Synopses & Reviews
Chapter OneMeThe candle flame stood tall and unmoving, creating its own small pool of light in the darkness which seemed to surround me. I saw almost nothing else; the candle, the coffin upon which it stood and the low overhanging branches of the yew tree which were to shelter the grave. I stood staring down at the coffin until the Vicar moved directly in front of me to perform the ritual which would bring to a definite end the second part of my life. Father Head said his words, and the coffin was lowered gently into the earth by men whose faces were revoltingly impassive, smooth and professionally respectful. How I loathe funerals! On that day in November 1963 there was a bitter stillness about the world; for the second time in my life everything I knew, everything I held dear and the one person I loved had been swept away.At that point I had no parents, no home and no hope. The winding path of life that had led me to this place and this time had provided strange contrasts and strange similarities in the pattern of my environments. There was always a House, for example; not just a house though, but a distinctive house, one which stood out from its neighbours, different and aloof although neglected and sadly in need of repair. In America, my father's, W.L. Gresham's, choice was a tall, gracious, white, pillared structure of three stories. In England, my stepfather; C.S. Lewis, lived in a two-floor red brick monstrosity which had grown more by accident than by design. I loved both these homes. There were other parallels, too; there was always a lake. The Endekill Brook, in upstate New York, was dammed by a small wall of stones and formed a wide pool. In Oxford there was a disusedclay-pit in the wood, deep and still, filled with the strange mystery that still water and its denizens seem to weave about themselves. Then there was the wood itself, the trees so alike and yet so different. Pines in rows in Staatsburg, broken here and there by dogwoods and maples. In Headington there were sycamores, oaks, birches and beeches all mixed together in the higgledy-piggledy fashion so typical of an English wood, and at the top of the hill a grove of larches. I was always surrounded by books, too, books and writers, and the wide and lively conversation which seem to be their hallmark. My stepfather's funeral really was the beginning of many things as well as the end of so many others, and I am beginning to realise that every point in one's life at which one loses everything is far more a beginning than an end, for one has lost merely the past, and one has yet to gain the future, and eternity itself. On that morning, the 26th of November, 1963, I was just eighteen years old.I was born on the 10th of November, 1945, in the city of New York. The Gresham family then consisted of my father, William Lindsay Gresham, my mother, Helen Joy Davidman Gresham, my brother, David Lindsay Gresham and myself. At some stage during the first two years of my life, the family moved to Ossining, New York, where we lived for a while. Of that time I have no memories.My first recollections are of the beautiful house and estate at Endekill Road, Staatsburg, New York (about seventy-five miles north of New York City), and of the forests and fields which surrounded it; dark, cool pines, welcoming gentle dogwoods and majestic, towering maples lent their shade and their beauty to my childhood. I firstremember being alive at about the time that I was three years old, and the Staatsburg home was a heaven for a little boy, teaching from the very beginning the meaning of beauty. Hot summers, the long dusty days frequently split apart by electrical storms with awesome power of sound and spectacle, dramatic autumns as the maples changed from silent dark greens to mellow gold and then to shrieking soprano reds before dying away through vermilion to brown and finally sighing into the annual little death that, for trees, is winter. The thick blanket of snow which brought the sleep of winter to the woods and meadows brought delight and excitement to a child, as well as sleds, toboggans, snowmen and snowball fights and the quiet, strangely holy, snowbound Christmas. For the little boy who became me, winter meant just two things: snow first and then Christmas, the one leading as if by decree to the other. And then, after Christmas, one simply waited for the thaw and the riotous exuberance of spring, as the sleeping world exploded into vibrant glowing life. I loved that place, and there live within me still the shocks of one or two incidents so breathtaking that the very memory of them even now seems to stop the world. Standing, for example, on the first-floor balcony of the large, decaying mansion that was our home and looking down into the heavy, warm darkness of a summer evening to see a carpet six or seven feet deep of millions of fireflies. They flew about three feet from the ground at the lowest to about ten feet up and appeared as a layer of flashing, winking, starlike lights. Once I came face to face with a doe and her fawn in the forest, and it would be hard to say who was the morefrightened! A wonderful place for a little boy to grow, but all worldly Edens have their serpents, and mine was no exception. Outside, in the kindliness of nature, the world of this early part of my childhood was mostly a peaceful, fascinating land of many delights and some good and healthy terrors, snapping turtles and copperheads, for example, but indoors, as I passed from the age of three on towards six and...
