindeer in the herd. Born at the end of spring he had no idea what winter meant. Ice startled him. His thick coat warmed him. And snowflakes tasted like magic on his tongue. Tam and his friends raced through the powder, tossing snow like mist behind their heels. Clean white fields churned into rolling lumps, and Tam was happy. But then he got hungry and realized all the grass was buried deep. His mother told him to dig with his nose, but ice crystals tickled his nostrils and made him sneeze. Then the snow crusted his eyes and made them hurt. One winter’s night, Tam woke in the dark and found the herd preparing for a long journey. Everyone stood with heads bent to the ground, making snuffling sounds as they pawed and ate the grass. Tam’s mother said she’d been trying to wake him for ages. “Why? Where are we going?” But she wouldn’t say. Tam thought he’d rather just sleep and not go anywhere, but didn’t want to be left behind on his own. So he chomped some grass, sneezed a bit, and stepped into line. Soon the reindeer were gliding through trees, making hardly a sound, stepping softly on carpets of snow. “Is it time?” a rabbit asked a hare. “The deer are running.” “Let’s follow them.” The forest rustled with tiny whispers of noise, paws padding through shadows while snowflakes drifted. And the deer marched on. Tam sulked at the very back of the herd and thought how much he wished he were still asleep. Soon he was drifting far behind and had to run to catch up. He skipped over rocks and bounded high in the air over broken tree-roots, which was really quite fun. Then he jumped over a long black log and found he’d gone over a cliff. Tam landed on a slippery slope of snow and couldn’t stay still. He stuck his legs out sideways to slow himself down. Then he lay on his stomach in a snowdrift and tried to catch his breath. A teardrop trickled down his nose and froze till he sneezed it away, then another one formed. “Stop sniveling,” said a voice somewhere above Tam’s head. Tam looked up into the rustling branches of a tree. Was the tree talking? His mother had told him never to speak to strangers, and a talking tree was definitely strange. But he thought he’d better at least apologize. “I’m sorry,” said Tam. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I promise I’ll stop crying.” He tried to slide away from the tree, but he couldn’t see where he was going. The cliff rose up like a wall into the sky, snow fell like a blanket, and trees all around made the snow-covered ground invisible. So he stayed where he was. Suddenly Tam heard a snuffling at his feet and saw a rabbit. “Hello, Rabbit,” said Tam. “What are you doing?” “I’m waiting for my family.” Tam watched a whole herd of rabbits march out from the trees. They carried twigs on their shoulders, and each twig had a bag of food tied to its end, all wrapped in leaves. Squirrels scampered up as well, with strings of nuts tied around their necks. “Where’s everyone going?” Tam asked. “We’re following the deer.” Oh good, thought Tam. Perhaps if he followed the rabbits and squirrels, he’d find his herd again. He started to skip and jump till he realized he might step on the smaller animals. “I’m sorry. Sorry. So sorry…” A rabbit sucked its wounded paw and said, “That’s quite all right. But do get going. I’m cold.” “How can I get going?” asked Tam. “I was going to follow you.” “No, silly,” said the rabbit. “You’re a deer. You have to lead.” Tam almost started to cry again but remembered his promise to the tree. Instead he sat in the snow and groaned. “I can’t lead anyone. I don’t know the way.” The other animals all cried then instead. An owl swooped overhead and landed in the tree, which shook its branches angrily, sending owl and snowflakes tumbling to the ground. “Tu whoo,” said the owl. “Hello,” said Tam. “Aren’t you an owl?” “Yes of course I’m an owl. Who else would say ‘Tu whoo’?” “I don’t know,” said Tam. “Well, of course you don’t. You’re just a silly little deer.” The owl seemed rather snooty, and Tam didn’t like it very much, but his mother always said owls are wise, so he asked for help anyway. “I don’t know where the deer go,” said the owl. “That’s their secret. I just follow them.” The owl flew up onto Tam’s shoulder and added, “Sometimes I ride with them.” “Well, you can’t follow me,” said Tam. “I don’t know where I’m going. But if you fly up and see the deer, maybe you could lead us to them.” “I don’t think so,” said the owl. “It’s snowing. If I fly up high, I won’t see anything, and you won’t see me.” Tam started to cry. “You again,” said the tree, throwing snowballs at Tam’s nose. “I’m sorry,” said Tam. “I’m just so miserable.” “Well, go and be miserable somewhere else. I’m trying to rest.” One of the baby squirrels squeaked bravely. “But Mr. Tree, aren’t you following the deer?” “Certainly not! As if I’d go gallivanting around the countryside at my age!” Tam tried to imagine a tree running around and almost laughed—what would it use for feet? Then he asked, “Can you really walk if you want to?” “Of course.” “Can you see where you’re going?” “There’d be no point walking if I couldn’t.” “And you’re very tall.” Tam paused, his nose glowing slightly as an idea formed in his mind. “Please,” he said to the tree. “Please can you look where the deer have gone and tell us how to find them?” “Will you go away if I tell you?” “Yes. I promise.” “Like you promised not to cry?” “No. Better than that.” “Well, they went thataway.” Tam looked around. “Which way?” “Thataway.” “But which way is that?” Poor Tam couldn’t see which way the tree was pointing, and neither could anyone else. “Please, Mr. Tree, you’ve got so many branches I don’t know which ones are your hands. I’ll never find my herd” Now all the animals were crying again. Their snuffling and whimpering and wailing made the tree shake so angrily it pulled its roots right out the ground till they were stamping in snow. The feel of loose earth around its roots made the old tree feel young again, so it hummed a merry tune and danced a waltz. The animals stared, amazed. “Please,” said Tam, rather nervously, when the tree stopped dancing. “Yes,” said the tree, leaning down, dripping snow on his nose. “Please, now you’re walking anyway, could you show us the way to the deer?” “Oh, very well.” The old tree groaned. “But afterward you must promise never to annoy me ever again.” “We promise,” all the animals said. They made a very strange procession. The old tree creaked in the lead, and Tam hurried next to it with the owl on his back. Smaller animals sat in the roots of the tree. Beavers and badgers scurried behind. Swallows and starlings swooped among the branches. Soon the whole forest seemed to move as younger trees lifted their feet, or perhaps their roots, to join in. They crossed over fields of snow, rivers of ice, and deserts of drifting sand. They climbed mountains and battled winds and gales. They swam through deep-flowing seas. And everywhere they went, more animals rushed to join them. At last they came to a cold bright place where a star turned midnight into day. Sheep grazed on the hills, and Tam called out, “Have you seen a herd of deer going this way?” “Yes,” said the sheep. They pointed with their noses and everyone followed. Just over the next hill they found the deer gathered around the entrance to a stable. The owl flew up into the tree for a better view, while Tam rushed to his mother. He nuzzled her side to say sorry for getting lost, and she licked his nose. Then they both stared into the cave where a baby lay surrounded by shepherds with lambs and rich men with camels. “Who are they all?” asked Tam. “I don’t know,” said his mother. “But I know the baby’s a king and all these people are giving him presents.” When the shepherds and kings had all gone away, the animals and trees made their way into the stable. Birds dropped feathers to make soft pillows. Rabbits and squirrels gave tufts of fur for a blanket. Even the trees made carpets of leaves on the floor. Last of all, the reindeer marched in. Their leader had antlers reaching to the sky and a nose as red as sunshine on a clear day. He bent his head low over the baby. “I’m here,” he said. “I’ve brought my herd. We’re ready to keep our promise.” Then the baby’s messenger fastened a sleigh to all the reindeer and they started to fly, over seasons and settlements and countries and years, through peace-time and war-time and happiness and tears, bringing gifts to all ages and times for the baby’s birthday. “But we didn’t give him a gift,” said Tam as they flew. “Yes, we did,” said his mother. “Keeping the promise is our gift.”

~~~

Sheila Deeth, in her first story from A Christmas Anthology provided me a new insight on our celebrating the birth of Christ, at the same time that Santa Claus, for so many, has seemingly taken predominance on this, the most important birthday date of all... 

Perhaps my own opinion has been because I don't remember Santa being a part of my own life. We would get candy and, perhaps, oranges from church... My mother didn't have the money to buy lots of gifts for her four children as is done these days. I remember that, routinely she told us that she would get us one gift for the family. The only one that made an impression for remembering was the year she got us a croquet set. We all had fun enjoying that "family gift..."  And, we all sang carols of Christmas as part of the day's celebration... It was a quiet joy, an awareness that Jesus had been born this day so many years ago... I miss those events...

Sheila's story of connection of animals to Christmas, especially reindeers, was, in my opinion, inspired. Jesus was given gifts that day, even from The Little Drummer Boy... and, from the reindeers! They would forever spread the gift of Jesus throughout the ages...

This anthology covers the full types of events that now occurs on Christmas Day... And all of them gave me a different, new perspective... There are ten stories that spotlight that most wonderful event that occurred...

A present for Sammy continues the role of animals within a family... Sammy was an ordinary dog--a brown and white mongrel with wavy hair and tail and floppy ears. Sammy was yet to have his first birthday, so everything was new to him... Especially the cold snowflakes that came falling down. He was so close to the ground, he felt the cold, maybe, more than the family members so he wanted to go back inside where it was warm... Soon, all the family were asleep upstairs, but Sammy slept on the main floor--the floor where he saw a strange man come in. Should he bark to let the family know? But, soon, the man had come over to talk to him and even share his food! He was especially happy when, before he left, he pulled out a box to be unwrapped that was marked, "Sammy!" 

And then there was the time when the children at school were making cards for Christmas to give to others and one student asked about his home, which had no chimney! What would Santa do? Well, that night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring... Michael was awakened by Santa trying to get in!

Sheila has created an amazing story of The Star, which was actually dying... and as it traveled across the sky, it grew brighter and brighter as it finally stopped at Bethlehem... Later, stories of those who saw the star and followed it thrilled at how they were led to the Child...

Again, the animals are spotlighted as the sheep, who were being shepherded on a hill were not the least bit afraid, as they saw what was happening in the skies. But the sheep began to stray... what would happen if they traveled too far away?

He was thinking of his wife Mia and their child as he found himself lost in the snowstorm that was, perhaps, moving him further away from home... The cold was numbing, his walking stick slipped, as did he... But what else could he do--keep walking or die! Soooo cold, but then he could smell food, he was being given a hot drink, but what were they saying? He could not understand their languages--where was he?!

A child knew the beginning of a song...Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star... Anna now asleep, her mother left, having turned off the music. But Anna's mother kept thinking of the song and how she wished she had a second child for them to sing together... But, it was not allowed--only one child per couple... So the mother contented herself making doll clothes for her daughter's new doll house... The couple watched as the stars began to shine--but they weren't sure whether they were really stars or was it a rocket poised for destruction? She wished she could... remember the lines to that song...

The Prophet was thinking of the little town of Bethlehem and why it would have been the place where the king would be born. He was following a couple, noting that the woman riding the donkey appeared to be with child. He began to worry about her, knowing that the town would be crowded... But where might he find who he was looking for--a new leader, one who would renew their faith? One who would drive others from their land... But wait! Why were people shouting at the couple, asking who was the father? And why didn't the man defend the woman? A bright star had appeared; the Prophet was afraid because he hadn't asked for this sign and couldn't read it...

A beggar, or at least one who once was a beggar in Bethlehem, was talking with a boy, who had never been to the little town of Bethlehem... He was chastising the boy for not knowing what had happened there--after all, there had been prophecies. But the boy lived in Jerusalem and said he had no need to know... But then soldiers were running past to interrupt, so the boy asked, "What about the star?" They were saying that the baby was the Messiah... 'cause the star had come to where the baby was... So the old man asked, the baby wasn't here? Yes, the boy answered, He was--He just passed. He's the prisoner!

Johnny was in the hospital and had been for quite some time, in fact, even as Christmas was coming. Kathy, his little sister who was sitting with him that day watched as her brother looked toward the small window in his room. His mother commented on how beautiful the leaves were this year and then turned, asking what he wanted for Christmas. Johnny's answer surprised them--for what he wanted was to see the leaves... His sister went home, picking up beautiful leaves, trying to preserve them, but they kept dying... Finally, she asked her Mom, who told her to put one under a heavy book... so she could give it to Johnny if he didn't come home for Christmas...

