THE BIRTHRIGHT

The third book in the "Song of Acadiaser" series moves slower than the first two books, climaxing in the last four or five chapters. Janette Oke and T. Davis Bunn once again do a superb job at bringing to life each character and taking the reader back into time as if they walked the streets of London during the years of the American Revolution following the French and British war in the Americas, resided in Harrow hall, or visited the small villages within Lord Charles' demesne. Although "The Birthright" seems to trudge along rather than move swiftly with exciting adventure, the reader catches a significant glimpse into the life inside British manors and their Lords that presided over them, the British parliament and feelings toward those in America who sought to break away from British rule, and the high society of Britain that seems to continue to catch the world's fascination. Despite the fact that the story develops at a slow pace Oke and Bunn engage the reader to consider the struggle of seeking the good of others above one's personal desires, social status, and maintenance of material possessions, especially when it involves family relations. The authors tap into a more individualized battle of human emotions involving grief, sacrifice, and happiness vs. duty. The latter provides the foundation upon which this story revolves. As Nicole states in her conversation with Anne, she says,

"At some level, I think I've always assumed that when I found my place in the world, then I should be happy. Yet in all my searching of the Scriptures, I haven't found a single instance where God promises this. In fact, nowhere is such a thing even requested by His servants...It has made me realize that all my life I've meaured how well I was suited to a place by how happy it made me. Only now, as I learn my way through english society, Have I come to see that, although happiness is a fine thing, it comes and ti goes. So long as I base my happiness upon what I have or how life suits me, it will always remain fleeting. For as soon as something changes, as soon as a cold wind blows through my life, as soon as life takes an unpleasant turn, my happiness would be gone...My studies have shown me that I need to find my happiness in God, and in Him alone. By placing my life in His hands and seeking to live as He wants me to, I now have a peace that's greater than whatever struggle I might face. My frustrations and my difficulties, all these will pass. But He remains always...Yes, I've been granted many gifts...And with each gift there comes a responsibility..."

Each one of us at some point in our lives struggle with coming to grips with finding peace in our "duty" or "obligation" in life and being happy according to the world's definition of happiness, or perhaps our own definition of happiness. Upon what does our security lie? Do we seek to fulfill what it is God has called us to do on this earth, or do we seek only our own personal happiness? After reading this book, the reader is brought to a place of soul searching; a place where grief and sacrifice may be experienced for the sake of following God's will for their life.

THE SACRED HEART

The sequel to "The Meeting Place" by Janette Oke and T. Davis Bunn encompasses a journey of two people, one who is a British nobleman and another who is but a peasant girl deep in the bayous of Louisiana after the French were expedited to all corners of the world by the British. Little could either one conceive what they would encounter and learn as they set forth in search of the unknown. The history and descriptions of life in Acadia settled by the British, the bayous of Louisiana settled by the French, and travels upon the Atlantic Ocean during the mid-1700's reaches through the pages and takes the reader back into time as if traveling through a time machine. It almost feels like you are in the same room with each of the main characters and their families, or traveling with them through the storms at sea, or riding along on horseback through the woods to the village of Minas. These two authors have an incredible ability to draw the reader in as if they actually become the characters themselves, feeling all the emotions and inner turmoil experienced along their journeys and then the peace they find within themselves at the end. Oke and Bunn tap into the human need to find purpose in life, much which comes through the struggle of seeking that purpose between self and God. A thread that reappears many times, and at least once with each of the main characters revolves around the human eyes. Tenderness, piercing, softness, love, understanding without words, strength, resolve, and release are all expressed with eyes. It has been said that the eyes are the windows into a person's soul, something that both Oke and Bunn truly grasp and convey in this sequel. Each reader will personally respond and connect with at least one character, bringing them to a point of looking within themselves either because they walk a similar road, or perhaps experienced many of the same emotions, or presently have embarked on a similar journey. Books that completely capture the mind and the emotions of the reader make for excellent reading. Although this series so far may not be intellectually stimulating, delve deep into theological studies, or directly speak to educational subjects, in their simplistic nature offer deep insight into what it means to trust God in the most dire of circumstances. How does a person, young or old, make their faith personal, full of strength and understanding? This sequel allows the reader to catch a glimpse of how people come to their own personal understanding of God and who He is to them in very different lives and circumstances. Once again, I've been pleasantly surprised and engulfed in the 1700's through the authors' abilities to encompass the totality of history and human life into one package that brilliantly allows me to escape for a while into another period.

