{"id":9612,"date":"2011-10-17T18:42:21","date_gmt":"2011-10-17T23:42:21","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/\/?p=9612"},"modified":"2011-10-17T18:42:21","modified_gmt":"2011-10-17T23:42:21","slug":"sunrise-on-the-battery-by-beth-webb-hart","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=9612","title":{"rendered":"Sunrise on the Battery by Beth Webb Hart"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a>It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour<\/a><\/strong><\/span> 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

 <\/p>\n

Today’s Wild Card author is: <\/strong><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Beth Webb Hart<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

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

Sunrise on the Battery<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Thomas Nelson (October 11, 2011)<\/p>\n

***Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***<\/p>\n

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

\"\"<\/a>With a B.A. in English Literature from Hollins University and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Sarah Lawrence College, Hart serves as an inspirational speaker and creative writing instructor at conferences, retreats, schools, libraries and churches across the country, and she is the recipient of two national teaching
\nawards from Scholastic, Inc. and the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers. She lives with her husband, composer Edward Hart, and their family in Charleston.<\/p>\n

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


\n<\/span><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:<\/span> <\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

\"\"<\/a>She wanted her husband to attend the town\u2019s society-driven church.<\/p>\n

God answered her prayer in a radical way.<\/p>\n

An emptiness dogs Mary Lynn Scoville. But it shouldn\u2019t. After all, she\u2019s achieved what few believed possible. Born in the rural south, she has reached the pinnacle of worldly success in Charleston, South Carolina. Married to a handsome real estate developer and mother to three accomplished daughters, Mary Lynn is one Debutante Society invitation away from truly having it all. And yet, it remains\u2014an emptiness that no shopping trip, European vacation, or social calendar can fill.<\/p>\n

When a surprise encounter leads her to newfound faith, Mary Lynn longs to share it with her husband. But Jackson wrote God off long ago. Mary Lynn prays for him on Christmas Eve…and her husband undergoes a life-altering, Damascus Road experience. As Jackson begins to take the implications of the Gospel literally, Mary Lynn feels increasingly isolated from her husband…and betrayed by God. She only wanted Jackson beside her at church on Sunday mornings, not some Jesus freak who evangelizes prostitutes and invites the homeless to tea.<\/p>\n

While her husband commits social suicide and the life they worked so hard for crumbles around them, Mary Lynn wonders if their marriage can survive. Or if perhaps there really is a more abundant life that Jackson has discovered, richer than any she\u2019s ever dreamed of.<\/p>\n

Product Details:<\/p>\n

List Price: $15.99
\nPaperback: 320 pages
\nPublisher: Thomas Nelson (October 11, 2011)
\nLanguage: English
\nISBN-10: 1595542000
\nISBN-13: 978-1595542007<\/p>\n

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

\n

Mary Lynn Scoville<\/p>\n

December 24, 2009<\/p>\n

It was the morning before Christmas, and Mary Lynn was preparing for her sunrise jog around the tip of the Charleston Peninsula. She stretched her thighs and calves in the gray light of her piazza, then bounded out of her South Battery home, traveling west toward the coast guard station like she did every morning as part of her effort to \u201cfinally get back in shape\u201d since her fortieth birthday, six short months ago.<\/p>\n

By the time she reached Tradd Street, the gray had turned to a soft, creamy light, and she hung a left and rounded the corner onto Murray Boulevard where she traced the west tip of the peninsula as buoys bobbed in the churning water of the harbor and pelicans\u2014beak first, wings pulled tight against their large prehistoric bodies\u2014dove for breakfast in a thrilling kind of free fall.<\/p>\n

At her husband Jackson\u2019s strong suggestion, she stayed clear of the darkened cars parked along the edge of the waterway leading up to White Point Gardens. Unseemly characters gathered along the water\u2019s edge at night and often fell asleep there, not to mention the handful of homeless folks who made their berths on park benches. There had been a murder in one of the cars last year as well as a rape, but the light was too high in the sky for any of that now. As her friend from her bluegrass days, Scottie Truluck, boldly proclaimed the day after someone broke into her house and took off with her laptop and her sterling silver tea set, you couldn\u2019t let fear get in the way of your city life.<\/p>\n