~~~

THANK YOU SHEILA DEETH FOR

GIVING US A WONDERFUL CHRISTMAS PRESENT!

Glenda

Guy Graybill Presents Biography and Analysis of Henry Wharton Shoemaker: Scoundrel of the Susquehanna

 

THE INDIANIST PERIOD 

In the western United States, during the late 19th century, the national government was still trying to ‘tame’ the Native Americans, with General George Armstrong Custer trying to pave his path to the White House on the corpses of native Americans of all ages and genders. However, an interest in romanticizing the Native Americans was building in the eastern part of the country. 

In the 1840s, a woman named Marion Dix Sullivan, who had journeyed by canal boat on Pennsylvania’s Juniata River, was inspired by the journey to write the music for a celebratory song about the river. Mrs. Sullivan of New England wrote the music, and her husband, J.S. Sullivan, wrote the words, and the song became so popular that Marion Dix Sullivan became the nation’s first commercially successful female songwriter! Her song was a very popular song that romanticized the Native Americans. Her song was entitled “Blue Juniata.” The reader is urged to find several internet versions of the song to better understand the song’s considerable popularity. The American Civil War has accounts of “The Blue Juniata” being heard in both Union and Confederate army camps. Similarly, Laura Ingalls Wilder, author of the famed Little House books, wrote of her mother singing that song and of her father playing the song on his fiddle. 

