Nebraska Territory, Oregon Trail, two weeks journey past Fort Laramie, 1855

“That does it!” Clara Field gritted her teeth and tugged harder on her leather glove, which was currently clamped between the jaws of a cantankerous ox. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I’ll get him in a headlock for you, Miss Field, and cut off his air so he’ll open his mouth.” Burt Sprouse sauntered over. “That should take care of things quick enough.”

“Oh, choking him wouldn’t be the right answer.” Clara struggled to hide her disgust at the very suggestion. “I have to marvel at how similar animals and humans can be. Neither group likes to be forced into anything, and try as I might, I can’t seem to convince him we’re trudging toward freedom.”

“Well, I reckon I could knee him in the chest to make him let go.” Sprouse shuffled closer. “Hickory’s got an eye on you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sprouse. I’ll handle this.” Clara waited until the burly ex-lumberjack wandered away before pleading with the ox. “Your antics are going to get us kicked off the wagon train, Simon!”

At the sound of his name, the ox perked his ears and his mouth went slack, allowing Clara to yank away her glove. How an ox had a taste for leather escaped her, but bovine cannibalism counted as the least of her worries at the moment. She held up the mangled thing and sighed.

Thank You, Lord, that I brought an extra pair just in case I lost one. Her lips quirked at the tooth marks on the leather. Though I never thought things would come to this.

Yanking on the length of rope she’d tied around Simon’s neck, Clara urged him toward the makeshift corral the trail boss had set up for the night. The obstinate animal refused to budge, his eyes fixed on her glove with a greedy gleam.

“There’s lots of good forage and fresh water,” she tempted. “And plenty of rest.” Oooh, how good that sounded. A verse from Psalms floated into memory: “He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.”

For it being a river, the Platte came as close to still water as any running water could ever hope. Wide, shallow, and dark with mud, it was their constant guide and water source. Clara tried not to compare it to babbling brooks, flowing streams, or any other clear, flowing water with a friendly rush of sound.

As for the earlier part of that scripture. . .well, they’d only just stopped for the night. Until she got this last ox to the corral, gathered enough fuel for the campfire, and cooked dinner for herself, Aunt Doreen, and the blessedly helpful Burt, she wouldn’t be lying beside anything.

But we’re one day closer to Oregon. Eleven miles farther toward a new start. Not even Simon’s snacking can take that away.

Tension eased from her shoulders as Simon ambled toward the enclosure. She and Aunt Doreen had already lost two oxen on the trail, and when they settled in Oregon, the remaining stock would be used for food or trade. The sadness creeping over her at the thought explained, at least in part, why Clara wasn’t an accomplished driver. Even after weeks on the trail, she couldn’t bear to use a whip harshly.

With Simon safely tucked away with the rest of the train’s livestock, Clara began hunting for buffalo chips. The tall, dry grass rustled around her skirts as she searched. Typically, the prairie held a large and ready supply of the quick-burning fuel. But the recalcitrant ox had cost her valuable time. The areas closest to the circled wagons were picked over by the other women on the train whose husbands saw to the animals. She needed to go farther, though never too far, to scrape together a fair-sized load.

By the time she got back to camp and started their fire, Aunt Doreen already had vegetables—the same supply of potatoes, carrots, and an onion that they’d been using since the stop at Fort Laramie—chopped and in the pot for cooking and the batter ready for Petecake. Once the fire burned hot enough to heat the Dutch oven and cook the stew, Clara gratefully sank down beside the makeshift kitchen.

A healthy breeze carried away the smoke from the fire, bringing welcome coolness as the sun faded. The moon came into view, its modest glow bathing the plains in whitish blue light.

“Grub ready yet, Miz Field?” Burt Sprouse’s head tilted forward as he sniffed the air like a hopeful bear. In exchange for their cooking, alongside a bit of washing and mending, the ex-lumberjack provided them with fresh meat whenever possible, took on the night watches assigned to their wagon, and lent a hand when he could.

“Not quite, Mr. Sprouse.” Apologies wouldn’t make the rabbit cook any faster. “I had difficulty finding enough buffalo chips tonight.”

“Looked like the oxen gave you some trouble tonight.” Burt’s voice held no censure as he squatted down. “I’ll take on your watch tonight, like we agreed, but Hickory’s getting antsy about having you and your aunt in your own wagon. You were last in the row and last to set up camp tonight.”

