{"id":1817,"date":"2009-07-11T01:15:40","date_gmt":"2009-07-11T06:15:40","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=1817"},"modified":"2009-07-10T17:22:41","modified_gmt":"2009-07-10T22:22:41","slug":"what-the-bayou-saw-by-patti-lacy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=1817","title":{"rendered":"What the Bayou Saw by Patti Lacy"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>\"\"<\/a>It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour<\/a><\/strong><\/span> <\/strong> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Today’s Wild Card author is: <\/strong><\/div>\n
Patti Lacy<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

and the book:<\/span> <\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

What the Bayou Saw<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Kregel Publications (March 24, 2009)<\/p>\n

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:<\/span> <\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Patti Lacy graduated from Baylor University with a B.S. in education. She taught at Heartland Community College in Normal, Illinois, until 2006, when she began to pursue writing full-time. She has two grown children and lives in Illinois with her husband, Alan, and a dog named Laura.<\/p>\n

Visit the author’s website<\/a>.<\/p>\n

<\/embed><\/object><\/p>\n

Product Details:<\/p>\n

List Price: $14.99<\/p>\n

Paperback: 336 pages<\/p>\n

Publisher: Kregel Publications (March 24, 2009)<\/p>\n

Language: English<\/p>\n

ISBN-10: 0825429374<\/p>\n

ISBN-13: 978-0825429378<\/p>\n

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:<\/span> <\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Prologue<\/p>\n

Hold the Wind, Hold the Wind, Hold the Wind, don\u2019t let it blow.<\/p>\n

\u2014Negro spiritual, \u201cHold the Wind\u201d<\/p>\n

August 26, 2005, Normal, Illinois<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m meteorologist Kim Boudreaux.\u201d Clad in a dark suit, the petite woman smiled big for her television audience. \u201cKatrina\u2019s track has changed.\u201d She pointed to a mass of ominous-looking clouds that threatened to engulf the screen. \u201cShe\u2019s no longer headed for Mobile but is on course for the Crescent City.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sally Stevens checked her cell phone, then paced in front of the television, as if that would make her brother Robert pick up the phone. She needed to talk to him, needed to know that he\u2019d gotten her nieces and her sister-in-law out of the death trap that New Orleans suddenly had become. Needed to have him assure her, with his balmy Southern drawl, that he and his National Guardsmen were going to be okay.<\/p>\n

A slender hand pointed to what must be a fortune\u2019s worth of satellite and radar imagery. \u201cAs you can see, Katrina\u2019s moving toward the mouth of the Mississippi, toward the levees . . .\u201d The meteorologist buzzed on, seemingly high on news of this climactic wonder.<\/p>\n

Every word seeped from the television screen, crept across the Stevens\u2019s den, and crawled up Sally\u2019s spine. Louisiana had once been her home. Her heritage. What would this hurricane do to the Southern state that she still loved?<\/p>\n

A glance at her watch told Sally to get moving. Instead, she once again punched in Robert\u2019s number. If she could just hear his voice, she\u2019d know how to pray later as she stood in her classroom pretending to be passionate about her lecture on the history of American music, pretending to act like it was another ordinary afternoon in Normal, Illinois, while this mother of a storm wreaked wrath and vengeance upon her brother. Her home.<\/p>\n

\u201c. . . the next twenty-four hours are crucial . . .\u201d The camera zoomed in for a close-up, focusing on a perfect oval face that, for just a moment, seemed to stiffen, as if a personal levee was about to be breached. \u201cI\u2019m not supposed to say this.\u201d Urgency laced the forecaster\u2019s voice \u201cBut I\u2019m telling you. Leave. This is a killer.\u201d The pulsating weather image seemed to confirm her report, a mass of scarlet and violet whirling about an ominous-looking eye. Growing like a cancer. Moving in for the kill . . .<\/p>\n

Talk turned to evacuation, log-jammed roads, but Sally barely listened. Years flew away as she studied Ms. Boudreaux\u2019s flawless mocha complexion, the tilt of her chin. The determination of this woman to save her city, or at least its people. So like the determination of Ella, that first friend, who\u2019d taken off for New Orleans. It was as if the lockbox of Sally\u2019s memories had somehow sprung open. Ella, that friend who\u2019d saved her. Ella. And her brother Willie, if he\u2019d gotten out of the pen. Were they digging in, evacuating\u2014<\/p>\n

A classical song Sally\u2019s kids had downloaded onto her phone poured from the tiny speaker as the device vibrated in her palm.<\/p>\n

\u201cGod, let it be\u2014\u201d She glanced at the readout. 504 area code. New Orleans. Robert. Her fingers suddenly clumsy, she struggled to flip open the phone.<\/p>\n