Review
"Douglas Gresham is right in saying that 'This book is not primarily a book about C.S. Lewis; it is a book about D.H. Gresham.' However, without Lewis this book would not have been written. Douglas Gresham's mother, Joy Davidman, divorced his father, went to England, and married C.S. Lewis. She revamped and reorganized his home, The Kilns, and to some extent Lewis himself and his alcoholic brother, Warnie. Then she became ill and died. Lewis adopted her two sons. The older boy, David, more or less disappears from the story his brother tells. Douglas concentrates on himself and so continues, through his schooling, Lewis's death, his marriage and removal to Tasmania, where
he still lives. Lenten Lands will not add to Lewis's reputation, but it does throw a new light on the man and thus will be of interest to his devotees." Reviewed by Daniel Weiss, Virginia Quarterly Review (Copyright 2006 Virginia Quarterly Review)
Review
“A moving recollection of one of the most tender love stories of mid-century.” Chicago Tribune
Synopsis
Including the True Story of the Remarkable Love Affair between Joy Davidman and C. S. Lewis
There has probably never been a less likely couple: she, an American divorcee and the mother of two young boys; he, an Oxford don and confirmed bachelor who inhabited an eccentric household with his brother, a retired Royal Army major. Yet the relationship of C. S. Lewis and Joy Davidman, portrayed in this moving autobiography by her son Douglas Gresham, was destined to become of the most deeply moving love stories of our time.
Synopsis
Best-selling author Richard J. Foster offers a warm, compelling, and sensitive primer on prayer, helping us to understand, experience, and practice it in its many forms-from the simple prayer of beginning again to unceasing prayer. He clarifies the prayer process, answers common misconceptions, and shows the way into prayers of contemplation, healing, blessing, forgiveness, and rest.
Coming to prayer is like coming home, Foster says. "Nothing feels more right, more like what we are created to be and to do. Yet at the same time we are confronted with great mysteries. Who hasn't struggled with the puzzle of unanswered prayer? Who hasn't wondered how a finite person can commune with the infinite Creator of the universe? Who hasn't questioned whether prayer isn't merely psychological manipulation after all? We do our best, of course, to answer these knotty questions but when all is said and done, there is a sense in which these mysteries remain unanswered and unanswerable . . . At such times we must learn to become comfortable with the mystery."
Foster shows how prayer can move us inward into personal transformation, upward toward intimacy with God, and outward to minister to others. He leads us beyond questions to a deeper understanding and practice of prayer, bringing us closer to God, to ourselves, and to our community.
Synopsis
"Three acclaimed, bestselling authors -- three extraordinary fantasists -- unite talent and vision to create a noble dynasty and a remarkable realm of spirit and substance.
The House of the Tiger has skillfully ruled Merina in times of peace. But now the indomitable armies of the Emperor Balthasar stand poised to crush the vulnerable city/state. And in the enemy's midst is the gray mage Apolon -- foul necromancer who serves the Dreadful Dark . . . and whose mission it is to satsfy his Master's terrible hungers with living souls, the Heart of a Goddess, and the blood of a Princess.For Adele, aging Dowager Queen; for ruling Queen Lydana; and for Princess Shelyra, lithe, impetuous, ingenious Designated Daughter, the battle seems hopeless -- for they possess no defense, save for their wiles and weapons of the spirit. But the Tiger is a cunning beast, not to be underestimated. And when corered, she bares her teeth . . . and strikes.
About the Author
Douglas Gresham is the son of Joy Davidman, who later married C.S. Lewis. As a boy, Gresham lived at "The Kilns," the Oxfordshire home Lewis shared with his brother Warnie, and then Davidman. After many years in Tasmania, Australia, he now lives in County Carlow, Ireland.