BOOK EXCERPT: SEVENTH DIMENSION - THE DOOR: A Young Adult Fantasy, CHAPTER 1: “The Dark Secret of Shale Snyder”

Prologue

A diary entry many years later:

“Long ago, a magical king was born in a kingdom where animals talked and intellect sparred with spirituality. It was a time when truth transcended culture, forgiveness won battles, and love conquered a young girl’s heart.”

But lest I get ahead of myself, let me start from the beginning—which happened a long, long, long time ago. So long ago, I barely remember the beginning of my journey to the Seventh Dimension.

Chapter One

The Dark Secret of Shale Snyder

I hid in a closet underneath the stairs—my safe house. Nobody would find me in here. It wasn’t used because the ceiling was too low. After the accident, the closet became my friend. I wanted to avoid Judd, who came over to visit Chumana. She was not my sister but we lived together.

Guilt overwhelmed me. The door creaked as I turned the handle. I held my breath and peered through the tiny slit. Moving shadows darkened the room. Judd, Rachel, and Chumana stared into a small brown shoebox.

Chumana burst out crying. “I hate Shale.”

I cringed. She already hated me anyway, ever since we moved in with them a few months earlier.

Rachel stood and recited a Jewish prayer. “Barukh shem k'vod malkhuto l'olam va'ed. Blessed is the name of his glorious kingdom forever and ever.” With her unkempt hair, puffy red eyes, and flushed face, I barely recognized my best friend.

“Why are you praying?” Judd snapped. “We aren’t here to pray.”

“Accidents happen,” Rachel said.

“She should be cursed,” Judd exploded.

“Don’t say that,” Rachel said.

 “How do you know it was an accident?” Chumana asked.

I looked away. I couldn’t listen. My whole body quivered—what kind of curse?

Judd’s voice cracked. “I demand she tell us what happened.”

The three twelve-year-olds sat silently for a moment before Rachel responded. “She fell down the stairs with Fifi and she’s afraid.”

I swallowed hard.

Judd pulled his uncle’s Atlanta Braves cap over his eyes and clinched his hand into a fist. “I hope Shale never has any friends—for the rest of her life.” He covered his face and sobbed.

I bit my fingernail holding back tears. I’d never heard a boy cry. Could his curse come true?

Chumana’s red hair matched her fiery temper. “That’s not enough of a curse. She already doesn’t have any friends.”

“I’m her friend,” Rachel said. “Accidents happen.”

Rachel lived two buildings down from us in the Hope Garden Apartments. Would she still be my friend if I told her the truth? I didn’t just fall—it was what I was doing when I fell. I was too afraid. I rubbed my swollen ankle, a reminder of my foolishness. The doctor hoped it would heal, but Fifi lay in the box.

Probably God hated me, too. If I told the truth, everyone would hate me. I couldn’t even tell my mother. My father—he left me long ago.

***

Two Years Later

I felt a hand reach underneath my blue skirt. I spun around on my toes. Students in the crowded hallway blended into a blur of anonymity. Hurried bodies shoved past. Am I going crazy? Did I imagine it? I scanned faces and froze each one, like a snapshot with a camera.

“Shale, why are you standing there? Come on or you’ll be late to class.” Rachel was waiting at the hall lockers.

I walked towards her as the bell rang.

“Are you okay?” She furrowed her brow.

“I’m fine.” I smiled, pretending nothing had happened. I’d think about it later. “Did you finish your analysis of As You Like It?”

Rachel’s brown eyes bulged. “Is it due today?”

“Here’s mine. You can take a quick look if you need to.”

“Oh, thanks, Shale. I hate Shakespeare anyway. No copying, promise. Just a peek.”

“It’s no different from reading Spark Notes on the web,” I quipped.

When we walked into English class at Garden High School, I sat in the seat closest to the door and stared out into the darkened hallway. Who did it? What would I do if I caught him? Mrs. Wilkes’s voice brought me back to reality as she recited from a Shakespearean play.

“All the world’s a stage.

And all the men and women merely players

They have their exits and their entrances

And one man in his time plays many parts

His acts being seven ages.”

What was my part? At fourteen, did I have one yet?

***

Later in the afternoon, I tripped while stepping off the school bus. My books were scattered over the ground. My bum ankle from the accident two years earlier would catch at the worst possible moments—what I considered my eternal punishment.

