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Refresh and try again. Open Preview See a Problem? Details if other :. Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Preview — For Glory by Elisabeth Lee. For Glory by Elisabeth Lee. Carlyle Hudson is a something woman everybody calls Lyle. Making a living as a gambler, Lyle doesn't know quite what to make of her life. Lyle returns to Kansas from San Francisco after the death of her mother and encounters two mysteries, one from her mother's past, and one right in front of her.

Who is the source of the ominous demands that she 'Pay Up'?

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Get A Copy. Paperback , pages. More Details Original Title. Other Editions 1. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about For Glory , please sign up. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Community Reviews. Showing Rating details. More filters. Sort order. Jun 16, Sara rated it really liked it. One of my favorite things about book reviewing is discovering books I definitely would have missed. Writing a review encourages me branch out in my literary appetite, and discover new authors, series or genres.

Still I was apprehensive when asked to review For Glory by Elisabeth Lee which centers around a fifty something protagonist. But if Carlyle Hudson is any indication of a middle aged detective, bring it on. The book centers on Lyle who projects a tough exterior. She thwarts and threatens a mugger early on the story for instance. Things begin to heat up once a wedding dress is taken for ransom, and Lyle meets a guy or two.

I was also a couple of chapters in before I realized I had picked up a mystery novel. In fact For Glory is unlike books typical of the detective novel or mystery genre. It is a smart break from all those young, spoiled and dramatic characters hogging the literary limelight. Take this book to the beach, and look for the next in the series, Flashes of Glory this summer.

Jun 08, Melissa rated it really liked it Shelves: books-i-own. While I may not be a member of Lee's true target audience with this book, I really enjoyed the story. For Glory is more than a mystery, it's a story of what happens to Carlyle Hudson when she goes home to Kansas after her mother's death to pick up the pieces. Lyle has a newly acquired house and bridal shop that she's not quite sure what to do with, not to mention a little Smooth-haired Fox Terrier named Glory that she seemingly has no desire to put up with.

All too soon, for so many of us, wonder is swallowed up by wonder-killing reason or experience. It was Plato who said that all philosophy begins with wonder. Wonder, to Plato, was that impulse that probed, investigated, and sought out explanations. Give a toy to a little boy and in moments it is broken because he has opened it up to see what makes it whir or tick or chime or speak.

It is our hidden Narnia, into which we long to step and explore. It is the rotating musical merry-go-round that entrances the child. It is the sight of a jet plane or a rocket surging into the skies and the marvel, if only for a moment, at such design and power and beauty. The touch of a hand that makes you wish that time would stand still, the musical score that grips the soul—what makes these things affect us as they do? And perhaps more to the point, why are we fascinated by such things? But here comes the rub. This is where we abruptly hit the ground as we touch down upon the mundane.

Francis Bacon ruefully observed that though it may be true that all philosophy begins with wonder, it is also true that wonder dies with knowledge. Explanation is the termination point of mystery, analysis the death-knell of curiosity. The parts are greater than the whole when you are in pursuit, but they become lesser than the whole when it is no longer a mystery and the toy no longer enchants. In other words, knowing overrides dreaming. Reality undercuts fantasy.

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Longing often dies at the moment of realization. Is it because description, by nature, defies mystery? Or is it because the reality defies the way we want it to be? Most of us can go back to a time in our lives when dreams of a life filled with wonder throbbed within our souls. In fact, that very stage of dreaming finds its own fulfillment in a marvelous disposition we call hope.

But time has led us also to believe that Bacon does have a point. Is it not because of the delight of anticipation that all children love Christmas Eve even more than they love Christmas Day? Is it not because the fulfillment of his longings is just moments away that a youngster, though thoroughly fatigued, will deny sleep and fight to keep his eyes open? But then comes the day after Christmas and reality strikes. The longing is now gone and everything that spelled wonder is being packed up in a box. Does unwrapping the gift take away from the gift?

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Why is the exhausting pursuit of the human heart for contentment so convoluted? Why does the enchantment that we long for seem so elusive and almost scandalously complex? Someone once humorously quipped that life consists of four stages. In the first stage we believe in Santa Claus. At the second stage we no longer believe in Santa Claus. The third stage is when we find out that we are Santa Claus.

The fourth and final stage has arrived when we look like Santa Claus. We know that hopes come and go and that life returns to the common and the repetitive. If that fluctuation and disappointment were only momentary, we could endure it. But life is not what we thought it would be. The problem with life, then, is not that a man ends up burrowing through garbage looking for something to fill his stomach but that no matter what we have achieved or attained in our life, we still find ourselves burrowing deep within, trying to assuage the hungers of our soul.

Chesterton summed this up when he said that weariness does not come from being weary of pain but from being weary of pleasure. Something troubling emerges from this realization that greater learning diminishes wonder, that the greater the knowledge the more certain the absence of any transcending wonder. Denying the objective existence of beauty and design takes away the necessity of explaining the source of my attraction to beauty and the search for a designer, does it not?

Why, then, do I feel dissatisfied or cheated and what is it that I am pursuing? Philosophers who deny this objective reality trivialize the internal longing. That is why we instinctively dismiss their castigations and bend our ears to artists, thinking they can help us restore the romance of life. Are they not the ones who perpetually dream? But here, too, disappointment looms, as often these poets and dreamers are more prone to run into pessimism than delight.

