The crunch of newly fallen snow, the weight of wartime
Three siblings forging new paths and finding love in three stories, filled with the wonder of Christmas
Turn
back the clock to a different time, listen to Bing Crosby sing of
sleigh bells in the snow, as the realities of America’s involvement in
the Second World War change the lives of the Turner family in Lafayette,
Indiana.
In White Christmas by Cara Putman, Abigail
Turner is holding down the Home Front as a college student and a
part-time employee at a one-of-a-kind candy shop. Loss of a beau to the
war has Abigail skittish about romantic entanglements—until a
hard-working young man with a serious problem needs her help.
Abigail’s brother Pete is a fighter pilot hero returned from the European Theatre in Sarah Sundin’s I’ll Be Home for Christmas,
trying to recapture the hope and peace his time at war has eroded. But
when he encounters a precocious little girl in need of Pete’s
friendship, can he convince her widowed mother that he’s no longer the
bully she once knew?
In Tricia Goyer’s Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas, Meredith
Turner, “Merry” to those who know her best, is using her skills as a
combat nurse on the frontline in the Netherlands. Halfway around the
world from home, Merry never expects to face her deepest betrayal head
on, but that’s precisely what God has in mind to redeem her broken
heart.
The Turner family believes in God’s providence during such
a tumultuous time. Can they absorb the miracle of Christ’s birth and
God’s plan for a future?
Amazon
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
White Christmas by Cara PutmanExcerpted from
Where Treetops Glisten by Tricia Goyer, Cara Putman, and Sarah Sundin
Thursday, October 29, 1942Lafayette, Indiana Tackle your greatest fear?Professor
Plante had smiled as he issued his challenge, as if the assignment was
easy to achieve. Even a privilege. Yet five minutes after class ended,
Abigail Turner remained frozen at her desk. A school project worth
twenty-five percent of her grade tied to her greatest fear? And one that
had to be developed and completed before the holidays? The professor
called it a simple way to overcome the past by focusing on the future. A
way to explore the principles they’d discussed and apply them to their
own lives before trying the ideas on future clients. Didn’t he see how
tied the two were? How there was nothing simple about confronting dark
moments in the past that were best avoided?
Abigail pushed
back from the desk and joined the last students streaming through the
door to the hall. She didn’t notice anyone else who had broken into a
cold sweat at the professor’s instructions. In fact, most joked and
bantered like another week of school was almost over, leading to another
weekend of studying, Purdue football, and any odd jobs they worked.
Maybe her fellow students didn’t carry the fears and weight of the past
as tightly as she did.
She tried to shake it off as she’d
done over the years. She still had weeks to create the right experience
for the project—at least until the end of the semester. Professor Plante
had even made it sound like the students could have longer if they
didn’t mind an incomplete on their transcript.
As Abigail
entered the hallway of Purdue’s University Hall, she froze. The October
wind gusted through the door and toyed with her hat, but that didn’t
account for her inability to move. No, she could only blame that on the
reality that if she was truly to do this assignment, she had to find a
way to open her heart to someone else. How could she make Professor
Plante or anyone else understand that she couldn’t do that? Not when it
risked someone else leaving her.
“I have to get to work.”
She whispered the words as she tightened her grip on her bag, which was
loaded down with textbooks, then forced her legs to move.
What
would her life be like if Sam Troy, her high school love, hadn’t
enlisted and then died that terrible day the Japanese attacked Pearl
Harbor? With his death, her carefully constructed dreams for the future
crashed into an abyss, one she couldn’t seem to climb from.
She
glanced at her watch and frowned. If she dawdled any more, she’d miss
the bus that would carry her down the hill, across the Wabash River, and
to downtown Lafayette in time for her shift at Glatz Candies. With the
weekend approaching, she looked forward to a couple of days to
concentrate on the confections that made the restaurant and candy shop
known around town. Soon she’d learn the secret to making the popular
candy canes. Maybe she could coax the owner into teaching her the tricks
to the twisted sweet that night.
“Slow down, Abigail.”
