Once Upon a Bowl of Oatmeal by Annie Douglass Lima

Once Upon a Bowl of Oatmeal (paperback cover)

My latest writing project is very different from anything else I’ve written. It’s a cookbook! But those who know how much I love fantasy might not be surprised that this cookbook ended up with a fantasy theme. Many of the recipes have names inspired by fairy tales or fantasy stories, and I love the hints of fantasy in the two covers designed by the awesome Savannah Jezowski


Why two different covers? The paperback version of the cookbook is an unusual shape, due to the unusual recipe format (more information about that below), so it couldn’t share a cover with the ebook.

Once Upon a Bowl of Oatmeal (ebook cover)

Some people might be surprised, though, that the whole book is focused on oatmeal. After all, isn’t oatmeal that boring goop that nobody really eats if there’s anything else available? 

NOT ANYMORE! In this book, you’ll find recipes for delectable dishes like creamy mango coconut spice oatmeal, cinnamon almond oatmeal, blueberry cream cheese oatmeal, and (my personal favorite:) caramel banana oatmeal with peanut butter. (Okay, so that one is a little closer to the dessert end of the spectrum than the porridge end!) 


Take a look at the book blurb below for more details:

Are you tired of high-sugar, low-health-value instant oatmeals in tiny serving packets full of artificial colors, flavors, and preservatives? Once Upon a Bowl of Oatmeal contains 70 hearty recipes packed with natural ingredients and brimful of vitamins, minerals, fiber, and antioxidants. All are gluten free, assuming you use gluten-free oats, and vegan (or they come with a vegan option). Most require no salt so are perfect for a low sodium diet. Almost all of these recipes can be prepared in ten minutes or less, saving you time in your busy morning.
 
Oh … and no more math! Whether you’re cooking just for yourself, for a family of six, or any number in between, every recipe comes in the form of a handy table that shows exactly how much of each ingredient you’ll need for however many servings you want.
 
Tasty enough for kids to crave, but wholesome enough to appeal to health-conscious parents, these mouth-watering recipes will give you plenty of energy for your day while pleasing your taste buds too. Download Once Upon a Bowl of Oatmeal now and say goodbye to artificial breakfasts that don’t fully satisfy.

Take a peek at a few of the fun recipe titles (with pictures courtesy of photographer Denise Johnson). Then scroll down for a free recipe!

And now for a free oatmeal recipe in the unique format I use in Once Upon a Bowl of Oatmeal:

 

Ready to grab your copy? Click here to download the ebook for your Kindle or to order the paperback cookbook. And if you enjoy the recipes, please consider leaving a review on Amazon, Goodreads, and/or Bookbub!

About the Author:

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Annie Douglass Lima considers herself fortunate to have traveled in twenty different countries and lived in four of them. A fifth-grade teacher in her “other” life, she loves reading to her students and sparking their imaginations. Her books include science fiction, fantasy, YA action and adventure novels, a puppet script, anthologies of her students’ poetry, Bible verse coloring and activity books, and now a cookbook. When she isn’t teaching, writing, or experimenting with new flavors of oatmeal, Annie can often be found sipping spiced chai or pomegranate green tea in exotic locations, some of which exist in this world.

Connect with Annie Douglass Lima Online:
Sign up for her mailing list so she can let you know when new books are available. When you sign up, she’ll send you a free copy of one of her fantasy books! http://bit.ly/LimaUpdates
 

 

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Where Your Treasure Lies by Joel Thimell

About the Book

RESCUED BY GOD: NOAH…ELIJAH…and LOT?

Everyone knows that Noah was the righteous man that God rescued from the Flood. And serious Bible students remember that God sent ravens to feed Elijah during a lengthy drought. But Lot? The guy who barely escaped the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah with his daughters? Why was he rescued by God? Was it just because his Uncle Abraham pleaded with God for him? Or is there more to the story?

“Where Your Treasure Lies” tells the dramatic story of the calling of Abraham and Sarah into the Promised Land through the eyes of Lot, one of the most misunderstood heroes of the Bible. Many Christians think of him as a villain or a fool, at best. But the Apostle Peter called him a “righteous man” who was “tormented in his righteous soul by the lawless deeds he saw and heard.”

