Lynn Austin's Blog, page 16

Thin Air

My husband and I just returned home from a week’s vacation in Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado, and what a wonderful time we had! First of all, we were surrounded by God’s beautiful creation everywhere we looked—magnificent mountains, rushing streams, abundant wildlife. It was so easy to praise God every waking moment and remember His awesome majesty and power.

Second, I got to do one of my favorite activities every day—hiking in the woods. The scenery was refreshingly different from the familiar forests and beaches here in Michigan where I walk every day. There were mountains everywhere I looked!

But best of all, we were able to spend time with one of our sons, our daughter, our son-in-law, and our grandbaby on this vacation. We shared a family cabin together and were able to relax and talk and eat and hike every day.

I had been hard at work on my newest book before this vacation, and I admit I was feeling a little stuck. My brain felt like it was filled with molasses, and the words and ideas just weren’t coming. I needed a break and a change of scene. Maybe some new inspiration. Thankfully, I got all of those things—and something more.

On our first day of hiking, I found myself huffing and puffing after about five minutes of walking. I thought I was in pretty good shape—what was wrong with me? The answer, of course, was “thin air.” Our cabin was located at an elevation of 8,000 feet and we hiked even higher than that every day. Someone explained to me that oxygen is 45% less dense at that altitude, which explains why I was gasping! Things that were easy to do back home became a lot harder in such thin air.

As I thought about that fact, I realized why my writing hadn’t been going so well. Scripture sometimes compares the Holy Spirit to air or wind. Jesus promised His disciples that they would receive power from on high when the Spirit came, and indeed, they were transformed when the rushing wind from heaven blew on the Day of Pentecost and they were filled with the Holy Spirit. We all need the Holy Spirit’s power to accomplish the work God gives us to do. But I sometimes forget that, and I try to write on “thin air,” relying on my own experience and knowledge instead of on the Spirit’s inspiration. No wonder I huff and puff!

My prayer, as I return to my desk and my work-in-progress this week is summed up in one of my favorite choruses: “Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me . . .”

How’s the air where you’re serving our Creator?

It’s All About Story

I’m sitting in a comfortable chair in my living room with a cup of tea, surrounded by stacks of library books, my laptop, and some movies I plan to watch. To the untrained eye it appears that I’m loafing, but I’m actually hard at work, searching for new worlds to discover. In other words, I’m researching my next book.

Living in the Information Age is both a boon and a trap for authors. With so much detailed information available, it’s easy to get lost in the jungle of research and never find the trail home. To avoid getting sidetracked, the “compass” I use to direct my search is a simple one: I always look for a story.

Heinrich Schliemann

Here’s what I mean. At this stage of the writing process, my research resembles a huge mountain of facts that I must conquer. I will undoubtedly need those facts at some point, but in these early days I focus instead on the stories I find buried among the details. I’m currently researching the early years of archaeology in the 1800s. Who were the great explorers? Where did they excavate? What did they uncover? Hidden among the facts was a story that reads like a fairy tale. Heinrich Schliemann grew up poor, reading the tales of Homer and dreaming of finding buried treasure. Beginning as an apprentice in the grocery business, he eventually became a self-made millionaire. At age 61, he set out to find the lost city of Troy, convinced that Homer’s legends weren’t myths but descriptions of actual events and places. With Homer as his guide, he uncovered ancient Troy and its golden treasures. Schliemann’s story brought the facts to life for me and offered valuable insights into my characters’ motivations.

At some point I will finally close the books and explore the settings for my novel. Again, it’s easy to become overwhelmed by hundreds of precise details such as a period mansion’s architecture and furnishings. As I research my settings, once again I’ll look for stories. For my Civil War novel, A Light to My Path, I toured a beautiful southern mansion, taking copious notes and pictures. The tour guide questioned my interest, and when I told her I was a novelist, she offered an exclusive, post-tour peek at the slave quarters behind the mansion.

I knew it would take pages to describe the differences between the mansion and those hovels! But then the guide told me a story: The mansion’s owners fled when the city fell to Union soldiers. The newly-liberated slaves moved out of their squalid quarters and into the Big House, using their owners’ dishes, sleeping in their beds, wearing their clothes. Again, a story offered insight into my characters’ point of view and showed me how best to present the settings’ differences.

Eventually I’ll have to sift through my mountain of research and decide what goes into the book and what doesn’t. But the story gems I discover will provide a head start in creating my characters—and they’re the most important story element to me. I always begin with my characters. How I create them is another story . . .