Abigail grinned as her classmate Laurie Bertsche hurried up, her polo coat buttoned to her throat.
Abigail nudged her friend in the shoulder. “It’s not cold enough for that coat yet.”
“I’m from Florida. We don’t do cold.”
“Then why pick Purdue?”
“It
picked me, since it was as far away from home as I could afford.”
Laurie shuddered and gripped the coat around her throat. “What do you
think of that assignment?” She rushed on before Abigail could interrupt.
“It should be fun to think of something. There are so many people who
need help.” Laurie paused, frowned for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m not
sure what I’ll do yet. Do you have ideas?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re
so intense; I know you’ll come up with something brilliant.” Merriment
danced in Laurie’s green eyes. “I need a favor tomorrow night. One of
the guys I know from town asked me to a movie and dance. I said yes, but
the problem is he has a buddy. Say you’ll join us.”
“You know my stance on boys.”
Laurie
singsonged as they waltzed through the doors. “No dating until this war
business is over.” She paused and a serious glint entered her
expression. “This isn’t a boy like you’d see here. He’s not a student,
but a man supporting his family.”
“I can’t, Laurie. If he’s not
in the military yet, he will be any day. Life is too uncertain to risk
even friendship.” Abigail had certainly learned that lesson between Sam,
her brother Alfie, and her sister Annie. Professor Plante wanted her to
confront her fears by acting in opposition to those very fears that
life had branded into her. How could she do something and then write an
essay explaining how the action had changed her? What if she did
something and found she was still afraid of losing someone she loved?
Should she help the military boys in some way? Or should she focus on
children? Would either satisfy her professor?
“You mean you
won’t. I
intend to have a great time with Joey, but I wish you’d come. Joey’s
friend seems nice, and you don’t need to worry that it will be for more
than one night. Now if something develops with Joey, that’s just icing
for me.”
“Try ice on the Wabash,” Abigail mumbled. “The
kind you fall through.” The kind that broke your heart into shattered
pieces, like the fragile ice coating the wide river, and left you frozen
inside when you fell into the cold current.
Laurie shook
her head. “Too early for that kind of ice. I’ll have enough fun for the
two of us. Call if you change your mind. If not, I’ll see you in class
Monday.”
The rumble of the bus on State Street warned Abigail she’d better hurry.
Don’t leave! I can’t be late for work.She
waved frantically as the driver shifted the bus into gear. She rushed
into State Street, waving. Brakes screeched and someone tugged her back
to the curb right before a car whizzed by, horn blaring. Her heart
stuttered in her chest. She’d come too close to landing under the wheels
of that car.
“You all right, miss?”
“Thanks to you.” She turned to her rescuer, and his gaze captured her, a mix of sadness and concern swirling in his eyes.
“You coming? Or standing out there all day?”
Heat
flooded Abigail’s cheeks at the bus driver’s barked words. After
checking for traffic, she hurried across the street, then tripped up the
stairs, thrust a token into the box, and stepped down the aisle, barely
noticing the young man who had rescued her following with a slight
limp. The grinding gears and the bus’s accompanying lurch pushed her
down the aisle, and she
collapsed onto an empty seat. The young man took the one opposite her.
She
glanced at him under her lashes, noting the broad shoulders that
indicated a life of work. There was something about him, as if his dog
had just died, that made her want to reach out.
He slouched
in his seat, hands clasped in his lap, shoulders slumped forward. A hat
was crammed on top of dark hair that curled at the nape of his neck,
longer than the regulation cuts worn by enlisted men. There was
something familiar about him, yet she was certain they’d never been
introduced. Abigail shrugged off the feeling. Even in the United States’
heightened war machine during 1942, Purdue’s campus flowed with men.
The difference was many wore a uniform. This one didn’t. Why? Could it
be whatever had caused his limp?
His glance rose, colliding
with hers. Caught. He’d discovered her staring. Still she couldn’t look
away, not when such uncertainty resided in the pools of his hazel eyes.
Something inside her froze, caught between wanting to help and
distancing herself from the pain she saw reflected in the depths of his
gaze.