As the eldest son of the eldest son of the Patriarch, Lot expected to lead his family someday. But God had other plans. When his father dies in the land of Ur, Lot loses everything to Abraham, whom God chose in his place. Despite this, Lot follows Abraham into the Promised Land trusting that God will provide, only to find that the Land of Canaan isn’t the Garden of Eden.

Will God’s chosen people bow to the mighty kings of Sumer, Canaan and Egypt? Will jealousy and bitterness destroy their family? Or will faith and love triumph?

If you enjoy humor and adventure, surprises and engaging characters, “Where Your Treasure Lies” is sure to delight adults and teens alike.

 

Book Excerpt

I didn’t have long to worry about Magda’s threats, because a message from Upper Egypt shattered our world the very next day. Pharaoh was on his way back to Avaris and should arrive within the week. We had drifted in a make-believe world of care-free living for so long that Pharaoh had become as illusory in our minds as the work we no longer did. But now he was sailing for home, and all the danger and devastation that portended loomed larger than ever.

Once Sarai was formally sealed as one of Pharaoh’s concubines, she would be locked away in his harem forever—never to be seen by Abram (or any other man) again. Sarai would be Pharaoh’s creature, existing solely for his pleasure, however and whenever he demanded it. Abram was devastated and I tossed out several harebrained schemes for immediate escape that were quickly vetoed. Sarai had little to say but was sinking deep into despair.
The day that Pharaoh’s fleet docked in the royal harbor was perhaps the most desperate of our lives. The priests of Ptah marched down to the wharf beating drums and crashing cymbals while their god rode silently upon his golden chair. Crowds thronged the riverside, waving banners and singing lusty songs of praise. The palace guard lined the gangplank and raised their swords in salute as Pharaoh waved triumphantly from his glittering throne on the royal barge. A great cheer arose as he disembarked ahead of his generals. The Grand Vizier welcomed him home with an entourage of high officials and members of the nobility—while we watched from a distance with forced smiles on our faces.

Each step he took foretold disaster and ruin. Each blast of the rams’ horns plunged us deeper into depression. Each clink of armor and tinkle of swords forged chains around our hands and feet. Each song of triumph crushed our hearts like a funeral dirge. And so we marched back to our gilded cage.
When we arrived at the palace the next morning, the mood of the court was greatly altered. Where informality had once reigned, rigor and attention to detail now ruled. Gone were the small groups freely mingling amid laughter and chaos. In their place stood rows of silent nobles clad in their finest apparel, shoulders back, heads stiffly facing forward. When Pharaoh entered the throne room, everyone bowed their faces to the floor, even his Queen.

It has been said that only the wicked need fear a monarch, so I guess we all felt guilty that day. Sarai trembled as she was presented to Pharaoh by the Grand Vizier. “Rumors of your beauty have not been exaggerated,” declared the king, but his clumsy gallantry failed to put her at ease. She bowed stiffly and averted her eyes.

Abram was introduced next and Pharaoh stared with obvious puzzlement. Abram was as dark as kohl, while Sarai was fair like honey. After what felt like an eternity, Pharaoh joked that Sarai must have gotten all the looks in the family, which roused quite a round of titters in the court. I nearly sprayed the Ambassador from Kush with whatever happened to be in my mouth. As it was I almost choked on my laughter.

Abram turned bright red and replied in a dull voice, “That’s what they tell me.” Now that brought the roof down.
When it was my turn to be introduced, I worried that either Sherptak or Magda would choose that moment to finger me as the unworthy suitor of his favorite cousin. Thankfully, neither of them betrayed my guilty secret. Nevertheless, I felt Pharaoh’s eyes burning right through me. Somehow, I have never enjoyed the attention of an absolute monarch who can order a person killed as easily as a kitchen maid might wring a chicken’s neck for supper—and with a lot less personal inconvenience.

 

 

About the Author

Passionate about writing, food and travel, Joel’s love of adventure led him to hitchhike from Kenya to South Africa, whitewater raft the Zambezi River, canoe the Okavango Delta, explore the Ngorongoro Crater, climb Mt. Kilimanjaro, and hike the Chimanimani Mountains. The thrill and terror of those first-hand experiences are brought to life in Lot’s own adventures.

Joel began his career as an erstwhile journalist and government bureaucrat and is now making amends to society as a starving author. He shares his non-existent garden in Tennessee with endless hordes of mosquitoes, mobs of psychotic squirrels, three silly rabbits, a ravenous herd of deer and an elusive mole named Darwin.