Wondering how likely it was that the song “Blue Juniata might have influenced Henry W. Shoemaker,” this author checked the distance of Shoemaker’s McElhattan estate from the Juniata River, the subject of the song’s lyrics. The Juniata River is a large tributary of the Susquehanna River, and the Juniata’s nearest waters (Jack’s Creek) would flow near Bannerville, Pennsylvania, just about three dozen miles due south of Henry Shoemaker’s Restless Oaks estate in McElhattan. However, I later found evidence that Shoemaker was, indeed, not simply familiar with the song; but that he worked some of its lines into one of his own stories, the one cited as “The Siren.”

In the early 20th century, when Shoemaker was very much involved in his writing projects and manufacturing his versions of ‘folklore,’ American composers were known as “Indianists” who wrote considerable popular music based on American Indian themes. From my old personal copies of the era’s Etude music magazine, I can pluck the following songs: “Indian Love Song” by Charles Wakefield Cadman (June 1924) “By The Waters of Minnetonka” by Thurlow Lieurance (September 1922)... “March of the Indian Phantoms” (E.R. Kroeger) (October 1920)

This author would recommend that the reader find versions of any of these songs on the internet. My opinion is that Lieurance’s “By The Waters of Minnetonka” is among the most beautiful music of its type. A 1907 Indian-flavored song is “Redwing.” The music seems to be ‘Indian sounding,’ although the melody was borrowed from a European composer (Robert Schumann). The result is lovely, in any case. 

Random finds in the music field also enriched this listing of possible influences on Henry Shoemaker’s choice of the Native Americans as a topic for many of his tales. The Etude magazine, in one lone issue (February 1927), told us (page 91) that the Royal Albert Hall of London was offering a season of the cantata “Hiawatha” with a noted Mohawk baritone in the cast. That same issue (page 132) offered readers two musical selections suitable for movie houses, one of which is a brief allegro feroce composition that carried the simple title: “Indians.” 

INSPIRED BY THE CLASSICS? It appears doubtful that Henry Shoemaker learned little folklore in backwoods hunting camps or rustic taverns. What does seem evident is that some of his plots were plucked from other uncredited sources, including a couple of the world’s most notable earlier plots. One, in particular, seems to have been lifted from an old Roman tale, and another borrowed from either Homer or Heine. Let’s consider these. 