Static greeted her.<\/p>\n

\u201cRobert? Bobby?\u201d She was shouting, but she didn\u2019t care. \u201cAre you there? Are you\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSsss\u2014got them out.\u201d<\/p>\n

He\u2019s out there somewhere, right in the elements, from the sound of it. \u201cWhere are you?\u201d Sally cried. \u201cRobert, what\u2019s going on?\u201d Sally pressed the phone against her ear until it hurt. All this technology, yet she could barely hear him, could barely\u2014<\/p>\n

The whooshing stopped. So did Robert\u2019s voice. Sally stared at the readout. Ten seconds she\u2019d had with him. Ten seconds to gauge the climate of a city. A city that might still claim as a resident that once-best friend. Sally whispered a prayer as she grabbed her briefcase and headed to class.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

August 29, 2005, New Orleans, Louisiana<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s no use! The generator\u2019s flooded!\u201d A single battery-operated hallway light revealed the faint outline of Dr. Powers, the thin, impeccably groomed physician whom Ella Ward had worked with for a decade. \u201cElla? Ella?\u201d He groped against the hospital\u2019s second floor wall, his hands and arms made ghoulish by the shadowy dark. \u201cAre you there? Ella? We\u2019ve got to get them out of here! Now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Screams, howling winds, and debris crashing against boarded-up windows swirled into a hellish cacophony that tore at Ella\u2019s heart. What were the three of them, she, Willie, and the doctor\u2014no. Willie didn\u2019t count. What were the two of them going to do for sixty-three patients writhing in excrement, gasping for breath, thousands of dollars of ventilators and BiPAPs rendered powerless? Dying, minute by minute, second by second?<\/p>\n

Just to keep from falling down, Ella dug her fingernails into a wall sweaty with humidity. She opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. At Dr. Powers\u2019s side, she\u2019d watched an aortic artery explode, a patient gurgle in his own blood . . . \u201cThe scalpel, Ms. Ward?\u201d he\u2019d said. \u201cSuction, please.\u201d With ice-blue cool, Dr. Powers had plucked life out of mangled messes and never even raised his voice. Now his screams pierced Ella\u2019s ears, and her hopes. Even with one of New Orleans\u2019 best surgeons at her side, the prognosis of surviving this storm was dim. There was nothing for Ella to do but close her eyes and beg. \u201cOh God. Please Spirit. Please Lord Jesus, please.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dr. Powers clutched at the sleeve of Ella\u2019s cotton scrub. \u201cWhere\u2019s Willie?\u201d<\/p>\n

The doctor\u2019s touch and the mention of her brother brought Ella around. Still, she could barely speak for the quivering of her lip. \u201cWhere . . . do you think a junkie would be?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe . . . pharmacy?\u201d<\/p>\n

Even though Dr. Powers most likely couldn\u2019t see her nod, Ella went through the motion. Twenty-four hours ago, she\u2019d decided she and Willie would come here together. Yet even in her worst nightmare, she hadn\u2019t really believed that they\u2019d die here together.<\/p>\n

\u201cSomeone, anyone, let me outta here!\u201d It was Mrs. Smith, in Room 215.<\/p>\n

\u201cHold the wind, Lord!\u201d Mr. Lunsford, who\u2019d thought he\u2019d die of cancer.<\/p>\n

Ella gritted her teeth. One by one, the patients were seeing the storm\u2019s demonic fingers etching out a death sentence, and screaming their response.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ve got to do something.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dr. Powers\u2019s words sent a shiver through Ella. Had he read her mind? Or had she babbled without even knowing it? She clamped her hands over her ears. Lord! I\u2019m goin\u2019 crazy! Help me, Lord!<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s happenin\u2019, Lawd? Oh, Lawd Jesus!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSweet Jesus! Where are you?\u201d<\/p>\n

What had acted as a twisted tonic to incite the patients to a new level of chaos? Was it the howls of the winds, the thuds and crashes against the windows, the doors, the very roof of this place?<\/p>\n

\u201cJesus, oh Jesus!\u201d<\/p>\n

Every moan, every scream, knifed into Ella like a scalpel. Nursing school hadn\u2019t trained her for this. Nearly thirty years working at understaffed facilities hadn\u2019t trained her for this. Nothing had trained her for this. With taut fingers, she pulled the doctor close, then shoved him to his knees and knelt by him, her hands flush against the wall. \u201cWe gotta pray,\u201d she said.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1817","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1817","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1817"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1817\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1819,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1817\/revisions\/1819"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1817"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1817"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1817"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}