 

Buy the Book

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DISCLOSURE: SOME OF THE LINKS IN THE PAGE ABOVE MAY BE “AFFILIATE LINKS.” THIS MEANS IF YOU CLICK ON THE LINK AND PURCHASE THE ITEM, WE WILL RECEIVE AN AFFILIATE COMMISSION. WE ARE DISCLOSING THIS IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE FEDERAL TRADE COMMISSION’S 16 CFR, PART 255: “GUIDES CONCERNING THE USE OF ENDORSEMENTS AND TESTIMONIALS IN ADVERTISING.”

The Red Journal by Deb Elkink

About the Book

A child’s antique ring and a message from beyond the grave point to the treasure of a legacy lost.

Flirty globetrotter Sybil badgers her friend Libby to travel along in seeking out the world’s “sacred places”—a monastery in Japan, a mountaintop in Africa, a mosque in Istanbul. Her footloose wandering far from family values costs her more than money. But Libby can’t afford to travel, and she’s plagued by a different kind of restlessness. Grieving the recent death of the grandmother who raised her in their inner-city Minneapolis tenement now slated for demolition, Libby faces homelessness in both heart and habitation. When Libby discovers a cryptic message from beyond the grave and an antique ring pointing to a mystery in an inner room of a mansion museum in North Dakota, she sets out on a quest of her own for the meaning of heritage and home.

 

Book Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

Today

Libby N. Walker scrunches her eyes against the morning sunshine shattered through spring oak leaves. The splinters of light stab her retinas, so she tips her chin down into the shadows and runs her fingers over the deep ridges of the closest tree’s thick, corky bark. She can’t hear the wind whispering to her, although the limbs sway far above, because her friend Sybil insists on reading the posted placards aloud and providing running commentary.

“This stand of bur oak is more than two hundred years old. It says here it functioned as an above-ground graveyard for several Plains tribal leaders.” Sybil’s shock of beaded, teal-blue hair extensions bounces with her bobbing head, her eyes intense—she’s wearing her amethyst contacts today. “Burial trees, they called them. Apparently the Sioux sewed their dead into buffalo shrouds and tied them into the crook of a branch a man’s height up, out of the reach of predators.”

Libby shudders. But, after all, maybe it’s better than six feet under. “Let’s get going,” she says.

“Are you kidding? I didn’t come all the way from the Cities to bypass a cultural opportunity like this. You can almost feel the warrior spirits still walking here.” Sybil has already pontificated about the indigenous people’s rites of passage from this world to the next, their prayers to the Great Spirit, the sanctity of the entire process. “It reminds me of the Tibetan sky burial. Isn’t death fascinating?”

Libby shrugs one shoulder. Fascinating isn’t the word she’d use. The scent of death still lingers here—or maybe it’s wafting back to her from the more recent past. She glances at her phone. “Will we make it for the mansion museum tour?” Their destination must still be two hours away.

“What’s the rush? In a few minutes, the interpretive center is offering an acorn cake baking workshop. Right up your alley.”

In spite of her inner angst, Libby’s mouth waters. Frying breakfast over the open fire in front of the teepee does sound appealing. They hadn’t factored in the length of the impromptu detour before leaving the motel in Grand Forks, but surely they have time to eat.

“I’d love that.” Libby lets herself smile—can’t stop it, in fact, when Sybil grabs her hand and pulls her along. Might as well make the best of the situation.

Back inside Sybil’s Prius half an hour later, stomachs full as they hum southward on the I-29 once again, Libby rests her head against the passenger side window. She yawns, bone weary from her restless night or possibly from anxiety over all the death talk. But, in all honesty, Sybil’s ghoulish curiosity isn’t much stranger than her own unspoken mission. After all, she’s come to the hinterlands of North Dakota on this road trip to dig up her grandmother.

Not literally, of course. For six months now Gram’s been safely interred in a cemetery back in Minneapolis, just blocks from their shared apartment, although she’s been calling to Libby just the same. Running away for a couple of days to tour historical sites won’t deliver Libby from the restlessness in her soul that’s been bubbling up again of late, but how will she find peace in this life unless she follows Gram’s hints from beyond the grave? Maybe, if she does, she’ll sort out the fragments of her childhood somehow linked to the Laird Mansion Museum—shards that gouge her heart.