SUMMER READING

This summer presented the difficulty of what to read since so many genres and subjects hold such rich gems to be discovered through countless pages. After some deliberation and perusing through shelves of books, I concluded that the past few years my head has been buried in the seriousness of text books, home schooling material, and other heavy reading. Thus I chose to embark on a lighter note beginning with an author I came to love many years ago with "The Meeting Place." I usually do not delve too often into "romance" novels, but thought I might allow myself to revisit what became to my taste too girly, too silly, and too shallow. I hope my decision pleasantly surprises me and my summer reading presents refreshment and enjoyment.

"THE MEETING PLACE"

The first of my summer reading. A wonderful story of sacrifice, love, commitment, and forgiveness. The pages come to life especially if one is familiar with history and the area of Canada the Northwest Territories during the mid-1700's. Two women, two families, two cultures living so close together, yet never setting foot inside the villages of the other. Bonds of friendship break the barriers of years of hatred as two women risk their lives for the sake of learning more about God and one another. Their friendship reaches the hearts of their husbands and in turn whole villages. Lifestyles of French clans allow the reader to gain a glimpse into the Huguenots and their purpose for relocating to the Americas from their homeland. The authors do a great job at intertwining history and real places with fictional characters and a fictional story line. Although I still consider romance novels shallow and not full of depth, Jeanette Oke and T. Davis Bunn grabbed my attention with their creative styles bound together to form anticipation, intrigue, and enjoyment. Their research into the historical places and life of both the French and British cultures during this period draws the reader back into days and times long forgotten unless one is a regular student of such subjects. Personally, I did not take away a lot of deep theology, sociology. psychology, or spirituality from this book, but the morals and story development offers reading on a lighter and simple, but pleasurable level.

Author's Note

In researching the material for this story, we have learned a new sympathy for those French Acadians whose only offense seemed to be their land of birth - and the fact that they wished to remain neutral in a conflict involving the homeland. And we also came to appreciate the predicament of those Britishers who found their role distasteful and morally difficult to enforce.

We as individuals may not be able to stop wars. But we can begin by resolving conflicts in our homes, in our churches, in our communities. Let us learn to be people of peace.

"MY FIRST SUMMER IN THE SIERRA" John Muir

"Our way is still along the Merced and Tuolmune divide, the streams on our right going to swell the songful Yosemite River, those on our left to the songful Tuolumne, slipping through sunny carex and lily meadows, and breaking into song down a thousand ravines almost as soon as they are born. A more tuneful set of streams surely nowhere exists, or more sparkling crystal pure, now gliding with tinkling whisper, now with merry dimpling rush, in and out through sunshine and shade, shimmering in pools, uniting their currents, bouncing, dancing from form to form over cliffs and inclines, ever more beautiful the farther they go until they pour into the main glacial rivers."

John Muir, in his book My First Summer in the Sierra shares his naturalist's spirit through his journal entries of his first acquaintance with the Sierra mountains in California. The descriptive adjectives he uses to express his wonderment, awe, and love for this place should be used as a textbook for students. If one had never visited the Sierra's before, this book could certainly be used for a science study, a study in creative writing, and a map for maneuvering through the temples that nature so maticulously and precisely created. The scientific entries of this Scotland native resides in his studies of chemistry, geology, and botany at the University of Wisconsin. His skills of observance will put anyone to shame and in my estimation, even succeeds the scientific studies and entries of Lewis and Clark. This book includes detailed descriptions of plants, flowers, and trees. Bird species are named and described, each individually to the point that the reader can almost picture them outside their front window. Weather and geological studies abound, allowing the reader to assume the knowledge gained from this read would suffice for any formal classroom study. Not only do the science studies add to the reader's knowledge, but Muir's ability to see the correlation between nature and lessons of life challenges the audience to do the same, even among the life outside one's backyard. Every lesson discovered, all the existing beauty in both minute and grandiose experiences, stem from a deep spiritual understanding of the person of God.