Maybe the pain was what she recognized.
She swallowed around a sudden tightness in her throat. “Thank you for what you did out there.”
“You’re welcome.” His deep voice made it sound like it was nothing. He simply took heroic actions every day.
“I’m Abigail. Abigail Turner.”
“Jackson Lucas.” He looked back down at his hands.
Abigail
felt the chill of the disconnection. She yanked a psychology text from
the bag at her feet and opened it to the next chapter. The short ride
would be better used preparing for Monday’s class than wondering about
the man seated across the aisle from her.
Her vow to avoid
romantic relationships, no matter how casual, had not been some
fly-by-night decision. She had carefully considered her course after
Sam’s death.
***
I’ll Be Home for Christmas by Sarah SundinExcerpted from
Where Treetops Glisten by Tricia Goyer, Cara Putman, and Sarah Sundin
Friday, December 3, 1943Lafayette, IndianaGrace
Kessler poked harder at the typewriter keys, trying to drown out the
song. Her fingers betrayed her and tapped to the rhythm. Why did Ruby
Schmidt insist on singing in the secretarial pool? Why did she have to
choose Christmas songs? And couldn’t she at least pick a song with a
faster beat?
Grace deciphered her shorthand notes on the
spiral-bound tablet to her right and finished a business letter from Mr.
Dubois in Alcoa’s procurement department to Mr. Parkhurst with the War
Production Board. She zipped the letter out of the typewriter, removed
the carbon paper, and laid the original in her outgoing basket and the
copy in the file basket.
Alcoa was America’s top producer
of aluminum, crucial for the production of airplanes and other defense
materials. A secretary’s work might not be as glamorous as a nurse or a
WAVE or a Rosie the Riveter, but it allowed Grace to support both her
daughter and the war effort.
Grace’s gaze slid to the
silver picture frame on her desk, which held the last photo taken of
George and Linnie together, over two years earlier. Linnie had just
turned four. She sat on George’s lap, and father and daughter grinned at
each other with total adoration. No little girl could have loved her
daddy more.
Pain rose in Grace’s heart, and she ripped her
attention back to the typewriter. The faster she typed, the faster
Alcoa could produce aluminum, the faster planes could come off the
assembly line, and the sooner this war would be over and no more men
would be shot down by Japanese bullets over Filipino jungles.
They never even found George’s body.
“I’ ll be home for Christmas . . .” Ruby’s song drifted closer.
Grace winced. No, he wouldn’t.
Something scratched the top of Grace’s head, and Ruby giggled.
“Ouch.” Grace extracted a little leafy branch from her hairdo—and a couple strands of her own dark brown hair.
“Mistletoe, sweetie.” Ruby puckered lips as red as holly berries. “You need some Christmas spirit.”
Grace replaced a bobby pin and forced herself to smile and wink at Ruby. “I need to get back to work, and so do you.”
Ruby fluffed her platinum hair. “You need a date in the worst possible way. Bobby knows the nicest young man—”
“No.” Grace pinned her strongest look on the girl. “No blind dates. Besides, who in this town would agree to baby-sit Linnie?”
“She’s a handful, isn’t she?”
“Yes,
she is.” Grace rolled new paper into her typewriter, flipped the
release lever, and aligned the sheet. “You’d best get back to work
before Norton sees you.”
Sure enough, the door to the
supervisor’s office swung open. Grace swept the mistletoe into her lap
and handed a blank piece of paper to Ruby. “Thank you for taking care of
this, Miss Schmidt.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Kessler.” Ruby skedaddled back to her desk.
“Mrs. Kessler.” Mrs. Norton glared at Grace. “Phone call. Your baby-sitter.”
Sympathetic murmurs rose from the other secretaries, but Grace’s lips and fingertips went numb. Not again.
Somehow
she stood. She hid the mistletoe in the hip pocket of her bottle-green
suit jacket and walked on wobbly ankles down the aisle between all the
clattering typewriters.
“Thank you, Mrs. Norton.” She edged past her matronly supervisor and through the doorway to the office.