Mary Lynn hit her stride, as usual, at the High Battery as a lone sailboat with little blinking white Christmas lights encircling its mast pushed through the choppy water. She felt her heart rate rising and she became conscious of her breathing, so she attempted to take her mind off of her workout and the pounding of the pavement on her knees by going through her to-do list for the day as she passed the Carolina Yacht Club where Jackson had been offered a membership after his second time through the application process. Hot dog! An invitation to join this exclusive, tight-knit club was a kind of proof that they had been officially accepted by Charleston society. Not an easy feat in this historic southern city that, after two brutal wars and a depression that stretched on for half a century, had good reason to be wary of outsiders. Of course, they both knew they had Mark Waters\u2014an older friend with hometown ties\u2014to thank for this and many of the doors that had been opened to them.<\/p>\n

Still, Mark didn\u2019t run the entire city (especially not the old-Charleston set) no matter how deep his pockets, and the yacht club membership meant that they had finally passed some sort of insider\u2019s test after their move to the city ten years ago. And that, along with the invitation Mary Lynn received last year to join the Charlestowne Garden Club and another to serve as chairman of the board of the old and prestigious Peninsula Day School, made her feel like this truly was their home. Their real home. She smiled even as she panted. She and Jackson, two country bumpkins from Meggett, South Carolina, were somehow making their way into Charleston society. Who\u2019d have ever thunk it?<\/p>\n

But that wasn\u2019t even the primary goal for Jackson, who was the sharpest, most focused man Mary Lynn had ever known. The real goal for him (and he had written it down and asked her to put it in her jewelry box in an envelope marked \u201cfamily mission statement\u201d) was to give their three girls the life he and Mary Lynn never had. This meant a top-rate education, exposure and immersion in the fine arts, and frequent opportunities to see the big wide world beyond the Carolina lowcountry or the United States for that matter.<\/p>\n

\u201cNot just education, baby\u2014cultivation,\u201d he would say as they lay side by side in their four-poster antique bed purchased on King Street for a pretty penny, Jackson resting some classic novel he should have read in high school on his chest. Then Mary Lynn would look up from the Post and Courier or Southern Living or lately, the little black leather Bible Scottie had given her after the birthday luncheon meltdown, and smile.<\/p>\n

Every time Mary Lynn and Jackson discussed their children, she had an image of her husband tilling the soil of their daughters\u2019 minds and dropping down the little seeds like he did every spring growing up on his daddy\u2019s farm. \u201cJust like the tomaters, darlin\u2019,\u201d he\u2019d say in his exaggerated country accent. \u201cOnly now it is little intellects that will one day be big as cantaloupes!\u201d<\/p>\n

A pretty lofty mission. But a worthy one, Mary Lynn supposed. Though sometimes she grew nervous that he rode the girls too hard with their school work and over scheduled them with extracurricular activities\u2014strings lessons, writing workshops, ballet, and foreign language. They sure didn\u2019t have much time to lollygag or linger or strike out on an adventure as she had as a child roaming the corn fields on her uncle\u2019s farm, climbing trees, building forts, or spending the night in a sleeping bag beneath a blanket of stars. Despite her mama\u2019s missteps and mean old Mrs. Gustafson, who made sure the whole town knew every little detail about them, Mary Lynn had a sanctuary on her uncle\u2019s farm. Much of her childhood she was ignorantly blissful of all the trouble and the gossip that surrounded her family as she played hide-and-seek in the corn husks with her mama, running fast through the papery leaves that gently slapped her face. Then crouching down as she heard the sweet voice of her only parent call, \u201cReady or not, here I come!\u201d<\/p>\n

But Mary Lynn had to acknowledge the fruit of Jackson\u2019s labors. Thanks to his staying after them, the girls were well on their way to mastering a stringed instrument and they could carry on a conversation (and for their oldest, read a novel) in French and Spanish. Imagine!<\/p>\n

Who would have guessed the upward turn their lives would take after Jackson\u2019s daddy\u2019s death revealed the little real estate gems up and down the South Carolina coast he had inherited from a great uncle? The timing was right and Jackson had been shrewd. He turned to Mark Waters, who showed him just how to go about it. This was in the early \u201990s, well before the economic downturn, and Jackson sold each piece of property for five and even ten times what his great uncle had paid for it. Then he bought more land, bought several low-end housing projects Mark introduced him to, invested in some of Mark\u2019s big commercial and condo development ventures, and did the same year-in and year-out for more than a decade as the market soared.<\/p>\n