Libby swivels her head towards Sybil, who is tapping the steering wheel to her playlist, the rhythm discernible despite her earbuds. Their overnight foray to an adjacent state won’t placate Sybil for long. As far as Libby’s let on, she’s here only as a compromise to her friend’s never-ending demands for company on her pilgrimages to what she refers to as “sacred destinations” around the world—a monastery in Japan, a mountaintop in Africa, a mosque in Istanbul.

As if Libby has the funds for such exorbitant excursions! She puffs air through her nostrils. Of course she’d love to go along, but her priorities are different than Sybil’s. Even so, the timing for this weekend’s imposed expedition is perfect, what with the mess of Libby’s personal life right now. It gives her a break from the banker, the boss, the broken old woman—especially the specter of that broken old woman tormenting her for the past three weeks.

Libby fingers the antique gold band tethered by a long chain to her neck, slips the tip of her pointer into it, runs her thumb along its rough surface. It’s become a habit already. She can almost feel Gram’s soothing warmth resting in its crevices, and she tightens her fist around the ring. This is something real to hold on to, something to believe in.

She bunches her sweater up behind her neck, tilts the seat back, and relaxes. Maybe she can catch a nap. Indeed, she slides into a soft slumber, where she’s young again and it’s long ago—before she moved in with Gram, even—and she’s about to learn a secret she mustn’t tell. This isn’t a new impression. For nearly five decades she’s failed to reconstruct the details and has almost given up trying. But sometimes in the torpor of half-sleep, like now, Libby relives more of that particular memory through the mists of semi-consciousness.

In her reveries she’s five years old and waking up in a bed not her own, sure someone’s called her name. Moonlight lies in a ribbon down floral wallpaper and across matching bedding that blooms with forget-me-nots. In her far-away dreaming, as at the end of a tunnel, the young, long-ago Libby whispers for her mommy in the strange house but doesn’t hear the usual sounds of retching in the bathroom or drunken lurching against furniture.

Libby watches herself in the dreamscape climb down from the stately bed, floorboards squeaky as a trapped mouse in the corner of their shabby kitchen back home, and still Mommy doesn’t come. But from deep below surges the familiar, fierce rhythm of her voice. Creeping down the darkened hallway of the enormous house, the phantom Libby reaches her hand high to slide it along the polished wooden railing as she descends the stairs to the main floor. The carpeted steps tickle—one, two, three, four, five—all the way to the bottom. She pads down a hallway and stops by a water fountain set into the wall at just the right height to sip and dribble.

What is that glow? It shimmers around the edges of a floor-length curtain hanging wall to wall inside a larger room. Curious, the little-girl Libby edges closer. She hears breathing behind the curtain—shallow, slow snuffles like the neighbor’s dog makes when it snoozes before it jumps up, fangs bared, snarling and snapping. Her tummy somersaults. She grips the heavy fabric—she can feel its twisted texture still, in her waking-dream so many years later—and begins tugging to unveil the source of that muted light.

And then her mother’s strident shrieking pierces the night.

Libby’s memory slams shut as full consciousness jolts her back to the here-and-now car ride, the flat grassland rushing by the window and Sybil still immersed in her music. Libby is clutching her shirt, the cotton sticking to her damp palms. Had she conjured up the childhood scenario after all?

But there’s something too substantial and perturbing about it to blame mere imagination. It has to be real.

 

About the Author

Deb Elkink writes from her cottage on the banks of a lovely creek in the rolling hills of southern Alberta, a stone’s throw from the Montana border. Her award-winning fiction—literary with a theological twist—incorporates travel and tastebuds and the tumults of the heart. She won the “book-of-the-year” Grace Irwin Prize for her debut novel (THE THIRD GRACE) but hopes her latest story, THE RED JOURNAL, will win the greater prize–your heart.

 

Buy the Book

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Amazon.com

 

 

 

 


DISCLOSURE: SOME OF THE LINKS IN THE PAGE ABOVE MAY BE “AFFILIATE LINKS.” THIS MEANS IF YOU CLICK ON THE LINK AND PURCHASE THE ITEM, WE WILL RECEIVE AN AFFILIATE COMMISSION. WE ARE DISCLOSING THIS IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE FEDERAL TRADE COMMISSION’S 16 CFR, PART 255: “GUIDES CONCERNING THE USE OF ENDORSEMENTS AND TESTIMONIALS IN ADVERTISING.”