Mrs.
Norton crossed her plump arms. “You’re the only one, Mrs. Kessler. The
only one who takes so many personal calls. You need to get a handle on
that child of yours.”
“Yes ma’am.” Grace turned her back on her supervisor to hide her anguish, and she picked up the receiver. “Mrs. Harrison?”
“I’ve
had it. I’ve had it up to here.” The baby-sitter’s voice climbed and
shivered. “When she’s here . . . oh, my nerves! And when she goes
wandering, well, just how much can a woman take?”
Grace clenched the cold black receiver. “Is Linnie there?”
“Of course not. She’s trying to kill me, I’m sure of it.”
Inside
Grace, frustration with Mrs. Harrison wrestled with worry for Linnie.
The clock read 4:05. Linnie should have arrived half an hour earlier.
Teaching her daughter how to ride the bus had been necessary when Linnie
started school in September, but it only encouraged her wandering. Her
searching.
Mrs. Harrison jabbered about her nerves, and guilt
filled Grace. What kind of mother allowed her six-year-old daughter to
roam the city alone?
“Excuse me, Mrs. Harrison. I need to call the police.” Again.
“This is it. This is the last time. I simply cannot take it any longer. I quit.”
Outside
the tiny office window, Alcoa’s red brick smokestack jutted into the
gray sky. Grace laid down the receiver, missed, and finally settled it
in place.
Mrs. Norton sniffed. “Don’t even think about asking to get off early.”
“I know, ma’am.” Grace’s voice came out choked. “May I make another call, please?”
“I ought to charge you.”
Grace
dialed 4045 for the Lafayette Police Department, a number she knew by
heart. While the phone rang, she rubbed the aching knot at the base of
her skull.
Lord, please keep my baby safe.So many horrible things could happen to her little girl. And her job. She’d worn out every available baby-sitter.
How could she stay employed without a baby-sitter? And without a job, how could she pay the bills?
Worst of all, Grace’s love wasn’t enough for her daughter.
That knowledge hollowed into her soul.
_________
Lieutenant
Pete Turner trudged down Sixth Street, hands deep in the pockets of his
olive drab trousers, his pilot’s crush cap shoved low on his forehead.
He
passed Glatz Candies on the far side of the street, angling his head
away from the cheery red-and-white awning. A year ago, he would have
bugged his little sister Abigail behind the counter and savored an ice
cream soda.
Not now. Nothing sounded good. Not ice cream, not teasing, not even family.
A two-hundred-hour combat tour flying a P-47 Thunderbolt fighter plane over Nazi-occupied
Europe had drained him of all grief, all anger, and all joy. So many deaths. So many good young men gone down in flames.
The marquee of the Lafayette Theater advertised
For Whom the Bell Tolls. Pete had read Hemingway’s book. He’d memorized John Donne’s poem at
Jefferson High.
“Never send to know for whom the bell tolls,” Pete muttered, “it tolls for thee.”
Today
even Pastor Hughes hadn’t helped. All Pete wanted was a few words of
wisdom and comfort to make him feel again. Feel anything.
The
pastor had gotten him through his big brother Alfred’s death back in
’27, when Pete was fifteen. Pete owed Pastor Hughes for his salvation,
for his very life.
But today? Pastor Hughes had leaned back in
his leather chair, holding his reading glasses and rubbing them with a
handkerchief while Pete talked. Didn’t he understand how hard it was for
Pete to spill his guts? And the pastor just rubbed his glasses.
When Pete was done talking, Pastor Hughes leaned forward and said, “Give.”
Give?
“When
you’re empty inside,” Pastor Hughes said, “the best thing you can do is
give. Find a need, step outside of yourself, and give.”
Pete
turned right onto Columbia Street. Maybe the pastor was going senile.
Pete was an empty pitcher. How could he pour anything out from nothing?
He’d
have to find his own way to fill up again. And soon. On January 1, he
had to report for transition training with the Air Transport Command
Ferrying Division. He had to fly again.