\u201cBoy, you picked wisely,\u201d Mama had said the first time she came to visit them at their new home on South Battery. She narrowed her eyes and looked up at Mary Lynn. \u201c\u2019Course I thought Mark was going to gnash his teeth when he got a gander at the skinny farm boy you had fallen for.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMama, Mark was married by that point.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot that nuptials ever meant much to the Waters clan.\u201d She winked, then shook her head. Mary Lynn guessed her mama was thinking of her own engagement to Mark\u2019s father, who had proposed after she ran his office for years. They never did make it to the altar. \u201cBut you saw something in Jackson no one else took the time to see, smart girl.\u201d Then she walked carefully over to the portrait of some eighteenth-century British gentleman that their decorator had insisted they purchase for the foyer, rubbed the corner of its gilded frame, and shook her head in disbelief before turning back. \u201cYou saw the man in the boy, didn\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mary Lynn had smiled. Then she walked over and kissed her mama\u2019s made-up cheek. It felt cool like putty.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was just lucky, Mama.\u201d And that was the truth. Jackson was the only boy in town she ever dated, though Mark Waters had told her more than once he\u2019d wait for her to grow up. Of course, she wasn\u2019t surprised that he didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

Her mama had nodded her head as she walked into the foyer and rested her hand on the grand staircase\u2019s large pineapple finial. Then she gazed up the three flights of intricately trimmed hardwood stairs, clucked her tongue, and said, \u201cEverybody gets lucky sometimes, I reckon.\u201d<\/p>\n

Now if Jackson stuck with Mark and played it right, he might not have to work for the rest of his life, and he and Mary Lynn would leave a pretty penny to their girls someday. With financial security and intellects as big as cantaloupes, what more could their daughters need?<\/p>\n

But back to the to-do list. Mary Lynn still had a few presents to wrap, and she needed to polish the silver serving pieces for the \u201cshow and tell\u201d tea party they had hosted every Christmas afternoon for the last eight years. Jackson, who had taken up the cello a few years ago, was trying to get their three daughters to perform a movement from a Haydn string quartet (Opus 20, no. 4 in D major, second movement to be exact), and he had played the slow and somber piece on the CD player so many times over the last month that Mary Lynn found that she was waking up from her sleep with the notes resounding in her head.<\/p>\n

She\u2019d never really known of Haydn; she never knew a lick about classical music until they moved to Charleston and started going to the symphony and the Spoleto Festival events. Eventually they became supporters of the symphony and the College of Charleston\u2019s music department, and now she found she could recognize a few pieces by ear, though in all honesty, she always daydreamed when she went to a concert. Sometimes it would be over, the audience would be standing for their ovation, and she\u2019d be lost in thought about shelling butter beans on the back porch with Aunt Josey or sitting by Uncle Dale in the rocking chairs as he tuned his mandolin before they started in on \u201cMan of Constant Sorrow\u201d or \u201cO Brother, Where Art Thou?\u201d with him singing low and Mary Lynn singing the dissonant high lonesome sound while she twirled and twirled around. Uncle Dale said she had a voice that was pure sugar and more moves than a croker sack full of eels. And once when Mark Waters and his daddy, Cecil, were over, Cecil teared up over the singing and the twirling and then insisted on underwriting voice and guitar lessons from a famous country music writer who had settled in Charleston. Mary Lynn and her mother drove the fifty minutes into town for the next seven years until she graduated with two offers: one from her guitar instructor to join his newly formed bluegrass band as the lead singer, and an academic scholarship to USC-Beaufort. Since she was smart enough even then to know that an eighteen-year-old girl didn\u2019t need to be traveling in a band, and since Jackson had proposed on bended knee, she did what felt right to her heart: she chose the scholarship and married her sweetheart.<\/p>\n

But on those mornings when she dropped the kids off at school and had to run a few errands, she turned back to the radio station she grew up listening to, an old blend of rock \u2018n\u2019 roll and country and bluegrass, and tapped along to Elvis Presley or Johnny Cash or the Stanley Brothers as she drove through the historic streets with her windows rolled up as if she were in her own secret time capsule, transporting herself back to when she was thirteen, dancing and twirling with her mama to \u201cReturn to Sender\u201d on the screened porch as Aunt Josey and Uncle Dale clapped and laughed.<\/p>\n