“Sure were.” The trail boss, Hickory McGee, stomped over to glower at them. Disgust filled his tone. “Same as every day on this trail. I warned you gals I didn’t want to take on two women with no menfolk to shoulder the night watches, wagons, and livestock. You know the law of the trail—pull your weight or be left behind.”

“We know.” Clara forced the words through gritted teeth. Men who believed women to be inferior in every way put up her back as little else could. If you spent more time helping and less time harping, things would get done faster. As it is, you accomplish nothing with threats, yet Aunt Doreen and I hold things together in spite of them. A true gentleman—the kind of man a mother would be proud to raise and a woman would be glad to claim as husband—would be respectful and helpful.

She kept the thoughts to herself. Speaking her mind was a luxury she couldn’t afford if it angered the trail boss. A quick prayer for patience, and she swallowed her ire.

“I haven’t completely mastered the art of unhitching the oxen,” Clara admitted before staring him down. “But Mr. Sprouse makes sure our watches aren’t shirked, and you know it.” She cast a grateful look at Burt.

“You ain’t the ones doin’ it,” Hickory groused. “No call for a man with his own wagon and responsibilities to shoulder yours.”

“I don’t mind taking the extra watch in exchange for their cooking,” Burt put in.

“Don’t recall askin’ you, Sprouse.” Hickory turned his glare from Clara to the lumberjack. “But anyone causin’ problems can be left behind.”

“Worse comes to worse”—Mr. Sprouse shrugged—“I can sear some meat. Got an iron stomach, I do.”

“Glad to hear it.” The guide returned his attention to Clara. “You’re lagging behind as it is. Not being able to control your animals is one more hassle to endanger the train. One rampaging ox can set off a stampede.”

“We managed to sort it out.” Aunt Doreen tugged a bucket of water toward them. “We always do.”

“It didn’t put anyone else out.” Clara shoved aside her remorse over Mr. Sprouse’s late dinner. “We’ll be ready to pull out at dawn, same as everyone else.”

“Better be.” The disagreeable guide punctuated that statement by launching spittle toward their cookfire. It hissed as he stalked away.

When we get to Oregon, it will be worth it, she vowed to herself for the thousandth time since they left Independence and started out on the trail. The Lord will see us to a new life and a happy home.

“The johnnycake should be about ready.” Clara pushed the ashes off the top of the Dutch oven with her ladle handle, wrapped her hand in a dishcloth, and lifted the lid. The sweet smell of warm cornbread wafted toward them. “Let me slice a piece for you to have now while the stew finishes.”

“Mmmph.” A moment later, Mr. Sprouse plunked himself down and set to munching the hot bread. His obvious enjoyment didn’t soothe Clara as it usually did—not when he’d made it clear that their agreement wasn’t as strong as Hickory’s warnings.

“Here, Aunt Doreen.” Clara made sure her aunt got a large portion. After weeks on the trail, not only did their simple dresses boast enough dust to plant a garden, but the calico also hung from her aunt’s thin frame. After a grueling day of travel, any moment they could use for a good night’s rest was another small loss her aunt didn’t deserve to bear. Unacceptable.

Aunt Doreen passed Mr. Sprouse another piece before he asked. Their success on the trail depended on keeping the man well fed. So long as they did that and kept pressing onward, the trail boss couldn’t leave them behind.

Clara filled a tin with the steaming stew. Onions came from their supply, greens they’d gathered along the way, and the rabbit came courtesy of Mr. Sprouse’s shotgun. If it weren’t for their little arrangement with him, she and her aunt would be surviving on jerky.

“Best deal I ever made.” His grunt made both of them smile. Burt made no bones about the fact he liked to eat but couldn’t cook. Another’s misfortune was rarely cause for prayers of gratitude, but. . .

“I was just thinking the same thing.” Clara knew Aunt Doreen’s reply came from the heart, to say the least.

Until now, Mr. Sprouse was just one more example of how the Lord watched over them and would see them through this arduous journey, which had become more wearing than Clara anticipated. A continuous stream of mishaps drained their supplies and energy. And they’d yet to make it past the prairie to the hardships of the mountains.

“When we reach the mountains, things will go more slowly.” She meant the words as a comfort to her own aching bones and her aunt’s worries, but Burt Sprouse didn’t see it that way.