Scrambling to pick them up, I wiped the red Georgia clay off my math book. The bus waited long enough to make sure it wouldn’t run me over before pulling away.

“Hey, wait up, ya’ll.” I walked faster to catch up as Rachel stopped, but Chumana and Judd kept going. We still lived in the same apartment complex on the south side of Atlanta—had for years.

“If you used a backpack, you wouldn’t have dropped your books,” Rachel chided me.

“Mine broke.” I scanned Rachel’s back. “Where’s yours?”

“I did my homework at school. This is all I needed.” Rachel waved a thick book with strange-looking letters in the air.

“Can you read that stuff?”

“Sure,” Rachel laughed, “but I don’t know what it means. You could too if I taught you.” Rachel flipped to the first page. “You start on this side.” Her finger pointed to a line of Hebrew and she ran her finger across the page from right to left.

 “Really?”

“Yes.” Rachel giggled. “So who reads backward, the English or the Jews?”

 “I’d say the Jews. I can say that since I’m not Jewish, right?”

“Why not?”

“Writing would sure be easier if English was right to left. I wouldn’t smear my words.”

Rachel nodded. “I forget you’re left-handed. It’s crazy, isn’t it—like the Brits drive on the left side and we drive on the right.”

We walked for a while not saying anything. I glanced at my friend with her striking olive skin, almond brown eyes, and brown hair. “Do you like being Jewish?”

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know any different.”

 “I wish I was Jewish.”

“Why?” Rachel asked.

“It would be neat to be able to say I was something.”

“You could go to church,” Rachel suggested.

“Mom and Remi would never go. Every time they talk about God or anything religious, they end up fighting.”

Rachel flinched. “That’s too bad. By the way, thanks for your help with English.”

“You’re welcome.” I switched my books to the left, thinking how much I hated the long walk home, especially since we now lived farther away. The new unit we moved into when Remi and mother married was at the very back by the woods.

Rachel frowned, noticing my musings. “What’s it like having a father now?”

I bit my lip hesitating. “At least I have my own bedroom and don’t have to share with Chumana.”

“That’s good,” Rachel agreed. “How did you ever end up living with her anyway?”

“Mother didn’t have any money when we moved to Atlanta. She found an ad that Chumana’s mother placed in the Atlanta Constitution looking for a roommate. It was a cheap place to live.”

I eyed Judd and Chumana ahead of us. “What are they talking about? They have been spending a lot of time together.”

Rachel lowered her voice. “I know.”

“Maybe they deserve each other.”

Rachel edged up even closer to me and spoke in a whisper, “You never knew your father, right?”

“No.” I clutched my books which now seemed heavier. “Mother couldn’t wait to marry Remi after being divorced for so many years. Then she cried all night when they returned from their honeymoon in the mountains. I couldn’t sleep. I wondered why, but was too afraid to ask.”

“Maybe it was a bad honeymoon,” Rachel chortled.

“Silly you. How can you have a bad honeymoon?”

“I don’t know,” Rachel replied. “I’m sure it’s happened.”

“I hardly knew Remi the day they married.”

“It’s hard to imagine what it would be like to be at your own parent’s wedding. I mean, it might be funny if it could happen,” Rachel said.

“Like Back to the Future?” Then my thoughts darkened. “How would you like having a stepfather you don’t know?”

Rachel shook her head. “I wouldn’t.”

I’d never confided in anyone about my past but now I couldn’t stop. “Presents arrive twice a year from North York. I don’t remember anything about my father. One day he left and never returned.”

“I can’t imagine what that would be like,” Rachel said.

“Sometimes I get angry.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “About what?”

“Mother didn’t ask how I felt about her remarrying.”

We walked in silence as my words hung in the air. I kicked a rock on the sidewalk and it skipped into the gutter. Rachel’s warm nature was comforting. She came from such a perfect family, or it seemed. I’d tell her things I wouldn’t tell anyone else.

Voices from the past mocked me. “Do I walk like a chicken?”

Rachel laughed. “No, you don’t walk like a chicken.”

“Do I have big lips?”

“Big lips?” Rachel stopped and stared at me surprised. “No.”

“You don’t think so? Every time I wet them with my tongue, I worry I’m making them fat—so I was told.”

Rachel examined my fair face. I pretended not to notice. “You’re beautiful. Who would say such mean things?”