ANDROCLES REBORN? How simple for Henry Shoemaker to refashion one of antiquity’s most popular legends into a backwoods adventure. Although I’m not a betting gent, I’d be quite willing to wager a modest sum on this likelihood: Shoemaker’s tale of “The View Tree,” cited previously, was inspired by a famous Roman legend of antiquity. The adventure of Shoemaker’s Peter Pentz character, surviving the threat of a 500-member wolf pack because Pentz had once helped an injured wolf, was the story found in the ancient classic Androcles and the Lion. The legend of Androcles told of Androcles’s life being spared because he had once removed a thorn from a lion’s paw. In his story of “The View Tree,”25 Shoemaker has his hero, a noted hunter named Peter Pentz, come upon a wounded wolf. Although he normally, almost naturally, killed wolves, Peter Pentz decided to fix this wolf’s mangled paw. He created splints and used them to aid the paw’s healing. Sometime later, Pentz is being pursued by nine Indians and barely escapes by climbing a chestnut tree of about 90 feet in height and obscuring himself in the tree’s branch-filled top. His savage pursuers guessed he was in the tree and eventually decided to create fire around the chestnut tree’s trunk, knowing that Pentz would be killed when the great fire-weakened tree toppled! However, Shoemaker creates an even-more imminent danger for his hero. A wolf pack emerged into the clearing where Pentz was treed!...

~~~

Author and historian Guy Graybill presents the mind-boggling analysis of the various falsehoods of folklorist, naturalist, and collector, Henry Wharton Shoemaker.

I found myself laughing as I got further and further into Guy Graybill's latest book, Henry Wharton Shoemaker, for which he gives the concluding title: Scoundrel of the Susquehanna...You see, Guy Graybill is an historian, a dedicated one, that, when he gets into a subject to be considered and written about, he moves deeply and strongly to ensure that he presents exactly what he feels is needed...

I laughed because I began to picture the "Guy Graybills" in, say, the year 3000, when they attempt to create a similar book on our immediate past president... But, as I contemplated this, I realized that it might be quite easy and not the extensive work that Graybill presents in this book. After all, I remember that CNN was keeping track of all the lies and pieces of misinformation that happen daily. Even though there are millions who now and probably will forever believe all of the false rhetoric that was spewed during the last years when Donald Trump, also a rich man, like Shoemaker, came to leave his "celebrity" of a TV reality show and moved into the White House...

 

All that is to say, folks, that I sensed a God Incident happening for me... I'll let you think through the chain of events... Sometime months ago I had heard from Guy about his new book. I'm assuming it was during some period of health issues which prevented me from doing reviews and I didn't respond. However, for the first time ever, Guy sent me a Christmas card, which arrived, the same day I completed and posted my last review. Yes, the one I called important (and still think so). But by the time I reached Guy's moving into music, the picture of Jesus laughing--at me--came to my mind... "This, too, shall pass away. Trust Truth...

I have to say, folks, that a weight has been lifted from my heart. I did my research, found my answer, and recognized that the task was beyond my capability to resolve... And, that, Truth will indeed come to All...in His Time... Almost like He was saying, "I Got This..."

I could feel my similar tension in Graybill's writing and creating this book about a scoundrel who, for his own egotistical purposes, started writing books by taking themes, concepts, and other issues, including the signing of the constitution...and creating a book telling a totally different story than the truth, and then...building monuments to himself... They were small monuments, perhaps, but they were built on lies, fabrications, fiction... Graybill's book differentiates between the genre of Folklore by sharing from the scoundrel's own mouth and adding his own comment:

“The writer has endeavored to transcribe the legends exactly as he heard them from the very old people, but as in the case with his previous volumes of Pennsylvania Mountain folklore, he has exercised the right to change the names of persons, places, dates, etc.”

What? From whom did he obtain the right to alter any portion of his stories? By his own admission, he was reserving the right to change folklore into fact! What an astonishing admission! In the above paragraph, Henry Wharton Shoemaker told his readers that they had no reason to believe a single word he had ever written! One ponders: Where better to learn the value of literary truth than within the writings of a prolific scoundrel?

I first learned of literary truth when I began working with a publisher over a decade ago. I was reading and editing a book which was about Vietnam... I loved it. The publisher scanned it and started talking about mistakes... I was, of course, thinking of proofreading mistakes. No, these were about dates, places and people... For me, reading fiction, I rarely considered whether specifics like this were real. I was to learn that day of "literary truth" that when an author writes an historical novel, even as fiction, some basic research had to be done to place the scenes, plots, et.al. This was truly a wakeup for me because I realized just how important and time-consuming such research would be for those who chose to write about history.

As Graybill blasted through story after story, debunking details, I soon became mind-boggled, just as the book description stated! The extent of this man's disinformation carried throughout his writings, just as disinformation carries through Trump's rhetoric... 

But, Graybill, rightly presents a fairly extensive biographical sketch of Shoemaker. He was born in 1880 in New York City and into an affluent family. He was the oldest so was to inherit a considerable fortune, as well as the privilege afforded to those in the right circles... At one point Henry owned six newspapers in Pennsylvania. His grandparents owned several thousands of rural land, which they called Villa Vista, but, as the ownership finally reached Henry, he quickly changed the name to Restless Oaks. 

It was during Shoemaker's college years that Graybill began to find discrepancies. For instance, he would list himself as a graduate of Columbia. When attempting to verify this basic information, the school identified him as a non-graduate as of 1901. While attending, he did, however, become very active socially and this was to continue into his older years when at one time he was a member of many different organizations, which, it appears he joined in order to make a name for himself, because it was shortly after he left college in 1901 that he was appointed as a diplomat to Cost Rica by President Theodore Roosevelt. Then moving on to Lisbon, Berlin, and finally as Ambassador to Bulgaria...

The parallel to Trump seemed to end at the point where Shoemaker never really held a real point of power and, perhaps, this led to what he began to do... By merging his property interests, his traveling, and his love of writing, Shoemaker maneuvered to make his name known into posterity... Through, again, connections and memberships, he was able to become involved in creating historical monuments for the State of Pennsylvania--each one to include his full name and position...

So, bottomline, this is how it worked. He wrote a story(ies) that could be considered Folklore--those stories which were spread by word of mouth as to events that happened early in history... For instance, a story about the buffalo which once roamed across the state of Pennsylvania... Add a little fiction about meeting a man who had killed 2000, add that he did it in some part of the State...and, in his other capacity, Shoemaker would create a memorial sign, or in this case, a stone

This is real; book has pic of stoned!

buffalo... with sign with, of course, Shoemaker's name of authorization and verification!

I wanted to point out something that I wouldn't have normally known, except I'm having trouble with reading small print... I read the ebook version, and, the pictures were able to be studied as they appear on our phones... a horn, for instance, that was found with printing on it, can easily be enlarged and studied. I found this much more interesting than just looking at the book pictures... So depending upon just how much time you want to invest, to survey the debunking work of Guy Graybill debunking Henry Wharton Shoemaker, I'd recommend the ebook copy.

On the other hand, attempting to document an ongoing activity makes the book tedious and somewhat difficult to follow. For instance, the story of the bison, first was reviewed by experts who confirmed no physical evidence of the bison within the State of Pennsylvania. Also, each area within the folklore story had to be checked against historical sites as well as present... And, as Shoemaker often did, he would change his story's information from one story to the next, and finally, the "possibilities" of what was being written had to be studied. For instance, evaluating the place of the buffalo herd in relation to the amount of open land where the buffalo would have roamed... Considerations may include source of water as being available...

I learned much about the actual process used in documenting historical information, sites...and more. Enough to know that I'll leave it to Historian Guy Graybill! You might want to search in the right-hand column of my blog for "Guy Graybill," the range of his interests and books is extensive and I've read most of them. My favorite is his book covering Italian music of all kinds... Here's an easy click for a sample of that book and music! In fact, it's been years since I've shared from that book... Watch for something soon...

I applaud Graybill for taking on this monumental research task... Especially since we are in a period where lies and false stories are acceptable for many... For those who want Truth ONLY. We need those who will work to do the research and then be courageous enough to speak out! Kudos, Once Again! To Author!

GABixlerReviews

Tim Alberta Presents The Kingdom, The Power, and The Glory: American Evangelicals In An Age of Extremism

 

Tim Alberta is the chief political correspondent for POLITICO Magazine and the author of The New York Times and Washington Post best-seller, American Carnage: On the Front Lines of the Republican Civil War and the Rise of President Donald Trump. And,

The Kingdom, The Power, and The Glory: Evangelicals in the Age of Political Extremism...

The pastor quoted one of my favorite verses, Mark 8:36. “What good is it for someone to gain the whole world,” Jesus asked, “yet forfeit their soul?”

LOOKING BACK, ZAHND IS GRATEFUL FOR LOSING MUCH OF HIS CONGREGATION all those years ago. Downsizing so dramatically allowed the pastor to connect with his people more intimately, to make sure everyone was on board with his mission and his message. This not only made for a healthier church; it insulated Word of Life from the turmoil of the Trump era. In fact, Zahnd told me, at a moment when many of his clergy counterparts were bleeding members from their churches, Word of Life was experiencing real growth for the first time in over a decade. The chief explanation: YouTube. This was not a COVID-specific phenomenon; Word of Life had begun streaming its services online years before the pandemic arrived. Zahnd was skeptical of the practice at first. He believed in gathering physically, in taking communion as one body, in the power of corporate worship. He wasn’t terribly interested in pastoring people thousands of miles away. But then he got to know some of them. He listened to their stories, heard their prayers. Online church wasn’t their preference, either. They would love to join a solid, unified, kingdom-first congregation in their community. “They just can’t find one,” Zahnd told me. “These people feel like they have nowhere to go. I just heard from someone yesterday who lives in Texas; apparently, the county she lives in voted for Trump in a higher percentage in 2020 than any other county in America. And she told me, ‘Pastor, I cannot find a normal church.’ What do I say to that?” Zahnd is happy, on some interim basis, to offer an online community to the displaced masses. But it’s not a sustainable solution to the problem of “normal church” scarcity. These people watching Zahnd online—particularly the less seasoned believers—need a permanent home. They need a pastor to love and disciple them; they need a church family to grow alongside them and hold them accountable. To this end, Zahnd is trying to help the only way he knows how: by mentoring young preachers. “I had these four pastors here yesterday, from a fairly large church in Oregon,” Zahnd said. “And I told them, ‘You’re going to have to lean into the great tradition. Don’t allow your preaching to be driven by the news cycles. Start paying attention to the Revised Common Lectionary; preach from that. Pay attention to the liturgical calendar; preach from that.’” Hours earlier, at the Word of Life entrance, a kindly old gentleman had handed me a church bulletin. The first thing I noticed was the date: “November 6, 2022. Twenty-Second Sunday After Pentecost.” Zahnd’s church observes days tied to the deaths of saints, sacred moments from scripture, and the onset of seasons such as Lent and Advent. American holidays—Memorial Day, Independence Day, Veterans Day—are not recognized. “What do those dates have to do with us?” Zahnd said with a shrug. “We’re the Church.” It’s not easy to break away from American traditions, Zahnd said. But if evangelicals are to regain lost standing, it’s necessary. “Christianity is inherently countercultural. That’s how it thrives. When it tries to become a dominant culture, it becomes corrupted. That’s been the case from the very beginning,” Zahnd said. “This is one major difference between Islam and Christianity. Islam has designs on running the world; it’s a system of government. Christianity is nothing like that. The gospels and the epistles have no vision of Christianity being a dominant religion or culture.” The Bible, as Zahnd pointed out, is written primarily from the perspective of the underdog: Hebrew slaves fleeing Egypt, Jews exiled to Babylon, Christians living under Roman occupation. This is why Paul implored his fellow first-century believers—especially those in Rome who lived under a brutal regime—to both submit to their governing authorities and stay loyal to the kingdom built by Christ. It stands to reason that American evangelicals, themselves born into the bosom of imperial might, can’t quite relate to Paul and his pleas for humility, or Peter and his enthusiasm for suffering, never mind that poor vagrant preacher from Nazareth and his egalitarian rhetoric. The last shall be first? What kind of socialist indoctrination is that? “You see, the kingdom of God isn’t real to most of these people. They can’t perceive it,” Zahnd said. “What’s real is America. What’s real is this tawdry world of partisan politics, this winner-takes-all blood sport. So, they keep charging into the fray, and the temptation to bow down to the devil to gain control over the kingdoms of this world becomes more and more irresistible.” Zahnd has studied the rise and fall of Christian civilizations; he understands that, as the Book of Ecclesiastes tells us, “there is nothing new under the sun.” Still, it’s hard for him to accept just how quickly this particular American experiment went south. When he created Word of Life Church at age twenty-two, riding high on the generational momentum of the Jesus Movement, he was convinced that the United States was experiencing a real-time revival. Forty years later, he is witnessing the sort of crash that will be studied by pastors in the centuries to come. “I think about it every day. I can’t believe it came to this,” Zahnd said. “I’m totally baffled by it. I’m not depressed; I’m not unhappy. I’m just baffled.” The pastor was quick to clarify something. He’s not baffled by the 1,500 people who left his church almost two decades ago. He’s not baffled by the people who go to Greg Locke’s circus tent or listen to Paula White’s podcasts or buy VIP tickets to Mike Flynn’s ReAwaken America rally. These people are called sheep for a reason. No, Zahnd is baffled by the so-called shepherds. Scripture says God demands more from these Christian leaders. And yet, whether it’s Strang platforming the MyPillow lunatic, or Liberty University’s leadership trading evangelism for electioneering, or the pastor down the road in St. Louis, a onetime friend who now leads his Sunday services with a fifteen-minute political segment called “Ron’s Rants,” Zahnd sees a reckless abdication of duty on the part of the people in charge. They are, as Jesus said of the Pharisees, blind guides, leading their followers to fall into a pit. “You are forming your people in anger and hate. You are helping to intensify their capacity to hate other people,” Zahnd said. “You are giving them permission to carry around this permanent rage.” I countered by telling Zahnd what these pastors would say about him—that he’s woke, that he’s lukewarm, that he’s a coward for not taking a stand and fighting to advance biblical principles in a broken world. “Taking a stand,” Zahnd scoffed. “There’s this false assumption of action we’re called to take. The task of the Church is simply to be the Church. All of this high-blown rhetoric about changing the world—we don’t need to change the world. We’re not called to change the world. We’re called to be the world already changed by Christ. That’s how we’re salt; that’s how we’re light.” He looked incredulous. “I talk about Jesus all the time. I talk about Jesus constantly. But I talk about Jesus in the context of His kingdom,” Zahnd said. “The idea that Jesus is some mascot for the donkeys or the elephants—it’s a catastrophe for the gospel.” The pastor told me he was offended—not upset, or hurt, or angry, but offended—by what the American Church had become. God does not tolerate idols competing for His glory, Zahnd said, and neither should anyone who claims to worship Him. “You can take up the sword of Caesar or you can take up the cross of Jesus,” Zahnd told me. “You have to choose.”