The Gift of Tears by Keith Nano

About the Book

Jacob is a healthy fourteen-year-old from Massachusetts, an athlete who lives and breathes for baseball, football & hockey, when he is stricken by an awful and mysterious illness. What begins as a typical childhood malady swiftly proves to be anything but routine. Jacob’s folks, Keith and Alethea, the busy parents of four other children, find themselves thrust headlong into the trial of their lives. Their entire world is suddenly torn asunder.

From his doctor’s office, Jacob is rushed by ambulance to an Intensive Care Unit. What began as an average-every-day cold has graduated to pneumonia. But this is no ordinary pneumonia. Three days later Jacob is on life support. Within a week, his death is all but imminent. Nothing can be done. Doctors struggle feverishly to solve the mysteries Jacob’s body hurls at them, while Keith and Alethea, shell-shocked by the suddenness of it all, lean on their faith and on the army of supporters who have come to their aid – to pray with them, to cry with them and to hope with them.

Jacob’s father, a faithful man, a Gulf War veteran and a career prison officer, has been hardened over the years and has lost some of his faith in the goodness of humanity. The outpouring of unfettered love and kindness that he experiences from his family, his friends and from strangers during Jacob’s ordeal, however, lifts him, nourishes him and opens his heart. Through social media, Jacob’s plight touches the hearts and draws the hopes and the prayers of thousands. The army becomes legions. It almost seems as if there is purpose in what’s happening. Somehow Jacob’s illness seems to serve as a vessel for love and for goodness in the hearts of people.

Weeks pass as the whirring machines stream life into Jacob’s ravaged body, which has been whittled to the bone by the sinister disease that attacked him. Jacob’s lungs are obliterated by the savage pneumonia, the likes of which the medical staff at the renowned Boston Children’s Hospital have rarely seen. All appears lost as his parents cling to the promise of their faith. Keith does what no parent should ever have to do as he writes his son’s eulogy in preparation for, and in acceptance of, the inevitable.

The love of Jacob’s Army, though, stretches across the nation until it finds a deeply spiritual man half a nation away who contacts Keith to share a powerful experience which overcomes him when he prays for this groaning family, and this dying boy, who he had never met or known. Then…things change.

Take the incredible and heart wrenching journey with Jacob and his family through the pages of The Gift of Tears. Feel the love and the goodness in the human heart. Ponder the mystery of faith. Join the brotherhood of community and the fellowship of hearts. Experience the embrace of healing. Hold their hands. Love with them. Laugh with them. Cry with them.

Believe in hope. Believe in healing. Believe in miracles.

Believe.

 

Book Excerpt

 

I remember nothing of the drive to Boston. I don’t remember leaving Worcester. I don’t remember arriving at the hospital. I wasn’t very familiar with driving in Boston and I had never been to Children’s Hospital for any reason. I don’t know how I found it, or where I parked. I don’t remember leaving my car and walking inside. I can only surmise that I followed signs to where I thought I needed to be. I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t know who to see. No one was expecting me. All I knew was that my son was being transported there. In my emotional delirium, I’d taken off from Worcester in such a hurry that I failed to ask any informative or pertinent questions about what to do when I got there.

So, there I was. I walked around looking for signs that might give me some indication of where I needed to go within the facility. It was eerily quiet, not filled with the teeming activity I expected to encounter in a major Boston hospital. Wherever it was that I ended up in the hospital, for whatever reason, there weren’t very many people around.

A lovely lady, clearly a nurse, noticed my lost and shaken demeanor and asked if she could help me. No words would come out. I tried to speak, but I could only cry. Despite all that I cannot recall about that day, I will never forget the shattering feeling of having so much to say but being physically unable to utter a single word. Thoughts and questions tumbled through my mind. I wondered if they were already there. I wondered if he died during transport. I’d lost all sense of time and location.

Heavy, pooling tears blurred my vision and rolled off my cheeks. It was almost as if I could hear them crash to the ground. As hard as I tried, no words would form. Time stood still. The nurse held my shoulders as if to keep me from toppling over. I’m sure that any nurse at Boston Children’s Hospital is accustomed to communicating with parents who are holding on to the edge of the Earth by their fingernails, and I’m sure that’s exactly what I looked like.