I didn’t want to tell her. What was the point in making him look bad?

“I love your green eyes and long brown hair.” Rachel reached out and grabbed a couple of strands, flipping them over my shoulder. “I wish mine wasn’t wavy with all the humidity. I use an iron to straighten it but it doesn’t stay that way for long.” Rachel giggled. “Guys love long, straight hair.”

“Remi wants me to call him dad, but that seems weird.”

A few feet in front of us, Chumana knelt on the sidewalk.

Rachel squinted. “What are they looking at?”

An earthworm wiggled on the sidewalk, barely warm from the late afternoon sun. A few weeks after Christmas, it was the wrong time of year for creepy crawlers.

“It’s probably cold,” I said.

Judd lifted his foot to squash it.

“Wait,” I demanded.

Judd glared at me.

“Why kill it?” I asked.

He leaned down and picked it up, dangling the worm a few inches above the sidewalk. “Have you ever dissected one of these?”

I shook my head.

He stiffened. “I should make you squish it between your delicate fingers.”

I stared at the worm. Judd dropped it on the sidewalk. As he started to smash it again, I leaned over and shoved him. “Just leave it alone.”

Judd’s face turned beet red. “Don’t ever push me again. You hear me?”

I nodded. My knees spasmed like a jack-in-the-box.

“You don’t like squishing worms but you killed my puppy.” His icy eyes ripped at my soul.

Rachel said, “Get over it. You sound so hateful.”

Chumana glared through her thick, black-rimmed glasses. “Judd is right, though, Rachel. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember,” Rachel whispered.

My heart raced as I picked up the worm—its slimy body was cold to the touch—and stuck it in my pocket.

Judd shook his head and stomped off.

Ruefully, I urged Rachel and Chumana, “You two go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Rachel nodded. They continued walking, leaving me alone.

After wrapping the worm up in some brown leaves, I placed it on a warmer corner of the concrete. When I lifted my eyes, I saw the white dog for the first time. She sat nearby wagging her fluffy tail.

As I approached her, she stood and limped backward. The scruffy creature was dirty and mangy, with floppy short ears and almond brown eyes. If she belonged to someone or was lost, the owner wasn’t taking very good care of her. A fuzzy feeling warmed my heart. Did she like me? Before I could get too close, the dog turned and ran away. 

To order Seventh Dimension the Door click here.

GUEST POST BY ROBERTO ORNAN ROCHE: Reflections on Cuba and a Cuban Poet’s Heart

“We need to show you how to get home from school in case we are attacked,” my father told me one night as he tucked me into bed.” The next day at school, the teachers instructed us if the sirens sounded, we needed to run into the hallway, get down on our hands and knees, and bury our head between our legs.

“Don’t eat any food unless it’s sealed in a can,” my mother said, “and make sure you wipe off the top first.” The next day my parents showed me the way home from school along a heavily-traveled road in case they couldn’t come to school to get me if the buses weren’t running.

 “What happened?” I asked. Fear struck at my heart that I might not see my parents again. Who would want to attack us anyway?

My dad replied, “Cuba has aimed missiles at the United States. If they launch them, they could reach Atlanta.” I had never heard of Cuba and had no idea what missiles were, but I was frightened. At seven years old in first grade, that was my first indoctrination into the possibility of war and my own vulnerability to the unthinkable—my parents or I could be killed.

Fortunately, the danger passed, thanks to President Kennedy’s strong leadership and standing up to Fidel Castro, but I learned later, that wasn’t my family’s only encounter with the communist dictator. When I was older, my grandparents told me about their wonderful vacations in Cuba during the 1950s, how beautiful the beaches were and how much they loved the island. They never took another vacation anywhere in the world that came close to the tranquility of those they took in Cuba before Fidel Castro seized power.

In more somber moments, they shared with me their final vacation when Castro overthrew the government and the revolution took place. The hotel workers deserted the hotel, the bar was raided, the food stolen from the kitchen, and total anarchy covered the countryside. It was a story I never got tired of hearing. I only wish I had written down in detail their experience so I could write about it today.

Sadly, I never thought much more about the people of Cuba until we had an author to join the John 3:16 Network recently. As I read his emails on our private forum, I became keenly aware of how difficult his living situation is and how much I take for granted in a country where freedom and opportunity have always been the norm.