Catherine and Lilla, Mary Lynn\u2019s oldest girls, both played violin, and Casey, the baby by five years, played the viola. Their family quartet sounded all right, except for the cello, which made an occasional alley cat screech when Jackson came at it a little off angle. She imagined they\u2019d be practicing all day to get it right for tomorrow\u2019s performance.<\/p>\n

The sun was beginning to warm Mary Lynn\u2019s back when she turned from East Bay Street onto Broad where she planned to sprint all-out to Meeting Street, then stop and walk briskly home the rest of the way, her hands raised and clasped behind her head, her heart pounding, then slowing moment by moment as the brisk air chilled her sweaty body to the bone. What a way to wake up! She loved it. And she had shed twelve of the fifteen pounds she had been trying to get rid of since her big birthday.<\/p>\n

But this morning, just after she bounded at full speed across Church Street and back onto the uneven sidewalk of Broad Street, the front tip of her left running shoe caught for a split second in a crooked old grate so that when she slammed her right foot down and lunged at a sharp angle to keep herself from somersaulting, she heard a tear just below the back of her knee and a pain blasted through her calf as though she had been shot at close range.<\/p>\n

\u201cAgh!\u201d she screamed, falling hard on her side and grasping the back of her right leg.<\/p>\n

She knew what had happened, and she wasn\u2019t sure if it was her knowledge or the pain that was causing the intense wave of nausea. She spit and attempted to will her stomach to settle down as her aching muscle throbbed.<\/p>\n

The injury, she was sure, was tennis leg, a rupture of the calf muscle on the inside of the leg. She had suffered the same kind of tear in the same place two other times before. Once when Scottie had taken her to a Joni Mitchell concert in Atlanta and she had danced a little too hard to \u201cCalifornia,\u201d and just two years ago, when she was standing on the top of her living room sofa, hanging a new set of silk drapes hours before hosting a Parents Guild luncheon.<\/p>\n

Mary Lynn put her forehead on her knee and ground her teeth. The stones from the old sidewalk were cool beneath her legs, and a chill worked its way up her spine. At best, she would spend the next ten days on crutches icing down her leg every few hours. And then another six weeks in physical therapy. Or worse, she would have to undergo surgery\u2014something Dr. Powell had warned her about after her last rupture. \u201cSurgery means no bearing weight for four months,\u201d he had said, looking over his tortoise shell bifocals at her. \u201cSo be cautious, Mary Lynn.\u201d<\/p>\n

The street was quiet on this early Thursday morning. No one was around to gawk or help her up, and she started to weep\u2014more from the frustration, from the time she would lose in the days and weeks to come, and from the stupid grate that no one in the city had bothered to right in maybe one hundred years than from the pain that seemed to compound itself with every new beat of her heart.<\/p>\n

She put her clammy palms on the sidewalk and rotated her body over to her left side toward the entry way of the Spencer Art Gallery, and then she slowly felt her way up the side of the stone building until she was upright. She would have to walk on her tippy toes until she flagged someone down or found an open store where she could use the phone to call Jackson.<\/p>\n

Mary Lynn swung her head back and forth in an effort to shake off the stars she was seeing. She walked a good block, carefully, on the balls of her feet to the corner of Meeting and Broad singing \u201cWalk a Mile in My Shoes\u201d by Elvis just to keep herself going. When she rounded the corner where St. Michael\u2019s Episcopal Church stood, she spotted Roy Summerall, the rector, chatting animatedly to a familiar-looking man who leaned against a parked taxi cab, steam rising from his coffee mug.<\/p>\n

She recognized the man as soon as he glanced in her direction. It was Craig MacPherson, Alyssa\u2019s father. (Alyssa was one of Catherine\u2019s best friends.) He had lost his job as a real estate appraiser during the recent economic crisis, and he was forced to pull Alyssa out of the Peninsula Day School, the private school Mary Lynn\u2019s daughters attended. Now she could see that the rumor she heard was true. He was driving a cab to make ends meet.<\/p>\n

Then just as she relaxed the balls of her feet after her favorite line in the chorus\u2014\u201cYeah, before you abuse, criticize and accuse . . .\u201d\u2014in her relief over finding some folks she knew could help her, the pain shot through her leg, worse than before, and she leaned forward and vomited all over the base of the large white church column closest to Broad Street.<\/p>\n