Maybe that was why he
was roaming downtown. To fill up on all the sights he’d grown up with.
The memories of a lifetime called out from each brick.
He
squinted at the buildings, at the trees in their square holes in the
sidewalk, at the overcast sky. He trained his senses to the chill in the
air, the sounds of traffic—light as it was—and the conversations of
passersby. But he didn’t feel anything.
Ahead of him rose the
high pointy dome of the Tippecanoe County Courthouse in all its
Victorian glory. Pete and his best friend, Scooter, had loved running
around the grounds, playing cops and robbers. How many times had they
decorated the statue of the Marquis de Lafayette or added soap to the
fountain at his feet? How many times had they been caught?
The thought should have summoned up either guilt or a smile. Nope. Nothing.
He
headed down the left side of the street, across from the courthouse. A
few blocks more and he’d reach the Wabash River. Maybe the sound of
running water would awaken something.
The door of Loeb’s
department store opened, and Pete held the door for two ladies burdened
with packages. When they thanked him, he said, “You’re welcome” but
couldn’t smile. How could he with that infernal song billowing through
the open door?
***
Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by Tricia GoyerExcerpted from
Where Treetops Glisten by Tricia Goyer, Cara Putman, and Sarah Sundin
Thursday, December 21, 1944Nieuwenhagen, the NetherlandsGray.
The color of the sky outside the makeshift hospital. Gray. The bare
tree limbs that reached into the horizon, as if offering naked prayers
for the Dutch countryside and its war-torn people.
Gray. The
ashen faces of the soldiers as the stretcher bearers carried them in on
litters. American soldiers, mostly, but Germans too, like the man who
lay on the cot before her.
Meredith Turner tried to be gentle
as she bandaged the shoulder of the unconscious German before he awoke
confused and in pain. The bleeding from his ears meant he had a
concussion—a serious one—but there wasn’t much they could do for that
except keep him still.
She worked quickly. Her fingers did
their job with skill and speed so that she could get back to the cleanup
work in the operating room.
Not ten minutes ago, Dr. Anderson
had shaken his head, telling her their patient hadn’t made it. They’d
tried their best to save the young American soldier, but his injuries
had been too extensive.
She’d stood there, clamp in hand, unmoving.
Another life gone. Another family whose boy wouldn’t be coming home. Pain knotted her gut.
Dr.
Anderson had looked at her with compassion. He was one of the few field
doctors who understood the nurses’ pain when seeing the limp bodies of
the soldiers being carried away.
“Change the bandages on that
German brought in earlier, and then you can come back and deal with the
mess,” he’d told her and then walked toward the front door, going
outside for fresh air and to clear his head.
Meredith couldn’t
help thinking of her brother Pete as she bit her lip and finished
winding a clean bandage around the arm of the injured German. Pete was
home. He was safe. She thought of another man she’d loved once,
wondering if he was in harm’s way, but she quickly pushed the memory of
David’s handsome face from her mind. She wouldn’t think of him now. To
do so would only bring hurt, and she was carrying enough of that.
Meredith
gazed down at the dark-haired man before her. His head was traumatized,
and shrapnel had been dug from his arm, shoulder, and neck. His wounds
weren’t any worse than many others. In time he’d recover and return to
his family, who probably waited and prayed.
While it wasn’t
popular to say, German mothers loved their sons as much as American
mothers, she supposed. German hearts loved too.
She’d known that
kind of love. She’d seen it in David’s eyes. The only thing that pushed
his abandonment from her thoughts was caring for the soldiers who
returned from the front lines in the ambulances’ steady flow. Her mind
stayed busy doing her part in making sure those men returned home.
Home.Someday
she’d return to Lafayette, Indiana. She wanted that more than anything.
But since she wouldn’t be returning anytime soon, did she dare hope
that the Germans wouldn’t get too close? That their American field
hospital would stay out of harm’s way? And maybe, well, was it too much
to wish for a little music this Christmas, singing around the piano as
they always had in the Turner house?