With extraordinary effort, and with the help of the nurse’s calming touch and voice, I managed to finally say “My boy.” For a few moments, it was all I could say. After I eventually gathered myself and was capable of something that resembled coherent conversation, I muttered that my son should be there, somewhere. It was lost on me that I had blindly sped there, and that Jacob probably hadn’t even left Worcester yet. The nurse took me around a few corners and guided me to an area of chairs within eyesight of what was evidently her work station and she offered me a seat. She brought me a ginger ale, took my information and then returned to her desk, apparently to make some telephone calls. I fell fast asleep. As soon as I closed my eyes, it seemed, she gently woke me, looked at me soberly, placed her arm around me and escorted me to the ICU.

Armed with the information she was apparently able to glean from whatever telephone calls she’d made, she told me that my son hadn’t arrived yet, but that he’d be there shortly and would be admitted to the Medical/Surgical Intensive Care Unit. As it turned out, the transfer procedure was so intricate that it took nearly six hours for Jacob to be prepared, packaged, loaded and transported from Worcester to Boston, a distance of only forty miles. I would later calculate that I’d been asleep in the chair for more than three hours. I never moved a muscle.

When I arrived at the intensive care unit, I was told to wait in what would be my son’s room when he arrived. I stood there in awkward and uncomfortable anticipation of what was to come. I imagine I looked like a seventh-grade boy at his first school dance, standing in a corner trying to figure out what to do with his hands. Then I heard an announcement over the speaker system in the unit. Each time a new patient arrived, an ICU team number was announced and designated, and that team was informed they had an arriving patient, as well as which room the patient would be going to. The number of the room I was standing in was broadcast over the speakers. My heart pounded. Jacob had arrived.

As he came down the hall with his transport team, I hollered out, “Is he alive? Is he alive?” as I rushed toward him. A nurse politely restrained me and pushed me out of the way and told me he was alive. His newly assigned medical team sprang into action. They emerged from all directions and from out of every doorway. There seemed to be a dozen of them. Everyone went to work, and it was truly a marvel to watch. It was something I would love to be able to observe under other circumstances.

My being impressed with the efficiency and precision of the team was complicated by the fact that it happened to be my son’s life which was at stake. The team operated as a well-oiled machine. The amount of activity was mesmerizing. People and equipment were flying all over the place. It seemed like there were fifty conversations going on simultaneously, yet everyone was in perfect synch.

A normally calm and collected type, I was reduced to wringing my hands. As we had become accustomed to, Alethea and I stood helpless with our son’s life in the hands of others. I had a million questions to ask, but no one to ask them to, as everyone was engaged in the flurry of activity. There are times when one interrupts and asks questions and there are times one knows enough to sit still and shut up. I don’t know if it was more my state of shock, or my recognition of that, but I remained quiet and still.

My state must have been obvious. I recall Alethea looking as if she was dazed or concussed, and I imagine I looked like I was going to explode. The team leader turned from the frenzied commotion surrounding Jacob, took my elbow and sat me down. He could see I was barely holding on. He put his hand on my knee, looked me in the eye and confidently told me, “You can only get nervous when I get nervous. And I don’t get nervous.” That was all. He slapped my knee and leapt back into action.

In “man language” what the doctor was saying to me was, “Brother, I know you’re hanging on by a thread right now, and I know you’re hurting. I know you’re so worried about your son that you want to explode. But this is what we do, and we do it well. I’m gonna do everything in my power to take care of your son. So, try to rest easy knowing we’re working on your kid and we will stop at nothing. If you see me get nervous, then maybe you can get a little nervous yourself, but don’t count on it, because we can handle anything your boy throws at us. Everything’s gonna be alright.”

Of course, he didn’t need to say all those words, but that’s what I heard. Sometimes men can communicate eloquently using precious few words. It was exactly what I needed to hear. It got me through the next hour. From that point on, that’s exactly how Alethea and I would live – one hour at a time.

 

 

About the Author

Keith is a lifelong resident of Massachusetts. He was born and raised in the town of Lunenburg and has resided in the city of Gardner since 2003. After graduating from Lunenburg High School in 1987, Keith enlisted in the United States Air Force where he served as a K-9 Handler in the Republic of the Philippines and then Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, during which time he was also deployed to the Gulf War in 1990 and 1991.