New Friends

Writing can be a lonely job, sitting at my computer all day with only my imaginary characters to talk to. That’s why I love getting out every once in a while and meeting some of my readers face-to-face. And I had a chance to do that last week.

The first event was with a group of wonderful ladies at the Grandville United Methodist Church in Grandville, Michigan. I spoke about all the changes that have taken place in women’s lives since our grandmothers’ and great-grandmothers’ generations, and the new freedoms we now have—including freedom from these!

How about it, ladies? Are any of you sorry we don’t have to wear these crazy contraptions any more to keep our nylons in place and slim our waistlines? “What are nylons?” some of you younger ladies are asking. Go ask your grandmother—or I suppose your generation will just Google it! Afterward, you can enjoy your freedom to walk around with bare legs and flip flops.

I met a second group of wonderful ladies last night when I visited with their book club, also in Grandville, Michigan, in one of their members’ home. They had all read my book, “Eve’s Daughters,” and we had a wonderful time discussing it. In writing this family saga about four generations of women, I used some of the real-life historical events from my own family tree. For instance, Louise immigrated to America from Germany at the same time that my great-grandmother did; Emma went through WWI like my grandmother; Grace studied to be a nurse during WWII like my mother; and Suzanne experienced the turbulent Vietnam War years during her college studies, like I did. The Book Club discussion was especially fun for me because my mother is visiting from New York and had a chance to join in our lively conversation.

So thank you to both groups of new friends for your warm hospitality and encouragement. Now, as I sit down at my computer once again I am reminded to “Always give yourselves fully to the work of the Lord, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain” (1 Cor. 15:58).

Happy Mother’s Day Mom!

 

You can do some amazing things in your lifetime if you live to be ninety years old—and my mother, Virginia “Jinny” Davis, has. Last September we celebrated her ninetieth birthday with a gala party with her family, friends and neighbors. I wouldn’t be an author if it weren’t for my mom. Nor would I likely be a Christian. She has had a powerful influence on my love of books and on my faith in Christ.

Among my first memories are of Mom reading bedtime stories to my two sisters, Bonnie and Peggy, and me. Books always filled our home. Trips to the library—even if it meant walking a mile or more—were routine. Mom’s love of books began when she discovered the public library as a girl during the Great Depression. It’s probably not an exaggeration to say she read every novel in her town’s tiny library. The sympathetic librarian even let her borrow books from her personal collection.

Although a career as a librarian would have been her first choice, Mom never could have afforded a higher education after high school if it’s weren’t for WWII. She won a scholarship to become a registered nurse and became the first woman in her family to have a professional career. But her love of books never dwindled, and when the library in our small New York State town needed a librarian, she applied for the job. It’s also not much of an exaggeration to say that I grew up in that library, doing everything from processing books and working at the checkout desk, to shelving books and reading to the children for story hour. Within a few years, Mom transformed that library from a dark, dismal place that was open only a few hours a week, into the town’s thriving centerpiece with activities for people of all ages. The local elementary school decided to hire her as their librarian, too. I’m so proud of all that she accomplished.

Throughout my growing-up years, I also remember Mom sitting at her typewriter and writing short stories and poems and magazine articles. She wrote a regular column in a local newspaper for a time. I remember celebrating with her when one of her stories was accepted by Highlights for Children. She is still writing stories to this day. Mom showed me that if there’s something you want to do—like write a story—then why not sit down and do it? I attribute my own love of books and my talent for writing to her.

Even more important to Mom than books, though, was her faith in God. She experienced His presence during a church service as a teenager and her faith has continued to grow stronger and deeper ever since. She made sure that my sisters and I regularly attended Sunday school and church, and she modeled a life of prayer, regular Bible study, and loving God and our neighbor. She has experienced hard times and losses over the years—a stillborn baby, a life-threatening illness, my dad’s early death at age 62, my sister Bonnie’s tragic death from cancer nine years ago. But Mom’s faith in a loving God has never wavered. At age ninety she is a prayer warrior, rising early every day to pray for my sister and me and our spouses, her twelve grandchildren and their spouses, and her seventeen great-grandchildren, including three adopted ones, and those yet to be born. I feel her prayers holding me up when I travel and speak and when I sit down at my computer to write.

So Happy Mother’s Day Mom! You continue to be a role model and an inspiration to me, and to your 30 descendants, and to everyone you meet.