“Yep. Snow can make us lose days, get off the trail, have so many delays food runs out and animals freeze. Everything’s harder once you hit the Rockies.”

“Our oxen are too ornery to freeze.” Clara couldn’t help smiling even as she muttered the words.

“Even so, we’ll all probably lighten our loads.” Burt shrugged. “I hear the mountains are littered with furniture and heirlooms abandoned by travelers so they can get free of a snow bank or make it up a steep pass.”

Her aunt’s gasp made Clara wrack her brain for something positive to say.

“After that rough river crossing, we already lost several items.” She quelled the sense of loss that overcame her at the memory of her childhood trunk, filled with her doll and doll’s clothes. The last thing her father gave her, lost in the Platte forever. “So we probably won’t need to leave anything else behind.” She forced a smile.

“For all those reasons, you have to be careful not to get on the trail boss’s bad side.” Burt waved his spoon in the air. “We won’t make it without him, and he’s dead serious about leaving behind anyone who causes problems.”

He does care. Surely Burt said that nonsense about having an iron stomach just to placate Hickory. She eyed him fondly as he made his way back to his own wagon. Who would have thought a burly ex-lumberjack looking to make his fortune gold mining would be their saving grace?

“You go on ahead and get to bed,” Clara encouraged her aunt after they’d eaten their fill. “I’ll clean up and join you in a few moments.”

Aunt Doreen’s lack of protest and grateful nod spoke of her weariness more eloquently than if she’d carped over the long day. Yet the older woman never uttered so much as a word of complaint. Not that she ever had, even throughout the long years of living under Uncle Uriah’s thumb.

No matter how many verses her uncle warped out of context, how often he misinterpreted her own words or actions, Clara held firm to the conviction that Uriah’s chauvinism was personal prejudice, not truth. Oft-repeated lectures against the frail values and fragile mindsets of the so-called weaker sex only underscored the quiet strength of the woman who’d raised her.

The few months when she’d had Doreen’s sole attention soothed her soul, pulling her from the endless cycle of guilt and anger over Ma’s and Pa’s deaths. Clara owed everything to the self-sacrificing love of Doreen. Then she’d married Uriah Zeph, and their world tilted once more. For the worse.

Hopes ahead; regrets behind. Grandma’s saying had become their motto over the years and seemed more appropriate with each passing day. Tonight, as Clara fell into her quilt, she added one more phrase. . . .

And God alongside.

Outskirts of Baltimore

Filth everywhere. Dr. Saul Reed shook his head as he made his way from the room he rented to the area of the Baltimore outskirts that housed businesses. Brackish water and mud splotched the street. The odor of stale urine in the alleyways fought for dominance over the smell of stewed cabbages and onions.

To think, this was the better area of town, where most of the residents had roofs over their heads and cabbage to eat at all. There were others less fortunate, left to burrow under garbage or be chased away from bridges until pneumonia or fever took them away. The illness he could treat, the neglect of hygiene and sanitation he could fight, but all he could do was pray for the indifference neighbors showed for one another.

That’s why he’d chosen this place. A cozy practice in a whitewashed building in the heart of Baltimore would bring affluent clients, respectable standing, and a nice living. Here, though, he could put his knowledge to the best use. These were the areas where people otherwise denied medical attention needed his help.

If only You will open their ears, Lord, he prayed as he entered the post office. His youth became an impediment in the eyes of some, who saw more value in years than in his Edinburgh education. They didn’t take into account the school’s reputation as he had when making his choice. The university’s renown for technological advancement didn’t transmit beyond the medical community.

“Letter come for ya, Doc.” The post office worker thrust the note at him.

“Any packages?” Saul peered into the cubbyholes behind the desk to no avail. “Those forceps I ordered should be coming in any day now.”

“Any day ain’t today.” The man chewed his tobacco before sending a thick stream of sludge onto the floor beside an obviously oft-missed spittoon. “While yer here an’ all, though. . .”

“What’s ailing you?” Saul prayed the man wouldn’t do as he had the last time he’d asked for help and pull down his britches to display a carbuncle on his hip.

“M’ mouth.” The tobacco tucked into his cheek, he opened wide.

Holding his breath to avoid the foul blast of air, Saul tilted his head and surveyed browned teeth, yellowed gums, and a sore the size of his thumb on the man’s tongue. Saul pulled back to a safe distance and inhaled.