Here is a short interview of Roberto Ornan Roche

* You are a Christian writer in Cuba. Please tell me a little about your life.

Life in Cuba is somewhat routine and boring, though to be a Christian makes it worthwhile. I work as a small business landlord for computer facilities. My wife and I have a baby of ten months, and it is very difficult to make ends meet. For example, some strained fruit for our baby costs 25 pesos (about US$0.95), but the average wage of a worker in Cuba is less than four hundred pesos a month (about US$15.00).

When I have some free time I go on the internet to see how things are going with my books. But the internet is expensive and difficult to use, and sometimes I spend more money checking my books than I make from them. The internet is prohibited in Cuba, but we can pay to obtain some hours, and hope that the State does not take reprisals. 

It is important, amid all that, to maintain our spiritual life and not lose sight of the Lord.

* How did you start writing?

I began to write because I felt that it was the best way to express my feelings about my life, and as an expression of my faith. For that reason my writings are devotionals, testimonies and simple stories. I wanted to express my devotion to God, who has a purpose for my life.

* Is it easy to be published as a Christian writer in Cuba? 

The churches and denominations in Cuba have small magazines, but with few pages and very low circulations. These magazines are the only means for a Christian writer to say something. A national seemingly Christian publishing house exists, with the possibility of printing a great number of copies. This Publishing House is named "Roads." 

However, they also mix in politics, and they live ostentatious lives, backed up by donations from overseas Christian organizations. But that type of "Christian" is known well and the true churches don't mix with them, although they are powerful and can offer useful opportunities, because they enjoy the privilege of the State.

* Is it easy to be a practicing Christian in Cuba?

I remember when I was a schoolboy that our teachers made us stand at the front of the classroom, so that the other students could make fun of us, because we didn't believe in Darwin's Evolution or in the ideas of Marx, Engels and Lenin. We were simply Christians, and the other children were trained to hate us. 

This was not an isolated practice. Rather, it was mandatory for the teachers to embarrass the Christian children. Likewise, it was necessary for parents to deny their faith, so that their children could study in the University. 

Currently, with the decadence of the socialist society, the State has been allowing certain freedoms and has been taking advantage of Christians to heal our society, although in no way do they want a Christian society. They simply want us to participate in the formation of a solid society – taking the good of the churches, but without giving much ground.

* Are there many churches in Cuba?

Yes, we have many churches, although we are not allowed to open up or build new churches. This has always been forbidden. Our local church is more than eighty years old.

* Please tell me a little about your church.

Our church is small, but after waiting decades for a construction licence, and jumping over thousands of bureaucratic barriers, the construction of a new church building, on the site of the old church, is almost finished. 

Due to the construction work, some church activities have been rescheduled. But normally we have men’s, women’s, children’s and youth worship. We also have prayer groups, Sunday School in the morning and evening worship.

Our Pastor is a very good preacher. He is very inspiring and his sermons attract a lot of non-believers. We also have home prayer groups, and fasting and prayer in the mornings.

People in our church are simple and humble, very poor and unpretentious. Over many decades a lot of very good Christians have left their imprints on the hearts of the congregation. These were church brothers and sister who always stood up and gave moving testimonies.

A brother who traveled overseas remembered us with a donation that we used to buy an electronic piano for the church. We call these brothers and sister the Pillars of our church, and although they have moved to be with the Lord, we always have other older men and deacons who are the new Pillars of our church.

My mother Migdalia has been a very active person in the Ladies department and a teacher of Sunday School. In her youth she traveled hundred of kilometers to study and also to teach at Summer Schools in small towns.

I hope you enjoy this short poem by Roberto. My heart is quickened when I see lived out the profound truth of God – He is the same yesterday, today, tomorrow, and in every country throughout the world, we are one in the Spirit.

The Perfect Story

By Roberto Ornan Roche

They wanted the “perfect” story, without miracles and without churches, so that sin did not seem so bad, nor the Christians so good; where the suffering one, the abandoned one, and the ordinary one did not count. A story to give meaning to the vanity of the World and to open the doors equally to all the experiences.

They wanted clearly understood the reason why evil covers and overcomes good so easily; the reason why the man who has abandoned his wife can hardly remember her affection, her tender care, and her love without measure; and while she is thinking that she is present in his mind, she is for him only a vagrant and uncomfortable memory that never appears in the most meritorious moments of the day.

