Bookish Blog Format
Once a week I share snippets from my novel in progress, and passages highlighted from the books I’m reading. Enjoy the (non-spoiler) sneak peeks from my as yet Untitled 9th Historical Novel set in Scotland and Colonial Virginia, 1730s. Be sure to check out the books I’m quoting. I highly recommend them!
From My Reading
New Morning Mercies, Paul Tripp, Feb 1: Rather than being signs of [God’s] inattention, [moments of difficulty] are sure signs of the zeal of his redemptive love. In grace, he leads you where you didn’t plan to go in order to produce in you what you couldn’t achieve on your own. In these moments, he works to alter the values of your heart so that you let go of your little kingdom of one and give yourself to his kingdom of glory and grace… He isn’t so much working to transform our circumstances as he is working through hard circumstances to transform you and me.
Heaven, Randy Alcorn, p453: We’ll have eternity to celebrate great victories on the old Earth, but we have only this brief window of opportunity now to win those victories.
Happiness, Randy Alcorn, p16: Living in Oregon, surrounded by stunning natural beauty and people who love and sometimes worship it, I often ponder the irony that my state and our neighbor, Washington, have among the lowest percentages of Christ-followers anywhere in the United States. For the present, by God’s grace and kindness, people can reject God but still receive the benefits of his common grace, including the enjoyment of loving relationships, natural and artistic beauty, and pleasure. However–and we need to be so warned–we live on borrowed time. This temporary situation will come to an abrupt end (see Hebrews 9:27-28; Revelation 20:11-15). After the termination of this life, we can have one of two combinations:
- both God and happiness
- neither God nor happiness
What we won’t be able to have is God without happiness or happiness without God.
The Time of the Signs, Barry Stagner, p245-246 : Whoever has been born of God does not sin, for His seed remains in him; and he cannot sin, because he has been born of God. 1 John 3:9. The Greek phrase translated “does not sin” is not implying sinless perfection is possible in this life. Rather, the phrase means “not content to continue.” In other words, born-again Christians–who were all born as sinners–are not content to continue in sin after true regeneration. This answers the age-old question, How can you know you are saved? If you are content with your old way of life, and you have no desire to change in order to live for Christ and represent Him through your actions and words, then that doesn’t reflect the presence of the Holy Spirit in your life.
From My Writing
Excerpt from: Untitled 9th Historical Novel, Copyright 2024 Lori Benton (all rights reserved; do not copy or share without my permission). Note: To avoid spoilers, sometimes I’ll replace character names with X, Y, or Z but I’ll keep them consistent. X is always a particular character, as is Y, and Z.
He minded well the last time she had offered [to teach him to read]. It happened beside the chapel, [spoiler deleted]. Jenny had been twelve, he a gangly thirteen, all knobby joints and hair sprouting in places he wasn’t yet accustomed, that on his head beginning to curl. It was one of those Sabbaths Father Martin celebrated a secret Mass high up in the glen, after the doings at kirk were over and folk dispersed to their homes. It was getting on toward evening when X noticed Jenny hadn’t returned to the clachan. He’d gone running back up the glen to find her still sitting by the spring in the chapel’s shade, prayer beads in hand, a Bible open on her knees, reading in the failing light.
He had often found her reading that Bible of late and acting like… well, like a proper lass, more than ever she had those summers at the shieling. He’d teased her for it so often she’d finally snapped at him, which he endured with secret pleasure. He liked the shape her mouth made when she was riled, though the sight was getting harder to provoke.
Thinking himself all kinds of clever, he’d crept through the trees until he reached the standing stone some ancient Celt had raised to mark the spring as holy, long before whatever God-fearing saint had come along and built his chapel there.
Jenny hadn’t so much as twitched at his leaping out to give her a fright.
“I heard ye coming halfway up the path.”
Disappointed not to have earned so much as a clot-head, X drew nigh enough to stand over her. “What are ye doing?”
“Reading.”
Obviously, her tone added.