“You’ve got an open sore on your tongue.”

“Heck, Doc, even I knowed that much.” The man rolled his eyes. “What can I do about the thing?”

“I’ll make you a rinse of witch hazel to clean it out. Be sure to drink a lot of water and use the rinse after you eat anything.” Saul set his jaw. “Most of all, you must stop using the tobacco.”

“Wha’?” His jaw gaped, treating the doctor to another view of that open sore and losing the tobacco altogether. It landed with a soft thud on the dusty floor.

“Good. The tobacco is what’s causing the problem.”

“Naw.” The man stooped down, scooped up the wad, dusted it off as best he could, and plopped it right back in his mouth.

“Yes.” Saul closed his eyes. “Though taking things from the ground and putting them in your mouth doesn’t help, either.”

“Dirt don’t hurt.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he rolled the chaw in his mouth, sending another stream toward the ground. This time it landed perilously close to Saul’s boot. “Even a quack’d know that.”

“People track in more than dirt.” Saul’s voice became more stern. “The more you chew, the worse it’ll get. Keep on, and you’ll see more sores until they spread down your throat and you can’t speak.”

The man’s laughter followed Saul outside—another example of the ignorance that ruled this area. How can I make a difference if they won’t let me? What do I have to do, Lord, to make them see how to take care themselves? Give me the chance to make a difference.

As he rounded a corner, a shaky voice sounded. “Young and untouched. I’ll give ya a good time, sir.”

“No.” He made to move on, but her gaunt face stopped him in his tracks. The girl couldn’t be more than eleven. Shadows smudged her eyes, and bony wrists protruded from beneath too-short sleeves.

“I swear it’s true.” She drew closer, obviously misinterpreting his pause for interest. In the brighter light, livid bruises bloomed along her throat. Whether they’d been pressed there by a violent customer or an enraged pimp was impossible to say.

“Stay there.” He held out a hand to stay her progress. Between her youth, her assertion of innocence, and those bruises, he couldn’t walk away. “What is your name?”

“Whatever ya like.” She raised a nervous hand to the marks on her throat. “Whatever ya want.”

Enraged pimp then. Saul peered down the alleyway to see if the brute lingered behind. No one there.

“What can you do—no, not that.” He stopped her hastily as she prepared to speak. “Can you sew? Cook? Clean?”

“What?” Astonishment replaced the desperation in her gaze.

“I know a lady who runs a boardinghouse and is in need of some help.” Saul kept his voice muted. “If you’re an honest sort and not afraid of solid work, you might do.”

“I sews real fine—it’s what he used to have me do.” The glow of pride left her abruptly. “He’d find me.” The whisper almost floated past him unheard, but when her hand fluttered toward her neck again, Saul understood her fear.

“Where is he now?”

“Pub.” She jerked her head toward a side street.

“Come with me now, and he’ll never know.” Saul shifted his doctor’s bag so it came into a more prominent view, hoping the symbol of trusted authority would put her at ease.

“You’re one of them what purges babes when one of us gets unlucky?” Suspicion blazed to life in her pinched face. “Like him that came last night? He took the baby, right, but m’ sister hasn’t stopped bleeding since.”

“Absolutely not.” Saul closed his eyes at the image she evoked. “Where’s your sister?” Obviously the woman needed immediate help—if it wasn’t too late.

“Inside.” She backed away a step. “Be on yore way, sir. M’ sister don’t need any more help from no doctors. She didn’t want the first one to come, but he didn’t give ’er no choice.”

“The quack who did that to her was no doctor.” Rage boiled in Saul’s chest. “If she keeps bleeding, your sister will die.”

“And I’ll be alone wif”—her gaze darted in the direction of the pub she’d indicated earlier as her voice went hoarse—“him.” Though Saul wouldn’t have thought it possible, her face became even more pale. “He said he’d take care of us, but he turned Nancy out within a week. After last night he said I’d have to take her place.”

“No, you won’t. Take me to Nancy.”