The men must have heard her retching. By the time she looked back up again, wincing and straining to get upright and back on her tip toes, they were by her side, gently placing her arms around their shoulders.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou all right, Mary Lynn?\u201d Reverend Summerall asked. She had been attending his church with Scottie every now and then, and she had met him once briefly at a Downtown Neighborhood Association gathering awhile back, but she was sort of surprised that he remembered her name.<\/p>\n

She pulled her arm back around, wiped her mouth with the back of her fleece jacket, then placed it on his shoulder again. \u201cTennis leg.\u201d She shook her head in disbelief. \u201cI tore a muscle in my calf. It\u2019s happened to me before.\u201d<\/p>\n

The men made a quick plan to carry her to the cab.<\/p>\n

\u201cOn three,\u201d Craig MacPherson said, and after he called out the numbers, she felt them lift her up and carefully scurry her down the sidewalk before setting her gently in the backseat of Craig\u2019s taxi.<\/p>\n

\u201cLet\u2019s get you home,\u201d Craig said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWait.\u201d Roy put his hand on her shoulder and uttered a quick prayer. She couldn\u2019t make out the words, but that didn\u2019t matter. She had no problem with prayers. In fact, she was starting to like them. She\u2019d been going with Scottie to a women\u2019s prayer group at the church every Wednesday afternoon for almost two years now, and she had become downright used to listening to folks pray out loud for one another\u2019s needs, though she\u2019d never had the nerve to join in.<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you.\u201d She looked up and swiveled her head back and forth to meet both sets of sympathetic eyes. \u201cI\u2019ll be okay.\u201d And then to Roy, \u201cSorry to leave a mess on your portico.\u201d<\/p>\n

The priest smiled. \u201cDon\u2019t worry about that. Just take care of yourself. I\u2019ll check in on you later.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mary Lynn nodded, and Craig gently closed the cab door and walked around to the driver\u2019s side. She was surprised by how clean the car was. It smelled like soap and maybe gardenias? Some sort of flower, anyway. And when she looked up to see Craig\u2019s picture and license displayed on the visor, she noticed a drawing that Alyssa must have made for him. It was of the steeple of St. Michael\u2019s with the sun shining through the second tier balcony. The one with the handsome arches. Then she saw the girl\u2019s name inscribed in the far right corner.<\/p>\n

Sitting down felt much better, and Mary Lynn was astonished by how much the pain receded when she took weight off of her leg. She needed to get ice on her calf as soon as she got home, and she would have to elevate her leg (up higher than her heart as she recalled) to stop the ache. That was how she would spend the whole afternoon\u2014her leg in a pillow with a rope tied to the ceiling beam. That and calling all of the guests to cancel tomorrow\u2019s tea.<\/p>\n

But she felt so much better at this moment. Whew. Sitting down in the back of the clean cab with the bright sunlight shooting through the windows, she felt relief. As if, for a moment anyway, it had never happened.<\/p>\n

As they turned off of Meeting Street onto South Battery, she could see her historic white clapboard home in the distance, particularly grand in its Christmas d\u00e9cor\u2014fresh garland around the doorway and piazza rail, two magnolia-leaf wreaths with large gold bows on each piazza door, and even a little red berry wreath around the head of the statue in the center of the fountain in the side garden. That had been Casey\u2019s idea, and it added a little whimsy to the decorations, Mary Lynn thought. To her it made the house wink to the passersby as if to say, There are children who live here! It\u2019s not a just a photo from Architectural Digest. See? Every time Mary Lynn saw it, she grinned.<\/p>\n

As Craig went around to help her out of the car, she turned to face him and still did not feel the pain. He took out his cell phone. \u201cShould I call Jackson to meet us down here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d she said. \u201cHe\u2019s probably on his morning walk and I\u2019m sure the girls are still asleep.\u201d She reached out her hand. \u201cIf you help me out, I can make it in on the balls of my feet.\u201d<\/p>\n

Like Mary Lynn, Jackson had a morning ritual\u2014walking their black Labrador, Mac, up King Street to Caviar & Bananas, munching on a scone and an espresso, reading the New York Times, preparing for a meeting with Mark or mapping out the day, the week, or the month\u2014depending on how exuberant he was\u2014and walking briskly home. Sometimes she ran into him a block from their house on her way home from her morning run. He usually brought something back to her\u2014a muffin or a strawberry dipped in chocolate, which she discreetly gave to Anarosa, the housekeeper, to take home to her little boys. And now that the girls were out of school for the holiday, he brought something for them as well. Casey always enjoyed her treat, but the older girls were watching their weight and they, too, gave their treat to Anarosa.<\/p>\n