“Wasn’t Father Martin’s homily enough? No’ to mention kirk.” Father Martin could hold his listeners with more skill than could the kirk minister, but only marginally. It wasn’t at all like listening to Grandfather’s stories. “What’s so fascinating in those pages that ye cannot bear to leave off?”
Calmly Jenny closed her Bible and stood.
“Stories,” she said.
“What stories? The Prodigal Son? Or the one about the pigs going over the cliff?” X snapped his fingers. “I’d those by heart in a single hearing.”
Jenny raised her brows. “Those, aye. But there’s tales in the front of the book Father Martin—and the kirk minister—ne’er seem to tell us. Tales of warriors and kings and battles. Stories of women, too. Some as braw as Maeve. Only with more sense.”
X cocked a brow, mildly offended on behalf of the Irish queen. “I thought ye liked Maeve. Ye begged me to tell the Táin Bó Cúailnge every summer at the shieling. Sometimes twice.”
“I do,” Jenny said. “But I like these women’s stories too.”
X crossed his arms over his chest. “Name me one then.”
“I’ll do ye better than one,” Jenny shot back. “There’s Deborah, who led men into battle when a warrior called Barak was too afraid to go alone. And Jael, who drove a stake through the head of her enemy while he slept in her tent. And Esther, who risked death at a king’s command to save her people from destruction.”
X stared at the Bible in Jenny’s hand, interest piqued. He tried to hide it with a twist of his lip. “Ne’er tell me there’s stories like that in there.”
“Oh, aye. And I only named three.” At last Jenny grinned, making his heart do that thing—a sort of flip and throb—only she could make it do. “Ye’re a good storyteller, X. Ye should learn them. And what they all mean.”
She plopped back down on the stone where she’d been reading, as if meaning to go on with it despite the gloaming gathering in the wood. Or was she about to launch another go at converting him to the deeper faith or whatever it was she’d found months back, during one of Father Martin’s homilies?
“I ken I’m a good storyteller, like Grandfather. But we [surname]s keep our stories here.” X tapped his head. Auld X had never learnt reading, yet never ran out of tales to tell by winter fires. “All in here,” he repeated. “Like the bards of old.”
“In here, too.” Jenny tapped her Bible, lifting her head to eye him. “But ye’ll never ken, no’ when ye sit all glassy-eyed through kirk and Mass—don’t pull that face, I’ve seen ye nodding off more times than I can mind.” She considered him with a shrewd gaze. “No, ye won’t learn them. Unless I teach ye to read them for yourself.”
X crouched beside her, scabbed knees poking beyond his plaid. The spring bubbled at their bare feet, flowing away through bracken to swell Glen Fheannag’s burn. He wished it was full daylight, to see her better. Even at twelve, Jenny was grown lovely enough to tie his tongue if ever he tried to speak of anything serious in nature. Anything from his heart.
A lock of her brown hair had fallen from its braid and hung across her brow. He heard his voice deepen as it sometimes did of late as he leaned in to tuck it behind her sweet little ear. “I’d rather ye read them to me.”
Jenny blushed so deep he could see it in the dim beneath the trees. She slapped her Bible shut and shot to her feet again. “Ye’re as stubborn as one of your cows!”
This was the old Jenny, small chin lifted, hazel eyes spitting fire. He bounded to his feet, grinning down at her, glad for his newly acquired height. “And as handsome, aye?”
That big red bull Dougal MacInnes had given him three years past had sired two stirks and three fine heifers. The stirks were black like the kyloes, but the heifers had come out a surprising brindled brown. He meant to breed the brindled ones and hope for more, so one day everyone in Glen Fheannag—the whole of Skye—would know his fine braw cattle at a glance.
That lock of hair had fallen back across Jenny’s eyes, reminding him of his cows. But they never looked so coquettish gazing at him as Jenny did now.
“Handsome, is it?” she scoffed, before turning on her heel and marching through the grove, headed for the track home. Bible tucked under an arm, over her shoulder she sent her parting shot. “No’ by half!”
I love the interaction here and how you’ve set the scene. Beautiful writing.
Thanks Stephanie!