Last night I was pouring out my heart in my prayer journal and asking God for some help in surrendering control to him. There are so many things that I've seen major changes in my attitude since my giving my life to him: more compassion, less judgment, more generous. But the one thing I can't seem to let go of is control. So as I was writing last night and apologizing for my constant interfering and worry, I asked him to remind me that I can trust him to be in charge. And I heard a soft voice (Margaret Feinberg would call it the sacred echo) in my heart saying Romans 8:28. I know in my head that God works everything to good according to his purpose, but it's hard to know with my heart. But when my Lord himself whispers that to my heart, there's no denying it.

Beach Dreams by Trish Perry is a combination of two series. It's the third book in the Beach series by Sally Johns, and it's also the third book in the series by Perry about a group of friends from Northern Virginia. Tiffany LeBeouf is recovering from the devastating death of her mother from breast cancer by returning to her home and trying to pick up the pieces of her life. But she comes back to find that her job no longer exists and the super-cute guy, Jeremy, she just met is already taken. So Tiff, who is just learning to lean on her faith, heads to a beach house in California to mourn and recover with her father. But there's been a mix-up with reservations at the beach house, and she has to share with none other than Jeremy's perfect girlfriend who reminds Tiff a bit too much of what she was like before she found faith in God. Perry writes with a great deal of humor, and the way she renders scenes, like a day out at the amusement park, is a true pleasure. This is a perfect book for curling up on the beach and soaking up the warmth of the summer sun and God's love.

To win a bag of beachy stuff that's related to Beach Dreams, go here and sign up for their contest!

Today's pic is just one of my favorites from our camping trip. It's my stepbro Jeremy and sis-in-law Krissy. Don't forget that my contest for one of two sets of three hardcover children's picture books is open until Thursday night. Just drop me an email to enter!

Mia was talking (as usual) this afternoon as I was driving into the Falls to pick up Molly from cheerleading practice. She said, "Mommy, do you know where my favorite place in the whole world is?" I shook my head no, so she responded, "My favorite place is up in heaven, and we're gonna go there when we die, right?" She chatted about Heaven a bit more, and it was all with hope and happiness in her voice. It's a big change from a year ago when she was afraid of Heaven, because it was unknown. Now she talks about like she's been there often and can't wait to return. She'll make a great travel agent to book trips there someday!

God Loves Me More Than That by Dandi Daley Mackall is a Dandilion book filled with sweet rhymes and charming illustrations. How much love does God have for me?More than the letters between A and Z. More than the bumbles in a bumble bee.God loves me more than that! The rhymes are fun and my daughter had fun trying to guess what word would end each couplet, and she loved the extremes the books uses to show the depth, height, width, and strength of God's love for her. It's a perfect book for bedtime and sending your little one off to dreamland with visions of God's love.

When God Created My Toes is another Dandilion Rhymes book by Dandi Daley Mackall. It's full of silly rhymes devised to get a laugh out of your little one: When God created my toes, did he make them wiggle? Did he know I’d giggle?Did he have to hold his nose, when God created my toes? The words are silly and the pictures are sweet, perfect for reading to your little ones. My daughter liked thinking about God creating each part of her and knowing that He spent time and thought doing so. This would be good for reading to infants and toddlers to teach body parts while cuddling.

This last book was absolutely my favorite. God Gave Us Heaven by Lisa Tawn Bergren is the latest entry in her God Gave Us series. The first book, God Gave Us You, is on Mia's bookshelf, but I can't read it, because Bergren handles the idea of impending parenthood and the love a parent has for a child, even before they are born, so well that I cry all the way through it. I've read most of Bergren's children's books, and I believe that she has an amazing talent for interpreting God and his love in a way that is easy for kids to understand without ever talking down to them and giving new insight to their parents as well. My daughter, Mia, has long had a fear of Heaven because the idea of something completely different from this world was frightening to her. Bergren, through Papa Bear, speaks of a Heaven where there are no more tears or pain or wars. Papa Bear answers the normal questions kids ask: what we will eat there? what will we do? with tenderness and honesty, even when that means the answer is I'm not sure. This book answers questions and soothes worries. Mia's fears have been allayed, and I am grateful to Bergren for writing this book and taking those fears away.

Today's pictures are a series from camping. Jeff, my stepdad, deep-fried a turkey, and it turned out fantastic. The next day, Doogie and Molly fought over one of the legs. You can see in the last picture that Molly, glam in her sunglasses, was the winner and texts in her victory.