~~~

Many of you know that I've been reading a lot of non-fiction books. It has never been about politics for me, although I have developed an interest in keeping up with what is going on in America... For most of my time over the last decade, I have devoted all of my time in providing reviews for books. Requests for those reviews came from both individual authors and from PR agencies, publishers, and even Author's Den for whom I provided reviews when they initially began to include that benefit on their site... I've lived, slept, and eaten through hundreds of books, mostly fiction, but some non-fiction. All of this is to quickly say that I had never heard of the author, Tim Alberta, which to me means that I would be better prepared to be objective in my review(s)... Some of you may have noted my post where I have been including more of my personal opinions within my reviews, hopefully to provide information, as well as to share my opinion on things of importance...

My first introduction to the past president was through a leaked video where he laughingly talked about grabbing women...and being able to get away with it because he was a celebrity. Well, I had some choice words about that. I had never watched The Apprentice, and so I would not consider him a celebrity I had come to know. I believe that is a major advantage I had since I had no predisposition of the soon candidate. I was registered as an Independent. Being part of a political party bore no interest to me. As long as the country was functioning fairly smoothly, I figured that if I hadn't voted for a given election for various reasons, I had no right to complain... All that has now changed, of course and I have shared many of my thoughts and opinions here.

But my own concern began when I learned that the Evangelical Christians were backing/supporting Trump. I was astonished. Then when I was told that if I were a Christian, I had to be a Republican... Well, that was just not the way I had learned from history!

As I began to gather information for a review as I usually do, checking to see if a book trailer video was available, I discovered that there many, many videos about this particular author and his books. I chose the first three, based upon length and topic. Which leads me to the point that I also will be reading Alberta's first book during which time, the video about Joe Biden being the man for the time was made.

Alberta chose to write these books because he is an insider... His father was an Evangelical Pastor, and he had grown up in the church. On a broader sense, what that meant to me was that much of the conversations and church-related activities would have been known by the author, which was a very important factor to me. Because, I found, in starting to read his latest book, I was pulled back into my early years as a Christian woman. Through his extensive research, Alberta has reviewed the historical life of those from the Church who were actively involved as pastors of major churches, especially those with a television based audience...This, then, was my own beginning of how and when we evolved into where we are today.

The beginning of the Moral Majority by Jerry Falwell was one I remembered... I had also been involved at the beginning as the change was made to "separate the church and the state. Until I started to think of being a citizen of a larger country, I was first opposed to that, as naïvely as a simple Christian woman might automatically be. Thankfully, I was an individual who considered change logically... I had been approached as it related to having stores open on Sundays. My thought was first on the fact that many people had to work shifts, such as in a hospital, and might need to shop on Sunday, even if a Christian... And, of course, I remembered the stories about Jesus in his parables. So I supported, at least in my mind, the separation.