"No Sierra landscape tht I have seen holds anything truly dead or dull, or any trace of what in manufactories is called rubbish or waste; everything is perfectly clean and pure and full of divine lessons. This quick, inevitable interest attaching to everything seems marvelous until the hand of God becomes visible; then it seems reasonable that what interests Him may well interest us. When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe. Once fancies a heart like our own must be beating in every crystal and cell, and we feel like stopping to speak ot the plants and animals as friendly fellow mountaineers. Nature becomes a poet, an enthusiastic workingman, becomes more and more visible the father and higher we go; for the mountains are fountains - beginning places, however related to sources beyond mortal ken."

If for no other reason than to learn from John Muir, the art of writing and to sit under his scientific descriptions that carry a personal element, this book should be on every person's shelf, who enjoys descriptive reading. By the end of the book, the reader does begin to find that the descriptions of every detail does become a bit monotonous, however, one cannot refrain from holding in awe the knowledge, the beauty, and the lessons that flow abundantly from these pages. Happy journey to a place that finds me yearning to now visit - the Sierras.

A SEVERE MERCY

"He was suddenly overwhelmed by the revelation that what makes life worth living is, precisesly, the emotions. But, then - this was awful! - maybe girls with their tears and laughter were getting more out of life. Shattering! He checked himself: showing one's emotions was not the thing: having them was. Still, he was dizzy with the revelation. What is beauty but something that is responded to with emotion? Courage, at least partly, is emotional. All the splendour of life. But if the best of life is, in fact, emotional, then one wanted the highest, purest emotions: and that meant joy. Joy was the highest. How did one find joy? In books it seemed to be found in love - a great love - though maybe for the saints there was joy in the love of God. Certainly not! So, if he wanted the heights of joy, he must have, if he could find it, a great love. But in the books again, great joy through love seemed always to go hand in hand with frightful pain. Still, he thought, looking out across the meadow, still, the joy would be worth the pain - if, indeed, they went together. If there were a choice - and he suspected there was - a choice between, on the one hand, the heights and the depths and, on the other hand, some sort of safe, cautious middle way, he, for one, here and now chose the heights and the depths."

"If we were caught up in love, we were no less caught up in beauty, the mystery of beauty. Essentially we were pagan, but it was a high paganism. We worshipped the spirits of earth and sky; we adored the mysteries of beauty and love. Early spring became full spring. The orchard was a sea of white blossoms where we drifted enraptured in starlight and sunlight. Sometimes we walked in the rain, and we pressed our faces into masses of damp cool lilacs. I picked little posies of lily-of-the-valley to pin on to her blouse. However often it has happened to other lovers, it was to us the greatest glory we had ever known."

"Look," we said, "what is it that draws two people into closeness and love? Of course there's the mystery of physical attraction, but beyond that it's the things they share. We both love strawberries and ships and collies and poems and all beauty, and all those things bind us together. Those sharings just happened to be; but what we must do now is share everything. Everything! If one of us likes anything, there must be something to like in it - and the other one must find it. Every single thing that either of us likes. That way we shall create a thousand strands, great and small, that will link us together. Then we shall be so close that it would be impossible - unthinkable - for either of us to suppose that we could ever recreate such closeness with anyone else. And our trust in each other will not only be based on love and loyalty but on the fact of a thousand sharings - a thousand strands twisted into something unbreakable."