The first picture is my favorite picture of the entire camping trip. It completely encapsulates summer in her face: mosquito bites, sunburn, freckles, and a huge smile. The second picture was taken within half an hour of setting up camp, notice how dirty her face is. The last picture is Mia holding up the basket with the fish that she caught. She's not afraid to put the worm on the hook or take the fish off, and she was so proud of her five fish catch, even though two were too small to keep.

Miracle Girls by Anne Dayton is a fun addition to the new Christian teen chick-lit genre. Ana Dominguez' face is next to the definition of over-achiever in the dictionary. She plays the piano, is on all sorts of do-good groups at school, and is not just content to have straight A's in school, she also must be number one in her class. This isn't just Ana's desire; her parents are super-overprotective and pushy in the most loving of ways. When Ana moves to a new school, she quickly makes an enemy of the most popular girl Riley that sends both of them to detention. While there, they must do an essay about an event that changed their lives forever. Ana and Riley, along with Zoe and Christine all discover that they have something major in common, and Zoe decides that they are now bound for life. The story moves through the usual teenage antics of romance, broken friendships, and dances before heading into dramatic territory. Dayton speaks knowledgably with the language of a teenage girl and the story handles the teens' faith well without ever making it uncool, which is the highest praise I could give!

I'm kicking off a new contest tomorrow that you won't want to miss, see you then!

Charles Marshall

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Chapter 1 Going to the Dogs

My wife and I have been thinking about getting a dog, lately, and discussing what type we might get. For me, there is really only one possibility—and that, of course, is a real dog.

For the uninitiated, there are three basic types of dogs:

1] Real dogs. These are dogs as God originally made them—monstrous, made-for-the-outdoors hunting machines that are perfect for intimidating neighbors and attracting lawsuits.

The ownership rule for guys and dogs is simple: the bigger the dog, the cooler you look. Walk down the street with a Pekingese and you might as well be wearing a tutu.

When you observe a man walking down the street with a massive real-dog, his message to you is clear. “Yes, I’m overcompensating for my insecurities and lack of masculinity but I’ve got a really big dog.”

Now that’s the kind of attitude I can get behind.

2] Mutant rat-dogs, otherwise known as Chihuahuas. These poor creatures are the unintentional result of secret experiments conducted by the Mexican army in a failed attempt to create the ultimate weapon by cross-breeding bats and Great Danes. The only surviving result of these experiments is a group of nervous, angry little rat-dogs that decided to take their revenge on humanity by being annoying on just about every level known to mankind.

If you are approached by one of these aberrations of nature, know that it despises you with a hatred rarely seen outside the Middle East, and that it won’t hesitate to tear your ankles to shreds. These dogs are the piranhas of the canine world and would nuke

mankind tomorrow if they thought they could get away with it. Under no circumstance should one of these animals be allowed to run for public office.

3] Kitty-dogs, which is every kind of dog that does not fall into one of the first two categories. I’m all in favor of this type of dog because, hey, girls have to have dogs, too.

The curse of the kitty-dog is that there are those who take a warped delight in dressing them up like people. Most dogs would rather be subjected to Mexican weapons experiments than go through this type of torture.

I cannot say this in strong enough terms: You should never, ever dress up your dog for any reason whatsoever. Take it from me—even if it were thirty below outside, your dog would rather die with dignity in his own fur coat than live while being seen in a little poochie parka.

If you dress your dog, you need to know two things:

1] The rest of us are making fun of you behind your back.

2] Every day your dog prays for a heaven where he gets to dress you up in humiliating costumes while he and his doggie friends point at you and laugh for all eternity.

If you feel you absolutely must dress an animal, go dress one that at least has a chance of defending itself like a cougar or a wolverine or a Chihuahua.

One of the most amazing things about the three dog types is that for every one of them, there is someone that likes that kind of dog. At this very moment, there are people risking the loss of fingers and eyes while they stroke their vicious little rat-dogs, all for the sake of love.

That’s a mysterious kind of love, isn’t it—the kind that embraces the unlovely, that sees through the imperfect and loves without regard?

Let’s face it, the human heart isn’t very attractive either. Every thought we have is consumed with self. If you peel away the layers of even our most noble deeds and acts of kindness, you will find thoughts that circle back to ourselves like homing pigeons. In our hearts, we are all mutant rat-dogs.

And yet God loves us.

In the Bible, you find that same theme of an indefatigable, undefeatable love reaching out to a vicious, ungrateful humanity over and over again. I’ve found it’s a love well worth pursuing.