They wanted a story full of peace and harmony; with a God who does not abide by all His promises; and with many children who claim not to believe in Him; but with capable men who are willing to substitute Him with their songs.

They intended a story of long roads without shade, all of them built by man's hands and with the blood of others, they also intended to step on the grass without noticing the dead butterflies. They thought the forbidden fruit would be a trophy, and the mantle of iniquity that human beings take inside would be similar to their own freedom.

They imagined a story where sinners and their blasphemies were applauded and fully accepted because there are always new rights to conceive. A story of new experiences, without prodigal children, which never forgives the past, and follows a new road without looking backwards. A story where errors did not count and they were taken as lived experiences.

They wanted a story without tears or pain, without cancer, without thorns or angels.

They wanted a story without me, without my brethren, without regrets or redemption; a story without Heaven.

They wanted a “perfect” story, without Psalms, a Godless eternity, but they only had the story of the Saviour who died on the cross of the Calvary, and they did not really like that story very much.

This poem and more of Roberto Ornan Roche’s writings can be found at :

"The Lighthouse of Asaph: Unforgettable Christian Reflections":
http://www.amazon.com/dp/0987901117 (Print)
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004VWQ3E0 (Kindle)

LORILYN ROBERTS BOOK REVIEW: “They Stood Alone, 25 Men and Women Who Made a Difference,” by Sandra McLeod Humphrey

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They Stood Alone instantly captivated me. The stories inspired me to see how one person can make a difference. As a mother, I noted most of these men and women had Godly parents who encouraged their young children never to give up on their dreams. 

The theme of They Stood Alone appears in this beautiful quote from the last chapter: “Live your own life as only you can live it. Do what you love and love what you do. Discover your passion and have the courage to follow your heart. Remember, you, too, can make a difference. May you always follow your heart and never give up your dream!”

Some of my favorite stories included Jackie Robinson, Neil Armstrong, Henry David Thoreau, and Leonardo Da Vinci. I saw a part of myself in them and enjoyed seeing how they achieved their dreams, oftentimes in spite of insurmountable odds.

So it is for all of us. Those who go before us pave the way for those who follow, instilling hope that we, too, can reach our dreams. In the process, we can build a better world for those who come after us.

Be inspired by the lives of these heroes who were at heart down-to-earth men and women. Enjoy a trip back in time as you read in these pages the amazing stories of passion, hope, determination, and courage. These are people who lived life to the fullest despite the obstacles or status quo or prejudices that beset them. These are lives worth reading about and honoring in a day when true heroes are hard to find.

They Stood Alone would be an easy read for children over ten and an enjoyable book for a parent to a younger child. In time, I expect this book to become a classic because it's so well written and presented.

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GUEST POST BY AUTHOR MELISSA MAIN: They Will Know We Are Christians by Our Love

“…and do not oppress the widow or the orphan, the stranger or the poor; and do not devise evil in your hearts against one another” (Zechariah 7:10).

Anyone who knows me (Lorilyn Roberts) knows my heart for children around the world. Most of us are unable to wrap our minds around the enormity of the plight of orphans and how that translates into the lives of children—until we put a face to it. Recently a friend of mine traveled to Mexico to visit an orphanage, and I asked her if she would be willing to share a few pictures and thoughts on my blog.

In Melissa Main’s Words

“We visited Door of Faith Orphanage in La Mision, in Baja California, a state in Mexico. It's odd but there is a state of California in both Mexico and the US.

I traveled to La Mision, Mexico… to build houses for poverty-stricken Mexican families and to provide support for orphanages and other charities. We distributed food to needy families and offered encouragement to workers at the orphanages and no cost day care center….there is an incredible amount of joy and satisfaction in giving to those in need and changing their lives forever. People are designed for a purpose. Helping others fulfills one of our hearts' greatest needs and helps us to discover our purpose in life.”

Children come to orphanages in Mexico because of abuse, neglect, and poverty. Some families are too poor to care for their children. They leave the children home alone while they work out of town and then they are picked up by the Mexican government and placed in orphanages. Sometimes they are left alone during the day if the parents work in town.

Tony, the 10-month-old baby in the photo, was left home alone during the day. His head was flat and dented in the back. He is very snuggly and responding well to the love and attention he receives at Door of Faith Orphanage. Sometimes babies are sent to orphanages when a mother is very young…

*~*~*~*

I have been touched personally by two small children from Nepal and Vietnam. Here are the referral photos of my daughters—they were orphans before I adopted them.