However when Falwell began his crusade within the political realm, I saw it as concerning. In the book, Alberta shares a personal story of a contributor, Olson, who was about to consider where he might go for higher education...

When it was his time to speak, however, Falwell warned the crowds that nothing was promised to them. America was under assault from secular liberal elites and godless government bureaucrats, and Christians needed to start fighting back. “The nation was intended to be a Christian nation by our founding fathers,” Falwell thundered. “This idea of ‘religion and politics don’t mix’ was invented by the devil to keep Christians from running their own country!” Falwell offered a reading from the Second Book of Chronicles: “If my people, which are called by my name, shall humble themselves, and pray, and seek my face, and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven, and forgive their sin, and will heal their land.” When the program ended, fireworks spewed forth from the mountaintop, illuminating the flags and church steeples that dotted the landscape below. Everything Falwell was selling, Olson bought. “I fell in love,” he recalled decades later, “with the idea of Liberty.” That enthusiasm was soon curbed. When the Olsons returned to Lynchburg after Labor Day, excited to move their oldest son into his new home, they were dismayed to find themselves at a boarded-up hotel in a tough part of downtown. The condemned building was all that Liberty could offer its newest students. Olson flopped a mattress onto the floor and unloaded boxes of his clothing and books, assuring his parents that he would be fine. They drove off with tears in their eyes—not tears of joy, but tears of concern and bewilderment. The July Fourth celebration was suddenly a distant memory; this seedy neighborhood in downtown Lynchburg bore no resemblance to that bucolic scene on Liberty Mountain. Their son had signed up to be part of something he didn’t fully understand. Olson had reason to worry, too. He could not have known that Falwell would soon emerge as one of the most consequential figures of the late twentieth century; that his synthesizing of Christianity and conservatism would roil America’s political landscape and radicalize its Protestant subculture; that his small school in Lynchburg, Virginia, would eventually develop into a multibillion-dollar behemoth and, become the embodiment of both the great promise and wasted potential of the evangelical Church. None of this was conceivable to the college freshman sleeping in that condemned hotel. Studying his surroundings, Olson simply wanted to know: Did Falwell have a vision?

~~~

Alberta reviews a number of those in high leadership of the Evangelical Church. Of course, I recognized Jim Bakker, who was now divorced and remarried but there in the crowd... I began to look for the one leader with whom I had been personally involved. Billy Graham. I am attended a number of his crusades in our area, even singing in the choir in one. Now I was wondering whether he, too, had succumbed to what was happening... Thankfully, I read:

The most celebrated evangelist of the twentieth century, Graham took his “crusades” to hundreds of nations and preached to millions of people. Whatever his initial political inclinations—warning against the evils of communism in the 1950s, allying himself with Richard Nixon in the 1960s—Graham grew openly suspicious of partisanship as his career wore on. He distanced himself from the religious right, eschewed the Moral Majority, and became known as “America’s pastor,” the man who met with and prayed over every U.S. president spanning nearly seventy years. Before his death, Graham repented for his early political activism, saying he’d “crossed the line” in ways that harmed his witness for Christ. Still, even in his most unscrupulous moments, Graham was a paragon compared to the self-seekers who would follow him, from the televangelists of the 1970s and ’80s all the way to the Ralph Reeds and Greg Lockes of today. There was no foaming, mad-as-hell partisanship to be found at a Graham rally. There certainly were no guns, no calls for violence, no swarms of people dressed—and visibly ready—for combat.

Indeed, I can remember the Spirit of God over us as George Beverly Shea would sing "How Great Thou Art..." On then would the call for coming forward to Learn more of Jesus... and we would sing in the choir as those individuals stayed and were meeting with Crusader staff as they learned just how to come to know and be saved by our Lord... However, Franklin Graham had become part of those individuals who were supporting Trump...and, I remember, I was shocked as, during Covid, I learned that Franklin's ministry received a subsidy from the Government! How, I wondered could this major evangelistic group have deserved a government grant?! Now I know...

Unfortunately, the book gets harder and harder to read... Soon the author takes us into rallies which were being held across the nation. I was reminded of how Jesus got angry, his only time, when money was being made as part of a religious event... And as I read, I found myself changing my own mind as book after book about Trump were being discussed and sold. I wanted them all Banned! Me, an Individual who speaks often about not banning books... Instead, all I could think was that they would surely be blasphemous! 

Here, too, was, perhaps the major reason that Trump is acting as he is now... He has purposely been made an idol, a leader--albeit--a cult leader, but one that has been firmly taken into the lives as republicans join with evangelicals to produce some type of pseudo-religion that has no correlation with the teachings of Jesus...

Franklin Graham even posed with him for photos at the White House. For that long-ago-troubled kid who dreamed of becoming Billy Graham—and who’d since been shunned by many of the most respected voices in evangelicalism—this must have felt like divine validation. Locke achieved this legitimacy without surrendering to the evangelical establishment. In fact, Locke made the evangelical establishment surrender to him. Prior to COVID-19, his delusional anti-leftist shtick made him an outcast in the evangelical world. But when the virus arrived, and the question of shutting down became a defining litmus test for churches nationwide, Locke went from pariah to prophet. As the country emerged from the fog of 2020, pastors who had defied the government—especially those pastors who made a show of it, then watched attendance double and donations triple as a result—learned what Locke already knew: This was the new normal. They had chosen a permanent side. They had committed themselves to something bigger than an individual public health policy. No longer could the culture wars be selected à la carte. Talking politics was now as much a part of church life as taking communion. “I don’t think there’s any going back,” Locke told me. “That train’s left the station.” Extremism in American churches is nothing new; recall Westboro Baptist Church, the Kansas congregation that achieved notoriety at the turn of the century by hoisting signs claiming that God hates Jews, gays, and dead soldiers. But Locke embodies a distinct Trump-era phenomenon. The most revealing part of my trip to Global Vision was the peculiar sort of indifference I felt at the end of the service. There was nothing sui generis--inique--about Locke. He said the same things I’d heard from other pastors on my trips around America. Atmospherics aside—it’s not every day you worship inside a tent next to a pistol-toting man wearing an Alex Jones shirt—the substance was familiar and predictable to the point of tedium. Of course, this would come as a shock to many self-respecting Christians who still want to believe that their pastors are nothing like Locke; that their churches are nothing like Global Vision; that they themselves are nothing like the people in that tent. These self-respecting Christians are in denial. It’s easy for evangelicals to dismiss Global Vision as an outlier, the same way they did Westboro Baptist. It’s much harder to scrutinize the extremism that has infiltrated their own churches and ponder its logical endpoint. In this environment, if a pastor begins to dabble in conspiracies and political deception, what guardrails exist to keep him from going off the grid altogether? And what if he does go off the grid—does it even register? Just as with our politics, there is no longer a clear line of demarcation between the fringe and the mainstream. Ten years ago, Global Vision would have been considered a cult. ...Locke preaches to 2.2 million Facebook followers and poses alongside Franklin Graham at the White House. Walking out of Global Vision, I wondered: How many pastors at smaller conservative churches—pastors like Bill Bolin at FloodGate in my hometown of Brighton—Michigan, would have felt uncomfortable sitting inside this tent listening to Locke? The answer, I suspected, was very few. Global Vision and FloodGate may be different in degree, but they are not different in kind. What binds them together—Locke and Bolin and the scores of other right-wing pastors I’d encountered over the past few years—is that they are now expected to be something more than mere church leaders. They are political handicappers, social commentators, media critics, information gatekeepers. And they have only themselves to blame: It turns out, when a pastor decides that churches should do more than just worship God, congregants decide that their pastor should do more than just preach. This might be precisely what some pastors had always hoped for, the opportunity to guide and shape every aspect of their congregants’ lives. But spiritually speaking, this is a doomed proposition. Pastors already struggle to provide all the answers written down inside their book. In a modern evangelical culture that punishes uncertainty—where weakness is wokeness, where indecision is the wrong decision—asking pastors to provide all the other answers is a recipe for institutional ruin. Because what their congregants crave, more and more, is not so much objective religious instruction but subjective religious justification, a clergy-endorsed rationale for living their lives in a manner that might otherwise feel unbecoming for a Christian. Down this path, disaster waits. The pastor who finds himself offering religious justification today might find himself inventing it tomorrow. In the darkest chapters of Church history—the Crusades and Inquisition, the slave trade and sexual abuse scandals—the common denominator has been a willingness on the part of Christian authority figures to distort scripture for what they perceive to be some greater good. This explains why, long after leaving Global Vision, I could not rid myself of its violent imagery—all the guns and the paramilitary gear and the swaggering talk of the Second Amendment. Locke swore this rhetoric was defensive in nature. That’s always the case, until it isn’t.

!!!