A Clear View

The azalea bush outside my living room window is putting on a glorious show this spring. I can see it from my favorite living room chair where I sit for my quiet time every morning. But I can also see how dusty and rain-streaked my windows are after the long winter months. So last Saturday, when the temperature climbed to nearly 70 degrees, I got out the buckets and rags and window cleaner to tackle the job. The window glass is divided into dozens of tiny panes that have to be individually washed, making the task . . . well . . . a pain!

You know that great feeling you get when you tackle a hard job and can immediately see the results? That’s how I felt when I finally stood back to proudly view my finished windows. It seemed as though there was no glass in the window frames at all!

Then I got up on Sunday morning.

Those windows face east, and as the brilliant sunlight streamed into the room it revealed every streak and smudge and swirl mark I had made. The mess hadn’t been visible until the light shone directly on it.

It was an appropriate lesson for me. I can delude myself into thinking I’m a pretty good Christian on the outside, all cleaned up and looking good—until Christ shines His light and reveals my spots and streaks. That’s exactly what happened when I spoke without thinking last week and my words came out in a way that hurt a dear friend. Words are my livelihood and I had used them carelessly. “If anyone considers himself religious and yet does not keep a tight rein on his tongue, he deceives himself and his religion is worthless” (James 1:26). Just like a dirt-streaked window.

I’m not as squeaky-clean as I think I am. Unless I allow the Light of the World to change me, I’ll remain as flawed as my windows, as filthy as my pile of cleaning rags. I’ve asked my friend for forgiveness. And I’m praying that from now on the Holy Spirit will help me to “be quick to listen, slow to speak” (James 1:19).

The Enduring Feast

The Feast of Passover begins this Friday at sundown. My Jewish friends, who call it Pesach, are busy cleaning their houses in preparation, careful not to leave a single crumb of leaven. They even vacuum their sofa cushions, something I probably should do more often.

The table will be beautifully set with all the traditional items in place. Family and friends will gather for this annual dinner that typically lasts several hours. They will remember how the Israelites were once slaves in Egypt. They’ll relive the ten plagues and the nation’s miraculous deliverance from slavery. They’ll sing joyful songs to celebrate God’s faithfulness.

Garden of Gethsemane

Jesus celebrated the Feast of Passover with His disciples on the night He was betrayed. He broke the traditional unleavened bread and lifted the ritual cup of wine saying, “This is my body, broken for you…This is my blood, shed for you…do this in remembrance of me.” His closing prayer is recorded for us in John 17: “Father, the time has come. Glorify your Son, that your Son may glorify you.” Then Jesus walked with His disciples to the Garden of Gethsemane.

I marvel at how the Passover Feast has endured. It began with Moses on that long-ago night in Egypt and is celebrated some 3,400 years later. God’s people have also endured, just as He promised: “Only if the (sun, moon and stars) vanish from my sight,” declares the Lord, “will the descendants of Israel ever cease to be a nation before me” (Jeremiah 31:36).

Destroyed Roman city of Scythopolis

Pharaoh and his pagan gods are gone, leaving only ruined temples and tombs. The Romans, who crucified Jesus and built impressive cites, are gone too. None of Israel’s neighbors worship Baal or Dagon or Molech as their ancestors did. Yet the Jewish people and their faith in the God of Abraham survive, nearly unchanged. And so does our Christian faith, some 2,000 years after Jesus died for our sins on Passover.

Each year before celebrating the feast, I love to reread the story of Christ’s final Passover meal and the lessons He taught us that night (John 13-17). He began by washing His disciples’ feet, saying, “I have set you an example…no servant is greater than his master.” He commanded us to love one another saying, “By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” He told us that His Father’s house had many mansions and that He was going to prepare a place for us. He promised to send the Holy Spirit to empower us. And He gave us the beautiful picture of the vine and the branches, encouraging us to bear much fruit for His Father’s glory. He ended by praying for us: “May they be brought to complete unity to let the world know that you sent me…”

Communion is our celebration feast when we remember Christ’s sacrifice. We begin by searching our souls for every speck of sin. We go to the Lord’s table to partake of His body and blood in the bread and wine. We leave the covenant meal cleansed, free from slavery to sin, empowered to bear fruit as He commanded. And we leave with a sense of peace, knowing that the Pharaohs and rulers of this world won’t last, but God’s kingdom will endure for all time. “Take heart!” Jesus told us on that long-ago Passover night. “I have overcome the world.”

Underwater Explorers

Last Saturday I attended a wonderful program by the Michigan Shipwreck Research Association—a group of divers who search for sunken ships in the Great Lakes. I attended their presentation last year and it inspired me to include a shipwreck in my upcoming novel. This is exciting stuff!