What would God’s news headlines be if He were to script today’s top stories? I have no doubt he would urge Christians to take care of the orphans and widows. Over one hundred fifty million children go to bed hungry each night. Many have lost their parents due to aids, starvation, and lack of clean water. Whenever the news covers these heart-wrenching pieces, my heart breaks because the needs are so great. Feeling overwhelmed can paralyze you from doing anything, but one person can make a difference—and you could be that person.

If you would like more information on how you can be God’s loving hands and face to a child—who longs to know Jesus’ love, here are a few links. It doesn’t take a saint to do a heroic act—it only takes a willing servant who says yes to God’s whisper in his heart.



Hope’s Promise http://www.hopespromise.com/

Today my children are normal American kids—the transformation with a little bit of love is amazing!

You can also visit Melissa Main’s blog at http://mainwriters.com/

GUEST POST BY SHELLEY HITZ: Hope Through Suffering

Have you been through difficult times in your life? If so, you are not alone. Jesus says in John 16:33, In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world. Notice that He doesn’t say that we might have trouble or that if we have enough faith we will escape it. He clearly states that on this side of heaven we will walk through difficult times in our lives.

And yet we have reason to hope.

Finding Hope in the Midst of Tragedy is Shelley Hitz’s personal journey to finding hope after a tragedy hit her family. However, she did not want this book to be her story alone. Instead, she wants it to be a resource for you to find hope in the midst of your own difficulties. That is why she has added the sections that you will see through the book called, From My Life to Yours, where she includes journaling prompts and reflection questions for you to apply what you are learning to your life. Her prayer is that God leads you to find His hope no matter what you are currently walking through.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit ~ Romans 15:13

What Reviewers are Saying:

“A must-read for anyone who has had storms in their life. I laughed, cried, and got so excited. This book gave me the answers to many of my prayers and showed me the right way to forgive.” - TALoveRocks

“This is a book of hope, trust, faith, forgiveness, and so much more! Highly Recommended!” - Sandra McLeod Humphrey

“Wow! My eyes are full of tears and my heart is full of God's promises to the author and to each of us. Great book!” - Kristie

Shelley Hitz is the author of the book, Finding Hope in the Midst of Tragedy which you can download for FREE on 8/8/12 and 8/9/12 here: http://www.bodyandsoulpublishing.com/hope. Shelley's main passion is to share God's truth and the freedom in Christ she has found with others. She does this through her books, websites, and speaking engagements. You can find more about Shelley at www.ShelleyHitz.com. 

LORILYN ROBERTS BOOK REVIEW: The Israel Omen: by David Brennan – “Ten Recent Catastrophes Can Be Associated With One Ongoing Current Event”

What Is It?

1.   October 30, 1991. The Perfect Storm off the New England Coast.

2.   August 24, 1992. Hurricane Andrew strikes South Florida, the fourth most powerful storm to make landfall in the United States.

3.   April 1993 to August 1993. Rains bombard several states and becomes one of the worst natural disasters in U.S. history.

4.   January 17, 1994. Most financially damaging earthquake in U.S. history strikes Los Angeles.

5.   June 5, 2001. Tropical Storm Alice hits the Houston area. Called the “Great Flood of 2001”.

6.   September 10, 2001. 9/11. The worst attack on American soil in U.S. history.

7.   April 30, 2003. Worst weather in U.S. history began on this day.

8.   June 2003 until August 2003. Worst heat wave in over 250 years strikes Europe.

9.   August 23, 2005. Katrina forms in the Gulf and become the most destructive natural disaster in U.S. history.

10. Week of July 23, 2007. Financial collapse across the globe.

According to The Israel Omen, by David Brennan, each of the above disasters was associated with an attempt by the U.S. and/or other nations to remove the “Promised Land” from the Jews and give them to the Arabs to establish a Palestinian State. Mr. Brennan has carefully documented the correlations and presented a compelling argument to support his conclusions.

I was studying in Israel from January 1 through January 15, 1991, when the State Department requested all nonessential Americans leave Israel. After being shown how to use a gas mask and shoot nerve gas antidotes into my thigh, I decided I didn’t want that much of an adventure. I took the last flight out of Tel Aviv to Switzerland and went skiing for a few days before returning home. The Persian Gulf War started the day after I left Israel on January 16, 1991.