Looking back, she couldn’t
believe she’d run so far, leaving behind the family she loved. Meredith
had thought she was too big for that town. She couldn’t wait to see what
the expansive, wide world had for her. To find sunshine and worth. But
it hadn’t worked.
Meredith shivered as a cold wind hit the
window of the schoolhouse where their unit had been set up. The school
had four wings, and they put them to good use as a receiving room, a
shock ward, surgery, and post-op. She liked working in the
post-operation room the best. Even though it tugged on her emotions, she
liked being there when the soldiers awoke from surgery. She liked
encouraging them, talking of home, and praying with them. She wanted to
be the first friendly face they saw when they realized that the war was
over for them. Because their injuries were debilitating, for most of
them it meant they’d be going home.
There was also a
wood-burning stove in each room. There wasn’t enough wood to keep the
place much above freezing, but the walls offered some relief from the
frigid chill outside.
At least it was more protection than the
medical tents she’d been working in since July. The maps, posters, and
children’s pictures pinned to the walls of the schoolhouse brightened
her spirits. They reminded her of why she was here—who the American
soldiers were fighting for.
She and the other nurses had landed
on Utah Beach July 15, a month after D-Day. She’d expected to see signs
of the struggle. Blood on the sand. Even though the beach was broken up,
hit by war, there was no evidence of the thousands and thousands of
lives lost there. What the soldiers hadn’t cleaned up, the sea had
washed away.
From France, they’d moved leapfrog-style, following
the movement of troops to the front line. There were three field units
in the 53rd Field Hospital. Meredith was in the 3rd Unit. Soldiers with
stomach and chest wounds who needed immediate care were sent to them
first. And the sooner the better. Everyone called the first hour after
an injury the “golden hour.” Depending on his injuries, if the field
hospital could get the wounded soldier within that time frame, stabilize
him, and treat him for shock, then the chance for survival was good.
Another round of artillery boomed in the distance, causing a shudder to move through the small brick school.
Meredith
willed the front lines to stay far away and the supply lines to stay
open. She released the breath she’d been holding. Her fingers trembled
as she worked, and she wondered if she’d ever be used to war.
Footsteps
sounded outside, and two ambulance drivers rushed into the hospital
with an injured man. The wounded soldier shivered. His face was as pale
as the snow outside.
“He’s in shock. We need plasma now!” Dr. Anderson called from across the room. He’d returned without Meredith seeing him.
Dina,
one of the other nurses, rushed to assist him. They all took turns with
the bad cases. Meredith was thankful it was Dina’s turn. She had
cleanup to attend to. Would she be able to wipe up the spilled blood
without shedding a few tears for the lost soldier this time? She doubted
it.
Meredith tried not to think about that as she listened to
the shuffle of nurses’ feet scurrying around the room. She finished her
bandaging, said a quick prayer over the German soldier, and moved to the
bucket in the corner to retrieve the mop. Thankfully someone had
brought in clean water.
The last operating area waited—empty,
silent. She moved toward it and with a swish of the mop started sopping
up the blood. As the mop swished in a swooping pattern, she looked out
the window at the mother and three children who hurried by with bundles
of wood in their hands. They’d been fighting for those kids. For their
freedom. The Dutch people had been under Nazi occupation for years, but
the Americans had freed them. The big booms of the distant artillery and
the news from the front lines that trickled down to them proved the
Nazis wanted to reclaim their lost hold, but the American boys were here
to make sure that wasn’t going to happen.
Meredith was
witnessing history, and all the nurses were glad to be doing their part,
though their part was far from easy. A few nurses had already lost
their lives on the front lines. To the readers of
Stars and Stripes, they
were sad stories, but to Meredith they were Francis and Betty. Friends
she’d laughed with and talked late into the night with, sharing secrets
and stories.
Meredith returned the mop to the bucket. As she
plunged it down, the water turned red. How much blood had been spilled
on foreign soil? Too much. That was why it was so important to find a
way to make Christmas special for the injured. Special Christmas
music—it was the one thing that wouldn’t leave her thoughts. Meredith
knew how to sing a number of Christmas carols, and she was sure they’d
find more talent among the other nurses and doctors. Maybe they could
even practice a few new numbers to help the soldiers feel not so far
from home.