Following his military service, Keith graduated from the Massachusetts Department of Corrections Training Academy and began a career as a Corrections Officer in 1992. He has risen through the ranks of the agency and currently serves as the Deputy Superintendent of Operations at the North Central Correctional Facility in his hometown.

Keith married his wife, Alethea, in 1999 and they have five children, Dominic, Jacob, Nicholas, Isabella, and Samuel. Keith’s eldest son Dominic blessed him with a granddaughter in 2016. Nora is a miracle baby in her own right who is thriving after being born with less than a ten percent chance of survival and enduring numerous major surgeries, but that will have to wait for the next book!

 

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DISCLOSURE: SOME OF THE LINKS IN THE PAGE ABOVE MAY BE “AFFILIATE LINKS.” THIS MEANS IF YOU CLICK ON THE LINK AND PURCHASE THE ITEM, WE WILL RECEIVE AN AFFILIATE COMMISSION. WE ARE DISCLOSING THIS IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE FEDERAL TRADE COMMISSION’S 16 CFR, PART 255: “GUIDES CONCERNING THE USE OF ENDORSEMENTS AND TESTIMONIALS IN ADVERTISING.”

A Soul is A Soul by Duodu Henry Appiahkorang

About the Book

The core mandate of every Christian is to be a Saviour of men. Why did God send Jesus Christ as a sin offering to the world? God knows humankind cannot save himself, so sent His Son to save us from sin. Before Jesus Christ ascended to His Heavenly Father, He commanded us to preach the good news to the entire world because the world needs the light. God cannot use angels to save men. He uses humankind to set His creation free. Find out in this book why we must win the lost, how to work out your salvation and the tactics of soul winning.

 

Book Excerpt

1.Why we must win souls for Jesus Christ.

2. The tactics of soul winning.

3. Embarking on the great commission.

 

About the Author

Duodu Henry Appiahkorang is a young charismatic Christian leader who loves to work for God and to serve the church with all his heart. He loves reading Christian books and documentary videos. He has completed various Bible schools in Ghana, He has served in the leadership of various churches. He completed University of Professional Studies, Accra in the year 2017. He loves the Word of God with great passion. He is an anointed leader who operates in the gift of the Prophet. He is a teacher of the Word.

 

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DISCLOSURE: SOME OF THE LINKS IN THE PAGE ABOVE MAY BE “AFFILIATE LINKS.” THIS MEANS IF YOU CLICK ON THE LINK AND PURCHASE THE ITEM, WE WILL RECEIVE AN AFFILIATE COMMISSION. WE ARE DISCLOSING THIS IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE FEDERAL TRADE COMMISSION’S 16 CFR, PART 255: “GUIDES CONCERNING THE USE OF ENDORSEMENTS AND TESTIMONIALS IN ADVERTISING.”

Hidden Secrets by Janet Sketchley

 

About the Book

The secrets of Captain Hiltz may not have died with him.

When Landon Smith returns to the Green Dory Inn, she finds innkeeper Anna Young still shaken by the recent vandalism and unable to cope when the inn is targeted in an online vendetta. Prickly neighbour Bobby Hawke can help with Anna’s cyber woes, but when the attacks escalate to physical threats, Landon and Bobby must work together to unmask the culprit.

A cryptic message about a tunnel points to the property’s original owner, a notorious Prohibition-era sea captain rumoured to have left hidden wealth. Contraband, treasure, evidence of things better left buried…

How far will Anna’s enemy go to claim the tunnel and its contents? Protecting Anna will require courage and faith as Landon battles the locals’ attitudes and the scars of her past. Even then, she and Bobby are tracing the faintest of clues. With Anna on the brink of emotional collapse—and danger rising like the tide—time is running out.

Hidden Secrets is book 2 in the Green Dory Inn Mystery Series, set in East Coast Canada. Preorder discount for the ebook is $2.99 until August 8, 2019. The ebook version of book 1, Unknown Enemy, is discounted to 99 cents until then.

 

Book Excerpt

WHEN LANDON EXITED security at Halifax’s Stanfield Airport on Friday, Anna’s broad smile was a beacon among the waiting strangers. Swallowing unexpected emotion, she raced into Anna’s arms.