When Craig leaned forward, she put her arm around his shoulder and let him hoist her up on her tippy toes. Then she took a step forward on the balls of her feet, still leaning on him, and she didn\u2019t feel any pain. She took another step. Nothing. Her calf felt normal. She almost put her heels down, but she was afraid to.<\/p>\n

When a horn from a driver stuck behind the recycling truck blasted just yards ahead, she was so startled, she leaned back and was forced to put her heel on the sidewalk.<\/p>\n

The pain behind the back of her knee was not there.<\/p>\n

She looked up at Craig. Her eyebrows furrowed. She rubbed the back of her leg. No tenderness. Nothing. What in the world?<\/p>\n

\u201cHurt bad?\u201d he said. He shook his head in an effort to commiserate. Then he stepped back and leaned forward with his hands on his knees to give her a little space. Maybe he thought she might get sick again.<\/p>\n

She looked up at him. Had she dreamed the whole thing? No. She had heard her muscle rip. She had felt the shot of pain. It had happened to her two other times in her life, and she knew precisely what it was.<\/p>\n

She decided not to answer Craig. It was just so strange. After a few seconds he lifted out his hand and she leaned into it expecting the pain to kick in, but it didn\u2019t. Once she was on the piazza, she thanked him and he headed back to his cab. Then she unlocked the door, walked in the house with her heels firmly planted on the hardwood floor.<\/p>\n

Was she fine?<\/p>\n

She shook her right leg out. She walked. She did a few lunges, then jumped up and down several times, which caused Mac to bark and run into the foyer where he stopped, stared, and tilted his head as if he were as confused as she was.<\/p>\n

Had Reverend Summerall\u2019s prayer been answered?<\/p>\n

\u201cHow was your run?\u201d Jackson handed her a chocolate croissant in a waxy little bag. He was back sooner than she expected.<\/p>\n

How many calories in a chocolate croissant? Way too many for a gal beating back a middle-age paunch in the midst of the holiday season. And how was her run? Well, she wanted to tell him the whole story, but something held her back. He had made it clear since she started going to church with Scottie that he had no interest in religion. He wasn\u2019t going to stop her. It didn\u2019t bother him that she went. He just didn\u2019t want her to expect him to follow along with all of that. He had a mission, after all, and he was focused.<\/p>\n

He cocked his head. \u201cYour jog all right, baby?\u201d<\/p>\n

She looked into his bright green eyes. They blinked slowly. It was the first time they had made eye contact today.<\/p>\n

\u201cAmazing,\u201d she finally said. She smiled and lovingly squeezed his shoulder. Then she gently accepted the little waxy bag and headed to the pantry where Anarosa kept her purse.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n

MY REVIEW:<\/strong><\/p>\n

Mary Lynn and Jackson Scoville are finally on the verge of being accepted into Charleston society. As objects of scorn growing up in their hometown, Jackson’s success has paved the way for everything they dreamed of for themselves but especially for their daughters. Unfortunately, Jackson’s obsession with a classical education for the girls has resulted in one daughter trying to cope with the stress and another daughter who is quietly rebellious.<\/p>\n

An unexpected miracle reawakens Mary Lynn’s childhood faith and wanting to share it with skeptical Jackson, she requests prayer for his salvation. When God answers her prayer with surprising results, Mary Lynn is caught off-balance and even regrets asking for prayer.<\/p>\n

Hart has opened the doors of Charleston society to give the reader a behind-the-scenes look at a side of life few of us are privileged (or not) to experience. That life comes with an entirely different set of anxieties and uncertainties that include the need to keep up appearances at all costs and the fear of being overlooked for membership in various organizations. Her characters are fresh with real life situations that challenge them. As I followed daughter Catherine’s story, I was so afraid that it would not turn out well. I was so glad my fears were unfounded.<\/p>\n

Sunrise on the Battery<\/a> has examples of both lukewarm and vibrant Christianity that will encourage you to take stock of where you stand. This novel is not only a good story but has a strong message of faith. I definitely recommend it.<\/p>\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":[8,60],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-9612","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books","category-contemporary-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9612"}],"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=9612"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9612\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":9617,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9612\/revisions\/9617"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=9612"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=9612"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=9612"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}