In the classroom next door, Dr. Anderson’s frantic
voice interrupted her hopeful thoughts. The injured soldier who’d just
been brought in had been placed on the operating table, and Meredith
could hear Dr. Anderson’s pleading.
“C’mon, boy. Hold on. Your mama wants you home, son . . .”
Tricia Goyer is a busy mom of six, grandmother of one, and wife to
John. Somewhere around the hustle and bustle of family life, she manages
to find the time to write fictional tales delighting and entertaining
readers and non-fiction titles offering encouragement and hope. A
bestselling author, Tricia has published thirty-three books to date and
has written more than 500 articles. She is a two time Carol Award
winner, as well as a Christy and ECPA Award Nominee. In 2010, she was
selected as one of the Top 20 Moms to Follow on Twitter by SheKnows.com.
Tricia is also on the blogging team at MomLifeToday.com,
TheBetterMom.com and other homeschooling and Christian sites.
In
addition to her roles as mom, wife and author, Tricia volunteers around
her community and mentors teen moms. She is the founder of Hope
Pregnancy Ministries in Northwestern Montana, and she currently leads a
Teen MOPS.
Sarah
Sundin enjoys writing about the drama and romance of the World War II
era. The Wings of the Nightingale series (With Every Letter, 2012, On
Distant Shores, August 2013, and In Perfect Time, August 2014) follows
three World War II flight nurses as they find love, friendship, and
peril in the skies and on the shores of the Mediterranean. The Wings of
Glory series (A Distant Melody, A Memory Between Us, and Blue Skies
Tomorrow) follows three brothers who are B-17 bomber pilots during World
War II.
Sundin lives in northern California with her husband,
three children, an antisocial cat, and a yellow lab bent on destroying
her writing career. When she isn't driving kids to tennis and karate,
she works on-call as a hospital pharmacist and teaches Sunday school and
women's Bible studies. She belongs to American Christian Fiction
Writers, Christian Authors Network, and Advanced Writers and Speakers
Association. In 2011 she received the Writer of the Year Award from the
Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference. A Memory Between Us was a
finalist in the Inspirational Readers Choice Awards and was featured on
Booklist's Top Ten Inspirational Fiction List for 2010. Please visit
Sarah's website at
http://www.sarahsundin.com
Since the time I could read Nancy Drew, I have wanted to write
mysteries. In 2005 I attended a book signing at my local Christian
bookstore. The rest, as they say, is history. There I met Colleen Coble.
With prompting from my husband, I shared my dream with Colleen. Since
those infamous words, I've been writing books.
Shadowed by Grace
is my 17th novel and a story of my heart. I have also written one
non-fiction title (the Complete Idiots Guide to Business Law).
In
addition to writing, I am an attorney, lecturer at a Big Ten university,
active in women's ministry, and all around crazy woman. Crazy about
God, my husband and my kids. I graduated with honors from the University
of Nebraska-Lincoln (Go Huskers!) and George Mason Law School. Because I
had a few spare moments, I am now in Purdue University's MBA program.
You can learn more about my books at
http://www.caraputman.com.
My Review:
Three tied together stories of the Turner family, Abigail, Pete, and
Meredith, all set during World War II, by three different authors, and
smoothly brought together.
I love these stories, and found myself
right back in the 1940’s with them. Whether it was in Lafayette, IN or
in the Netherlands, I felt I was there, and completely absorbed in this
read.
There has been heartache in this family, but the love of God
has made this early life the joy that they have found. There is mention
of lost siblings, and they are carried and mentioned in each of the
novellas.
Do you love, or not, if you do you might be hurt, or
someone could die. Yes, that is life, and you find this theme being
brought forward by these authors.
Enjoy the Holiday season, and
especially the Gift of Christmas shown though the sharing of these
stories. I loved it, and wanted a lot more.
I received this book through Litfuse Publicity Book Tours, and was not required to give a positive review.
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