And so the great dog debate rages in my household, and I think my wife is coming around to my point of view. But, if by chance, you happen to see me in the neighborhood walking a Pekingese that is wearing a teeny hat and sundress, you may safely assume things did not go my way.

It's hard for me to think about him being a senior and that at this time next year, he'll be gone. He asked me to make a mix CD for him with some of his favorite songs, so last night I put it together for us to listen to on the way to Green Bay. We were singing along to the music and laughing until The Pretenders' I'll Stand By You came on. Doogie and I danced to that song at Jesse and my wedding. Chrissie Hynde didn't even get to start singing before my throat was completely clogged and tears were running down my cheeks. Doogie said, "Mom, why did you put that song on if it's going to make you cry?" I squeaked a little and shook my head. So my ever-so-wise son said, "Let's just skip this one, huh?" and shook his head at me. We were nearly half way through My Chemical Romance's Teenagers before I was back under control. I don't know what I'll do without him.

The first pic is him in his hat relaxing on Molly's cot in our tent. The second picture was taken by Krissy and is him in the water with Mia. I love the look of love on both of their faces.

Faith to Faith by Dan Scott: I've read a lot of books that describe the belief systems of the major religions of the world, but this is the most instructive and creative I've encountered. Most books are written by Christians in their own words and much of the conversation is about deconstructing those religions. Scott was invited to attend a symposium about religion in order to present Christianity as a faith to the attendees. Representatives from all of the other major religions were also invited, so Scott recorded their speeches in order to give the reader a view of those faiths from actual believers' mouths. It was fascinating hearing from actual believers of Hindu and New Age as opposed to just reading a Christian's interpretation of them. After each speech, Scott discusses the strengths and weaknesses of the religion, and he does so respectfully. He emphasized why we can take lessons from each faith without diluting our own, but also explains why in the end, only Christianity works.

I am so excited. Yesterday, I finally became a Top 1000 reviewer for Amazon! 539 reviews and almost 4000 positive votes on those reviews, plus 2-1/2 years to get to this place. All of my reviews have a nifty little icon that says Top 1000 reviewer. While it doesn't mean much in the greater scheme of things, it was a personal goal I'm very proud to have attained. :)

The first pic is Molly after she got done tubing on the lake. The next was supposed to show her green eyes, but unfortunately it didn't quite turn out. She had this fluorescent green pj set and a bright red sunburn that brought out the green in her hazel eyes. The last pic was taken on our last night in camp. She was bundled up against the cold and perched in the tube while we played a hilarious game introduced by Krissy.

I love our family tradition of camping, and I hope that it's something we keep doing forever. There's a group of campers on the site next to ours every year that has been coming for over 30 years. I would love for that to be us. Maybe as the kids get older, they will bring their significant others along for a test: if they survive the week with their good humor intact, they can be part of the family, if not, we kick'em to the curb! There is something in camping that really exposes the core of a person's nature. I always come back feeling closer to my family and seeing new aspects. It's like the time of year that I re-evaluate and destress. I'm ready to go back already!

That's (Not Exactly) Amore by Tracey Bateman is the final book in her Drama Queens series. Laini has been left behind by Tabby's marriage and Dancy's almost engagement, and she still hasn't figured out just what she should be doing with her life. Laini worries that her slightly full figure and springy red hair keep men at bay, but she is suddenly courted by handsome police officer Mark, and Joe, whose coffee shop Laini is remodeling for her interior design degree. Laini is surrounded by trouble. She was a great accountant but hated the job. She thought that she loved interior design, but she may just be a bit colorblind. She pours her grief and frustration into cooking and baking never realizing that food is her true passion and talent. The reader may be a bit frustrated with Laini's complete blindness when it comes to what she should be doing with her life, Bateman handles it believably, and you can't help rooting for Laini to get her dream job and her dream guy. This was my favorite book in the Drama Queens series, and I can see Bateman's growth as a writer. Laini is obsessed with romantic comedies, especially those starring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, and this book would easily lend itself to the film. Bateman's scene between Joe and Laini in the rain outside of his apartment is begging to be adapted to the screen. I will genuinely miss the antics of Laini and her pals, and I hope that Bateman hasn't abandoned them forever.

Tomorrow: pix of Doogie from camp.