This, then, is what I have learned from this writer. It is exactly as bad as I had thought it was...and...is! This is not whether or not I would recommend this book... This is about whether or not you, as the reader really want to know Jesus as Your Savior... Because, now I know why He said it would be hard to follow Him. Now I know that millions have chosen the easier way and created their own religion, while corrupting the scriptures that have been presented to new Christians for hundreds of years. The manipulation of news, lies, and, now we know more firmly, the scripture, for the power received through political fame...

Where is God's Kingdom, The Power, and The Glory in this choice?

GABixlerReviews

Amanda Flower's Second in An Emily Dickinson Mystery Series - I Heard a Fly Buzz When I Died - Quickly Became Personal Favorite for 2023

 

I love this new series by Amanda Flower! One of the main reasons is that she places the maid, Willa, as the narrator POV. Being able to, therefore, learn about the entire family, including the servants. If you haven't read the first book, check out my review... And, further, in relation to Willa was that, she was an avid reader and Emily had given her access to the family library for her use! I can fully imagine that if I were living at that time, I, too, would probably be that maid, working hard at manual labor in the home and gardens, but, sneaking around to find the next book to read, getting it to her bedroom, and, especially, without the head maid, Margaret, realizing that she spent most of her evening hours reading...

Additionally, you will find, that, perhaps because she was a reader and was able to learn and act on behalf of that new knowledge, Emily had picked her out of the servant status often, to act as her companion. Of course Margaret, having been there a long time, let it be known that it disrupted family services when this happened, but Emily had found somebody that she needed... A person with ears that could be beneficial when a mystery arose... In fact, in this book, it seemed that it was Willa who was putting together the clues much faster than Emily. Especially since she was involved in required family activities. 

You see, another member of the Dickinson family had entered the picture when Austin, and his new bride came home and moved into their home that his father had built for the couple in a nearby walking distance location... And, so it was that the murder mystery actually began!

I felt all the blood drain from my face. “Whatever do you mean?” “He is dead in the patch of black-eyed Susans.” “Show me,” I demanded. As much as I didn’t want to see what Cody described, I had to make sure it was true before I ran back and told the Dickinson family. Perhaps Mr. Howard was just ill and in his delirium fell over into the flowers. He might be sick or hurt and just need to rest. Maybe something he ate hadn’t agreed with him, but he couldn’t be dead. Dead was unbelievable. If he needed rest, why not go to his room for the night? Or had he, and then saw the state of the room and ran outside? But when he made the discovery, why didn’t he come back to the dinner and alert the party? Surely, Austin and Miss Susan would want to know if there was some sort of intruder in their home, because who but an intruder would ransack Mr. Howard’s room so horribly? No amount of rationalization could change the facts. 

When I reached the perennial garden, I realized Cody had been right in his description. Mr. Howard’s lifeless body lay in the patch of black-eyed Susans. His neck was turned to the side, and those bright blue eyes I thought had been so striking the first time I saw him were unseeing and dull. Their distinctive color seemed unearthly with no light of life within them. I put a hand over my mouth to hold back a scream. Even though I had been prepared for the sight, it was still so much to take in. My brother had been killed the year before, but I never saw his body after he died. This sight reminded me of when I found our mother dead in her bed after a long illness. In her case, she was withered and eaten away by disease and heartbreak. Mr. Howard was young and strong but just as dead. 

The only piece of his pale skin with any color was the bruise that had formed around his eye after Paulo the Peddler had hit him. Thoughts of Paulo made me wonder if he could have been the one responsible for Mr. Howard’s demise. He and Mr. Howard clearly had a history, and not a good one. Could he have killed the other man? But how? Other than the black eye from being struck earlier in the day, I didn’t see any wounds on Mr. Howard. He was just dead. Dead with no explanation at all. 

Cody stood behind me, twisting his hands so forcefully I was afraid he might break his fingers. “Willa, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?” His Irish accent was as thick as I had ever heard it. “Cody, you have to run to the Evergreens and tell the family. They will want to call the police.” “I can’t do that. I’m not allowed into the house.” He almost looked as pale as Mr. Howard when he said this. “You go, and I will stay here.” “I will stay here,” I said firmly. As much as I didn’t want to stand over a dead body, I couldn’t trust Cody not to disturb the scene with his pacing and frantic movements. There was no evidence a crime had been committed, but even still, we needed to be careful. 

Matthew taught me about the importance of physical evidence at a crime scene. He said it was becoming increasingly essential as the police departments advanced. More important than witness accounts even, which he claimed were unreliable. “I know Margaret has made a rule for all the servants that the outdoor workers aren’t allowed anywhere in the home other than the servants’ quarters and the kitchens, but, first of all, you aren’t going into the homestead, and, second of all, this is an exception. A man is dead.” His eyes were wide. “But Miss O’Brien! I don’t think she will care if it’s the Evergreens or not. She will give me a tongue-lashing for going into either home in my muddy clothes.” I examined him, and he had a point. His boots and pant legs were encrusted with dirt. I still didn’t believe that was enough reason for him to argue with me on the matter, but it was clear he was afraid of Margaret. I can’t say I blamed him. When I’d first met her, I had been frightened of her as well. “Very well. Run to the kitchens and tell one of the other servants to deliver the message to the dining room.” He hesitated a moment longer, as if he was trying to think of another excuse to stay behind with the body. “Go!” I shouted. 

“What about the police? I can’t be here when the police come.” He looked as if he might cry. “Why not?” I asked. “They will want to talk to you. You were the last one to speak to Mr. Howard, and you found his b—him.” “I’m Irish,” he said. “The police will take one look at me and blame me for this. They don’t need any other reason to pin it on a dirty Irishman. I tell you, when they arrive, they will be looking right at me. You’re here, too, but they will never suspect you, because you are not Irish, and you are a Yankee woman.” 

“Looking at you for what?” I asked, unsure what his point was. In the last few months I’d known Cody, I had become somewhat accustomed to his ability to talk in circles. His “gift of gab” as he called it could be confusing at times. “For his murder.” “We don’t know that he was murdered,” I said a little more sternly than I intended to. It was not lost on me that if I really thought this, then why did I think it was mandatory that I guard what could be the crime scene? And why had I thought for a brief moment that Paulo Vitali could be to blame? 

“But how else can a healthy young man drop dead in the middle of a garden?” Cody asked. “The only way I see it is if someone killed him.” “These are not ideas you want to share with the Dickinsons, their guests, or the police,” I said sharply. “If you do, they will become suspicious of you jumping to conclusions.” He paled in the light of the setting sun, and the dusting of red freckles across his nose became more pronounced. “There might be many reasons as to why Mr. Howard is dead,” I said. “Perhaps he had an illness he didn’t know about or was keeping a sickness secret. We don’t know. Murder is just one of the possibilities, and I have to say it is the least likely.” Cody didn’t exactly relax, but he at least stopped twisting his hands like he had them in some sort of vise. “Now, run to the Evergreens and alert the kitchen staff like I asked, so that the Dickinsons and the police can be told. There is no time to waste.” “What are you going to do?” he asked, taking one more moment to stall. “Don’t worry about me.” I gave him a little push. “Go!” Cody stopped arguing with me and took off toward the Evergreens at a run. 

After he was gone, my eyes were drawn back to the body. Poor Mr. Howard. I couldn’t say I liked the man, but I would not wish this fate on him. I could not help but believe from the agony contorting his face that he died in great pain. I had to look away. There came the sound of movement on the path behind me. I looked behind me, expecting to see Cody returning with another argument as to why he couldn’t be the one to tell the family what had occurred. Instead, I saw a woman in white walking down the garden path in the gathering twilight. I placed a hand on my chest, and for the briefest of moments, I thought it might even be a spirit perhaps of my dead mother. 

“Willa, did you find Mr. Howard?” Emily’s breathy voice shook me from my momentary horror. “Emily.” Her name came out of my mouth like a prayer of thanksgiving, and I remembered she had chosen to wear her white lace frock to the dinner party that evening. It was a summer dress with a broad collar and pointed sleeves. However, with the sun setting at her back, there was something ethereal about her. She seemed to float over the grass. I could very easily see why I thought of her as a ghost. “Willa,” she said in her soft tone that hovered in the humid evening air around us. “What has taken you so long? And why are you in my garden? I asked you to check on Mr. Howard.” 

“Did you pass Cody on the way from the Evergreens?” I asked, realizing by the way I stood I blocked her view of the perennial garden and Mr. Howard’s body. “I did. He wouldn’t tell me why he was running, but said I would find you near the patch of black-eyed Susans. Why are you here? And why was Cody running? He was so pale. I thought his freckles were going to pop off his cheeks.” “It’s Mr. Howard. He’s dead.” I said it as bluntly as she would. Perhaps there was something to just getting the words out without softening them in any way. Dead was dead. 

Instead of reacting with shock or concern, as I would expect of anyone at such an announcement, Emily simply said, “Show me.” “It is a gruesome sight,” I said. “He did not have a peaceful death.” “I conjure more gruesome images in my head than are possible. I assure you I can handle whatever it is.” I sighed and shifted aside so she could see the garden behind me. She stepped around me, but she was nearly a foot shorter than I was, and I could see well over her head. 

She looked down. “I heard a fly buzz when I died,” she murmured. As she said this, I noticed a large horsefly buzzing near Mr. Howard’s unseeing eyes. I wanted to shoo the fly away, but Emily stared at it so intently, I felt like I would be disturbing her if I moved...