"On a day in early spring we thought we saw the answer (t0 the enemy of love). The killer of love is creeping separateness. Inloveness is a gift of the gods, but then it is up to the lovers to cherish or to ruin. Taking love for granted, especially after marriage. Ceasing to do things together. Finding separate interests. 'We' turning into 'I'. Self. Self-regard: what I want to do. Actual selfishness only a hop away. This was the way of creeping separateness. And in the modern world, especially in the cities, everything favoured it. The man going off to his office; the woman staying home with the children - her children - or perhaps having a different job. The failure of love might seem to be caused by hate or boredom or unfaithfulness with a lover; but those were results. First came the creeping separateness: the failure behind the failure."

"Our very closeness was a danger in that we were instantly aware of the slightest disharmony: a grain of dust that would not affect an alarm clock may throw off a fine watch. A hint of anger or coldness in a voice would shock the other. Outrage would be politely expressed. Love had been betrayed. Unbelievable disaster had come upon us. Hope was gone, eyes would be averted, and an awful silence would ensue. And yet, in the depths, we knew that if we caught each other's eye we would laugh and it would be over."

"We lived aboard and sailed the waters off the southern tip of Florida, exploring the keys and inlets, eating fish and lobsters and sand sharks we caught with hook and line or speared. Sometimes we would spend two months at a stretch wandering among the islands, brown and half-naked, our hair long and wild...The two of us, brown as nuts with spears in hand, wading in waist-deep shallows, peering down through the clear water for the feelers of the wily lobster sticking out from beneath a rock or sunken log, and later discussing a huge lobster salad in the cockpit as the sun went down. Or the two of us lying in warm shallows with only our heads, crowned with immense straw hats, and our hands, holding books, out of water - one of us smacking the water now and then to drive away the tiny dorsal fins of little sharks that might fancy a toe or two. And I hear the sounds of the keys: the flap of a sail, the hum of mosquitoes, the wind in the rigging, the wild lost cry of a seabird."

"The breeze had sprung up and backed to north so that it was coming straight in the mouth of the cove, though not strongly enough to cause any worry about the anchor holding. It had blown every bit of humidity and sultriness away. The air was cool and fresh. Then thousand brilliant stars arched across the sky. But what transfixed us was phosphorescence. Every little wave rolling into the cove was crested with cold fire. The anchor rode was a line of fire going down into the depths, and fish moving about left trails of fire. The night of the sea-fire. Davy had crept near to me, still crouching, and I put my arm about her, and she snuggled close. Neither of us spoke, not so much as a whispered word...All about us was the extraordinary beauty of the sea-fire and the glittering stars overhead. We were full of wonder - and joy...The moment was utterly timeless: we didn't know time existed; and it contained, therefore, some foretaste, it may be, of eternity."

"But if Davy was a tower of strength to everybody else, I was allowed to be, a little, her strength. That is in exaggeration, for the real source of strength was her crucified Lord, and yet, humanly she leaned on me. Perhaps it was her divine courtesy; and, indeed, there was a courtesy between us and sometimes, a sort of supernatural justice. At all events, she did not, perhaps could not, conceal from me her human longing to live and her human fear of death...Davy's burden was not death but the fear of death. I asked her to give me that burden, a real handing over, like surrendering a trunk to a porter. An act of handing over. And I took it - also act. I then entered into the fear, her fear, with all my heart and mind and imagination, felt it, carried it along with my own fear, which was also real but other. And her burden grew lighter."

"Now I was discovering it anew in Davy, going through the years: I was touching her soul, the very essence of her being. I described earlier how all the Davys began to flow back to me shortly after her death, and I recovered the wholeness of her. How with the Illumination of the Past the process was complete. It is sometimes said that the fourth dimension is time or duration: one does not see a person or thing in any one instant of seeing. And I was seeing Davy in all her years - I even had her baby and childhood pictures and scribblings. As nearly as a lover can do, I was seeing the whole of her - a wholeness I would never lose - and knowing her soul."