These shipwreck experts start their adventures the same way I start a novel—by doing research. They comb through piles of public documents, newspaper reports and eyewitness accounts to narrow down the wreck’s possible location. They search photos and drawings for the ship’s distinguishing details, such as size and profile. This research phase can be a treasure hunt in itself! But if they do their job well, the expedition has a better chance of success when the exploration phase begins.

Exploration involves creating an imaginary grid over the suspected area of the wreck and slowly sailing back and forth, using sonar to detect a sunken ship on the bottom of the lake. Scanning for hours and hours, days on end, sounds tedious to most people, but I sensed the experts’ excitement in this step of the search, too. It requires expertise to examine the grainy sonar pictures and interpret the findings. And when a sunken ship was finally spotted, everyone celebrated. I suppose most people would find my job tedious, sitting at a computer day after day, typing page after page, chapter after chapter until my novel is finished. While it appears to be boring, it takes expertise to create a story and get the words precisely right. And wise authors also celebrate their successes, big and small.

The last phase of underwater discovery is obviously the most enjoyable for these veteran divers. Armed with cameras and scuba equipment, the team finally has a chance to dive on the site and explore the wreck. I watched in fascination as ghostly images of these once-stately ships appeared on the theater screen, encrusted with shells, lying in their final resting places. I listened to the dramatic stories of their demise, usually due to violent storms. The divers became underwater detectives, solving the mystery of why and how each vessel sank, and where the ship and its crew came to their final end.

On one of the deeper dives, the team could spend only 30 minutes exploring the wreck before making the nearly two hour journey back to the surface, pausing to adjust to the changing pressure and avoid the deadly bends. I marveled at such disciplined devotion! Why do these divers do it? Since removing treasure from these wrecks is strictly forbidden, why make such a huge commitment of time and energy and finances to explore a sunken ship?

I suspect that the thrill of diving and solving a century-old mystery are rewards in themselves. But sometimes there are other surprises, too. In the audience on Saturday night was a gentleman who had been ten years old when he lost his father in the wreck of the William B. Davock, sunk during a storm on Lake Michigan seventy-five years ago. His father’s body was never recovered. Thanks to the work of these divers, the now-elderly gentleman was able to see images of his father’s final resting place and find closure after all these years. He sailed with the dive crew to the site on Lake Michigan and placed a memorial wreath in the water above his father’s grave.

I returned home from the program pondering why I write. There is some monetary gain, to be sure, but for me it’s also about the thrill of discovery and the satisfaction of seeing the results of my hard work and discipline in book form. Most of all, it’s about the joy I experience whenever I learn that one of my stories has touched someone’s life. I easily understood the joy those dedicated divers from the Michigan Shipwreck Research Association felt when they saw the tears of an eighty-five year old man who had waited a lifetime to find his father.

Spring Thaw

The robins are back! I’m not sure where these red-bellied birds go for the winter, but I saw one for the first time this morning. A sure sign of spring.

So I decided to look for other signs as I took my morning walk. Some trees now have buds. Green shoots are poking up from the cold ground along with a few brave crocuses. The ugly patches of dirty snow are nearly all melted away. And ice no longer covers the nearby lake. These early signs of renewed life mean that warmer weather and summer gardens can’t be far away.

My search for new life outdoors made me want to look for signs of it inside, too—not in my house but in my soul. Winter settles over the northern hemisphere each year because the earth gradually tilts away from the sun. Spring returns once the earth tilts back again. That means spiritual winter must come when I become so busy and distracted that I subtly move away from God, the Source of life. Springtime reminds me to thaw any ice that has covered my heart and draw close to Him again. Jesus warned that in the last days, “Because of the increase of wickedness, the love of most will grow cold” (Matthew 24:12). And He warned Christians in Revelation that “You have forsaken your first love . . . you are neither cold nor hot.”

It’s time to melt the snows of complacency and look for signs of spiritual life, the same way I searched for it outdoors this morning. Am I becoming more Christ-like every day? Do others see signs of change in me? The Bible says we’re supposed to continue growing throughout our spiritual journey until we “become mature, attaining to the whole measure of the fullness of Christ” (Ephesians 4:13).