~~~

Emily's brother Austin was now married, but not to a new individual to the family. It was Susan who had a long-time relationship to the sisters, so that, in marrying Austin, she had actually become a "sister" to them as well. But there are signs inserted so that we begin to think that Emily was not happy to have Susan now taking on a leading role in the family as the wife of the only male, other than her father. 

Susan had almost immediately took over as head of her new domain, while Emily and her sister were merely daughters to their mother and father. While Mrs. Dickinson was physically not well, that nevertheless did not change the status of this new family member. Immediately she began to talk about making "their" home a center for cultural events. Indeed, she had already invited Ralph Waldo Emerson to stay with them while he was lecturing to the Amherst Literary Society symposium at the college. (If you have not already been following the spotlights of visiting writers, do check out more information related to Emily Dickinson, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Louise May Alcott in previous posts.)

In fact, it was Emerson's secretary, Mr. Howard, who had been found, dead, in the Dickinson's gardens!

Readers will find that Flower has given us a full set of possibilities as to who would have chosen to murder Mr. Howard, starting right at the beginning before we had even met Emerson's assistant. And, we also find that many of those suspects were part of the elite class of academics that lived in the area surrounding the Amherst College... So, my reader friends, what do you think would be the basis for murder of a writer's assistant/writer?

I was having too much fun just reading this book, as Willa and Emily try to solve the murder, while Willa's love interest tries to keep both of the women safe, as well as away from his boss... So many clues, so many potential individuals who'd like to have the man gone... well, I recommend you just sit back and enjoy because, sooner or later, all bad guys are held accountable, don't you think? 

If you like historical novels together with a cozy mystery flair, I recommend you start with the first in series... Future books are bound to get more complicated with more family and friend characters showing up! And, the vids below? A Cat! There was no way I wasn't going to share these two fun book cat videos!

GABixlerReviews

And closing out this attention to Emily Dickinson, Have I found a kindred soul?

It is soon time to sing Happy Birthday to Jesus!