Home. Acceptance. The warm stability that Anna wore like a fragrance. Yet Landon’s initial, misty-eyed read of her friend’s face caught strain lines that should have faded since June. And a pallor only partly due to the wide white headband holding back her brown, chin-length bob. Amid the chatter of reunions and weary travellers, Landon squeezed her tighter and held the hug longer than usual as if she could love Anna back to health.

Anna had been her mother’s friend first. The two were around the same age, now their mid-fifties. But her mom couldn’t handle what happened to Landon—or her dad’s death because of it—and Landon lost both her parents. When she needed them most.

Thank God for Anna, stepping in and showing all the love she could, including the love of Jesus. Anna’s faith and prayers fostered Landon’s ability to stand whole today. Scarred, but whole.

And now able to return to the town she’d been taken from, if not to feel at home, at least to find her way as an adult and lay her childhood memories to rest.

About the Author

Janet Sketchley is an Atlantic Canadian writer who likes her fiction with a splash of mystery or adventure and a dash of Christianity. Why leave faith out of our stories if it’s part of our lives? You can find Janet online at janetsketchley.ca.

If you enjoy Christian suspense, you’re invited to sign up for her author newsletter.

 

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DISCLOSURE: SOME OF THE LINKS IN THE PAGE ABOVE MAY BE “AFFILIATE LINKS.” THIS MEANS IF YOU CLICK ON THE LINK AND PURCHASE THE ITEM, WE WILL RECEIVE AN AFFILIATE COMMISSION. WE ARE DISCLOSING THIS IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE FEDERAL TRADE COMMISSION’S 16 CFR, PART 255: “GUIDES CONCERNING THE USE OF ENDORSEMENTS AND TESTIMONIALS IN ADVERTISING.”

The 7/8 Year Degree ” A Story of Triumph” by Raquan Roberts

 

About the Book

This gripping autobiography details Roberts’ battle through tremendous loss and homelessness to winning a scholarship and walking across the stage with his degree in hand.

 

Book Excerpt

For the most part, Hakeem Roberts was content with his life and had no real complaints. Sure, he had experienced his share of letdowns, disappointments and setbacks but he had been warned early on that he would have rough days. Yes there had been losses, some serious battles however, he had also had his share of victories. For the most part Hakeem had been producing music for almost ten years and have had the pleasure of working with some awesome artists. It was something that he thoroughly enjoyed, plus he was good at it but what he was looking at however floored him.

When he sat down at his computer that morning to check his email, never in a million years would he have imagined getting an email from K.R.G.L. Radio. He had to admit that what he was looking at however was leaving him speechless. He had been told all his life that his gift would make room for him and his grams, Gwendolyn Jones made sure that he knew that, but this …? He took a minute and looked up the radio station and found out that they were located in Houston Texas. Because music was his career of choice he was familiar with most of the radio stations but this was one he had never heard of.

 

About the Author

When you know that you are purposed to do something great, you have a choice and a decision to make. Do you keep fighting or do you quit and give up?

This is the story of an individual who did not quit but who chose instead to let his roughest years be his biggest testimony.

Raquan knew that he was different and that he had a gift, but he did not know that the journey that he would be on would help to fulfill that purpose.

In this inspirational story Raquan shares the many trials and setbacks that he experienced in trying to get his degree. He shares his heart about losing his grandmother Gwendolyn Jones and how it affected him mentally and emotionally and about his faith in God.

Through it all his determination, his passion and his grit he was able to overcome it all.

He is … Raquan Hakeem Roberts

(Author / Poet/ Music Producer / Son / Uncle /Brother)

He is … someone who has a story, to tell.

 

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DISCLOSURE: SOME OF THE LINKS IN THE PAGE ABOVE MAY BE “AFFILIATE LINKS.” THIS MEANS IF YOU CLICK ON THE LINK AND PURCHASE THE ITEM, WE WILL RECEIVE AN AFFILIATE COMMISSION. WE ARE DISCLOSING THIS IN ACCORDANCE WITH THE FEDERAL TRADE COMMISSION’S 16 CFR, PART 255: “GUIDES CONCERNING THE USE OF ENDORSEMENTS AND TESTIMONIALS IN ADVERTISING.”