The best way I know to measure growth is to look for fruit in my life, using the familiar list in Galatians 5:22 as my guide: Am I becoming more loving—or becoming a permanent grouch? Am I increasingly joyful, no matter the circumstances—or do I keep reciting the same litany of complaints and excuses? Does the peace of God fill me—or do I continue to worry and fret? What about kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness? If these still aren’t part of my everyday personality, shouldn’t they at least be peeking through the surface by now as signs of Christ’s life in me? And how about self-control? They say the best test for this is when someone cuts you off in traffic. Or when family members frustrate you—again.

It will soon be time to clean out my flowerbeds, prune the dead branches, and cultivate my vegetable garden and plant new seeds. This year, it’s my prayer that these springtime chores will remind me to remove the dead weeds from my heart and cultivate spiritual fruit in my soul.

Which one of these Fruits of the Spirit do you most want to cultivate this spring?

Spiritual NICU

It is a pleasure to welcome my friend, Christine Bierma, as my guest on this week’s post. Christine is a talented young writer who posted this touching story on her blog, atrustworthysaying.com. We both know Baby Lucy’s parents and continue in prayer for this precious little one who was born at only 28 weeks.

Recently I’ve spent many days inside the halls of the Rush University NICU while a little girl, who has captured my heart, fights to grow strong in a world she wasn’t meant to be in yet. She is being required to do things her little body isn’t ready for and to excel at tasks she isn’t at all qualified to accomplish.

It’s unfair.

It’s hard to watch.

It’s miraculous.

Each day she amazes her parents and her doctors as she clears hurdles and learns to be more and more independent. How much her tiny body needs to grow before she can leave the NICU is overwhelming if you look at it as a checklist. Each day has ups and downs and sometimes, it feels safer to just live hour to hour, your heart could break with concern otherwise.

Each time this little miracle clears a developmental hurdle all of her monitors are green and the alarms attached to her are silent for awhile then a nurse or doctor comes in to change or tweak something. Inevitably they take something away from her that has allowed her to rest comfortably or adjust something that will require her to adapt and change. As soon as they do, her monitors start vacillating from green to yellow to red and back again. The alarms in her tiny hospital room beep loudly signally that she is dangerously close to needing help. This constant push by the medical staff is maddening to her young mom who wishes with all of her being to see her little one safe and content and happy. It breaks her parents hearts to see their new baby girl fight and struggle, gasping for air or fighting to keep infections at bay.

“Why?” her mom cried to me, “Why do they keep doing that to her? Why can’t they just leave her alone for awhile? I can’t watch, it feels like torture!”

As an outsider, an observer, I can clearly see that the doctors are simply doing what is required of them. I also can see that mom and dad are clearly doing their job. I can see that everyone has the same goal: to get this baby girl to graduate from the NICU. And yet, everyone has a different role to play. The medical staff has to push and push so that development will continue, even if it means pain, discomfort, risk and failure. The old adage two steps forward, one step back is very much a way of life. Our baby girl needs them to push her in order for her to grow strong and some day be independent.

However, in the midst of this pushing to develop, “kangaroo care” is so vitally important. Kangaroo care is “a method of caring for premature babies which involves holding a baby skin to skin with a parent for as many hours as is allowed.” This close hold will help regulate the baby’s temperature, heart rate, breathing and allow her to bond with her mother or father. She needs this love, this cuddling, and closeness. She needs to feel the warmth of her mother, to hear her father’s voice or rest in the rhythm of her mother’s heartbeat. There is no needle poking or prodding or pushing for a developmental milestone. There is only love and oneness and warmth and acceptance.

She needs both her doctors and nurses pushing and her mom and dad’s love in order for her to grow to the very best of her ability.

Watching her makes me think about myself, listening to her mom makes me think about God and how he cares for me in my spiritual growth. As I examine both her physical growth and my spiritual growth I have come to realize that God has me in a sort of “spiritual incubator.”

Growth is never easy. It looks easy I guess, but there is a lot of effort involved, and sometimes pain. My own boy grew 6 inches in the year between freshman and sophomore year. He had tremendous pain in his legs and has stretch marks on his skin as permanent scars to remind him of that year. What kind of spiritual stretch mark scars do I have?

I sometimes feel like the alarms of my spiritual incubator are deafening as they continue to ring. There are times in my life that I have felt very close to needing to be “intubated” and I wonder out loud why God continues to push me and allow so much stress, conflict or turmoil in my life. Why is everything so hard? Why doesn’t He love me?

There are times that I long for God to pull me close and give me some “kangaroo care” and he does. I love the times when God feels so close I can hear him. The times when the words of the Bible speak directly to my heart and I rest in his close embrace. Unfortunately, it seems I can’t stay there…there is more growing to do.