Often when we visit another country, certain memories are etched in our psyche and become a filter through which we evaluate all future events and information; and so it was with my time in Israel.

Israel is small—too small to be chopped up more than it already is. The Jews live with the looming threat of war and all-out war. They are surrounded by Arab nations that do not like them. The Israelis want to live in peace and would do almost anything to make that happen—except forfeit land given to them by God.

There will never be land for peace because the land is not for the Jews to give. It belongs to God. Nothing angers God more than for world leaders to take what God gave to the Jews, as clearly stated in the Bible, and deliver it to the Arabs on a counterfeit peace platter. There is not any leader in the world that can negotiate a lasting peace in violation of God’s will without suffering under His judgment—as seen in the catastrophes that have happened each time a nation has tried.

While many will refuse to accept the premise given in The Israel Omen, I would encourage Christians to consider this:  Have all the lands given up by the Jews for peace brought peace?

As an American, I pray for the peace of Jerusalem and for our leaders to be Israel’s staunchest ally. Genesis 12:3 says, “And I will bless them that bless you, and curse him that curses you: and in you shall all families of the earth be blessed.”

As a Christian, I pray for my Jewish friends, both believers, and unbelievers. Peace starts with me and God gives wisdom to those who ask; and always, hope springs eternal.

To purchase The Israel Omen from Amazon, click here.

THE MAGIC OF THE OLYMPICS: Devotional by Lorilyn Roberts

The music starts, the drums beat, and the culture of the country sparkles in the dazzling lights. The Olympians burst forth and we wait in anticipation for one of the greatest spectacles in the world to begin. July 27, 2012, London. An estimated 10,500 athletes from 205 countries will be competing.

The Olympics have special meaning for me. I am looking forward to being part of the team of captioners who will be providing closed captioning for the games on television. I also have a more realistic idea of how much work goes into being an Olympian. One of my daughters is a level eight competitive gymnast who has been doing gymnastics since she was four. She spends twenty hours a week in the gym, and I drive her an hour and a half five days a week back and forth. 

Now almost fourteen, I look back through the years at how our lives have been wrapped around her training—and the thousands of dollars spent flying and driving across the country to attend competitions. This year she was the level eight state vault champion for Florida.

Recently we were watching the Olympic trials and I asked her, “How much better than you are they?” She laughed and shook her head. The ones who go to the Olympics truly are the best. I have often thought about what it takes to make it: You have to have a talented coach, parents that are supportive (that’s a biggie because it takes years of preparation to get there), plenty of money, not being injured at critical times, an athlete who is able to receive instruction and criticism, experience crippling failure and never give up; the self-discipline to sacrifice a social life and other typical things that children and teenagers do; the God-given physical and mental ability, and then peaking at the right moment—the Olympics are only held every four years. And probably thrown in there is fate—being in the right place at the appointed time and exposed to the one sport that the individual can excel at, and then having the coach who can transform a gifted athlete into an Olympian, like magic bound up in providence. Of the thousands who aspire to make it, only a few do.

The Bible speaks in I Corinthians 9:25:  “Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever.”  I wonder if we were to take our faith as seriously as the Olympians pursue their training, what could we not do?

As I watch the Olympics, I will contemplate the enormity of what athletes can accomplish when they devote themselves to a sport greater than themselves; always amazed that for two weeks every four years, countries will lay down their arms and participate in a tradition that’s as old as Ancient Greece and the Parthenon; that we will sit glued to our television screens esteeming the talents of athletes whose names we can’t pronounce, but wanting to know everything about them; that we will celebrate together all around the world in a mystic tradition of mythic proportion—of diversity, of unity, of beauty, of art, of perfection, of gold.

What humankind can achieve through perseverance and an unquenchable desire to be the best at a sport is pure brilliance. The Olympics is magic in motion, art and destiny intertwined for a few. And for the rest of us, a moment to pause and reflect, living out vicariously the success of the winners—and anyone who competes is a winner. The world will be mesmerized by young men and women who will take our breath away and remind us that in a sense, we are one. We celebrate with them as their brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers and sons and daughters. 

For a moment we will enter their world and be a part of it. We will cheer them on and applaud broadly, knowing they are truly Olympians. I can’t wait for the games begin!