This spiritual incubator is a hard place to be…it doesn’t feel safe all the time even if it is exactly the only environment that I can survive in. You see, as children of God, we are not designed to survive or excel in this sinful world. We need God’s constant touch, his constant oversight, his prodding and poking so that we can grow. We need his kangaroo care so we can survive. Let to ourselves we would not survive, we need Him. His goal for us is not to stay in this world, this time, this place…his goal is that we will graduate to someday be with him, in eternity.

This world is not our home, it’s the NICU…a period of time spent in a place that will one day be ancient history, a piece of our story. I don’t completely understand how it all works, God’s ways are mysterious to me on a lot of things. One thing I am certain of however, is that God loves me unconditionally and more than I could ever understand; just like my little fighter is loved more than she knows or understands. Her parents would give their life to save hers in a heartbeat if they could. They would trade places with her and take on all of her struggles to save her from one day of pain.

God loves us like that. In John 3:16 the Bible says, “For God so loved the world that he gave is one and only son, Jesus, to die for us, to take our place. That whoever believes in him should not perish but would have eternal life.”

Jesus did give his life to save mine. One day he will take me home to be with him just like one day our rock star baby will go home to be with her family.

Until then…we grow.

To follow the story of the little fighter, Lucy, I have grown to love so much you can visit her CaringBridge site.

Written by Christine Bierma atrustworthysaying.com

A Quiz and a Giveaway!

Now that my Restoration Chronicles series is complete, I’m giving away a free set of these three books to one of my readers. The series is based on the biblical books of Ezra and Nehemiah, so take this True/False quiz first to see how much you remember about them:

Ezra & Nehemiah Trivia Quiz

1) Both of these men were born in Jerusalem.

Modern Jerusalem

2) They lived during the time of Queen Esther.

3) Ezra served as a priest of God.

4) The King of Persia granted the exiled Jews permission to return to Jerusalem and provided funds to rebuild God’s Temple.

5) When the Jews returned to Jerusalem from exile, Ezra encouraged them to intermarry with the people already living in the land.

6) Israel’s neighboring nations helped the Jews rebuild the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.

Model of Temple in Jerusalem

7) Nehemiah held an important position in the Persian government before going to Jerusalem.

8) There were women who helped Nehemiah rebuild Jerusalem’s wall.

9) Nehemiah and his co-laborers worked on the wall with one hand and carried a weapon in the other hand.

10) Ezra and Nehemiah celebrated the completion of the wall together.

Me in front of Nehemiah’s Wall in The City of David in Jerusalem

Answers:

1) False – The Jewish people had been carried into captivity by the Babylonians and both Ezra and Nehemiah were born in exile.

2) True – The time periods of these two biblical books and the Book of Esther overlap.

3) True – He traces his genealogy back to Aaron, the first High Priest (see Ezra 7:1-5).

4) True – A copy of his decree is found in Ezra 1:2-4.

Torah Scroll

5) False – When Ezra learned that some Jews had married idol worshippers, he took drastic action (see Ezra 9-10).

6) False – Their offer to help was refused for fear they would mix their idolatry with true worship (see Ezra 3:1-3).

7) True – He served as a cupbearer to the Persian king, a position of great trust similar to a secret service agent who guards the president.

8) True – As unbelievable as this sounds, it’s true (see Nehemiah 3:12).

9) True – They refused to let their enemies halt their work (see Nehemiah 4:16-18).

Looking down at Nehemiah’s Wall

10) True – Nehemiah 12:27-36 describes the celebration and says that Ezra led one of the processions.

How did you do? Don’t feel bad if you didn’t know all of the answers. I didn’t either until I began researching this series! But you can learn everything you need to know by reading my Restoration Chronicles. Book One, Return to Me, tells how the Jews who had been exiled to Babylon returned to their homeland to rebuild God’s Temple—the same Temple where Jesus later worshipped (although it was greatly embellished by King Herod). Book Two, Keepers of the Covenant, tells the story of the second wave of immigrants who returned, led by Ezra the teacher and priest. Book Three, On This Foundation, tells the story of Nehemiah, who took a leave of absence from the Persian king’s court to rebuild Jerusalem’s walls.

One lucky reader will win a free set of these 3 books. Just follow the link to leave a comment on my other blog, Inspired by Life and Fiction, and I will pick a winner.  http://inspiredbylifeandfiction.com/a-quiz-and-a-giveaway/