Everything romanticized seems anticlimactic as one faces the advancing years. As I am writing this I am aboard a plane heading overseas. She proceeded to tell me that although she was engaged, she was having second thoughts about it because an astrologer had told her that this was not an auspicious time as he could not see their names aligned in the present astrological chart. It was hard to keep from shaking my head in disbelief.

Where does one begin to talk to someone who is afraid of destiny yet believes in the world of destiny without knowing anything about who controls that destiny? To add to the senselessness of her predicament, she herself did not eat because this was the holy month of fasting. In short, philosophers question the dream that life must experience enchantment while romantics dream away the question. Both disassemble the toy only to discover that the search is greater than the discovery and that they are destined to be resigned to the belief that enchantment is merely a subject to discuss, never a state to be attained.

Thus, the arts play with our emotions and philosophy toys with our reason, while every fiber within our being cries out that this is not the way it was intended and that we may have robbed ourselves of the greatest of all treasures. Fatalism is the creed of a will that is dying to its possibilities and seeks to drag the imagination with it. Just like the bumblebee that flies though it is not aerodynamically fit, so it is that every person who remembers what it is like to be a child gives reason and emotion its due and still seeks for wonder.

The flashes in time where we catch a glimpse of wonder spur us on to attaining it. We have all known that sensation and, like a chord of music that touches the soul, we are possessed by that memory of fullness that transcends words and then with equal mystery is gone. The songwriter captured it well:. Wonder was in that lost chord.

It came and then vanished, leaving a hunger behind.

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How does one describe such an experience? How does one hold on to it? I strongly suspect that the reason you are reading this book is that you yourself are hoping to find something new and asking whether anyone can deliver on this question. I sincerely believe God has answered, and He has done so in various ways.

I have no doubt whatsoever that finding an answer to this question is worth giving everything a person owns. In this answer lies the wealth of our purpose and destiny. In fact Jesus talks of such a person. He speaks of a merchant looking for a precious pearl who, when he found the pearl of great price, sold all he had previously considered worthwhile in order to buy it. That pearl of great price, pragmatically speaking, is that search for the heart to find its complete fulfillment.

I remember listening to a veteran from one of the recent wars. In the thick of battle, a platoon had lost one of its men and the rest of them wanted to rescue him, even though they knew his wounds were quite possibly fatal. Even the senior officer cautioned that the risk was not worth the returns.

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At last, two of the men braved the reality and put themselves right in the path of ultimate danger. Dodging the firepower and crawling on their stomachs, they finally reached the side of their wounded comrade behind enemy lines. Deep within every human heart throbs the undying hope that somebody or something will bring both an explanation of what life is all about and a way to retain the wonder. Yet if we would but pause and first ponder what it is that we already see in this world of wonder we might get a brief taste of the wonder that may be poured into us as well. Before I even define the term, let me just lift our thoughts beyond ourselves to the wonder all around us.

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This alone gives us a hint of how God can carry us to His wonderful purposes in discovering the treasure that is within. Chet Raymo is professor of physics and astronomy at Stonehill College in Massachusetts. He is a convinced naturalist with a strong mystical bent. Few writers in our time are able to open up vistas of grandeur in the world of objects and entities as he does. In his book Skeptics and True Believers: The Exhilarating Connection between Science and Religion , he illustrates in his brilliant and inimitable style the marvels that are all around us in this universe.

For example, he presents in enthralling detail the migratory habits of the species of bird called the red knot. The red knot is a sandpiper that each year journeys from the southern tip of South America to the eastern shores of the United States and beyond and then back again. The birds begin their northward journey in February each year, hundreds of thousands of them, up the coast of Argentina, over Brazil, with periodic stops to feed. From the northern coasts of South America, they take to the air for a nonstop week of soaring above the Atlantic that brings them around mid-May to touch ground on the marshy shore of Delaware Bay at the very time horseshoe crabs are laying their eggs by the millions.

When you consider that during their sojourn in Delaware each red knot might consume , horseshoe crab eggs, you know they need that stop and time it perfectly. Plumped up for the remainder of their marathon across the vast Canadian terrain, they make their final stop north of Hudson Bay.

Last words

There, in ideal northern summer conditions, they mate and breed, each female laying four speckled eggs, which she and her mate take turns incubating. Baby red knots build up their bodies soon with the feathers growing fairly rapidly. There is an incredibly scripted schedule for everything in the process. By mid-July, the females leave the males and their offspring, and start heading south again. The males leave almost exactly one week later. The little ones fend for themselves and then, in late August, they commence their nine-thousand-mile journey to Tierra del Fuego.

They begin that flight, their first of such magnitude, without parental companionship. Here, on the balmy beaches of Tierra del Fuego at the southern tip of South America they feast, fattening themselves. A long molt and ideal temperatures combine to replace their beaten-up feathers so that they are ready for the long journey back north. What it takes a whole crew of highly skilled men and women at a pit stop in the Indianapolis or a coterie of mechanics and ground staff to get a plane ready for its return flight, the red knot does by its own wit and understanding of natural resources.

Scientists marvel at such genius in the tiny head of a red knot. Much happens even in their world to remind us of a world steeped in wonder. How does this happen, one might ask? One marvels at such credulity for it defies every basic principle of reasoning in an intelligible universe. President Theodore Roosevelt had a routine habit, almost a ritual. It is as large as our Milky Way. It is one of a hundred million galaxies. It is seven hundred and fifty thousand light years away. It consists of one hundred billion suns, each larger than our own sun. You have set your glory above the heavens.

When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers.

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  7. Are you not much more valuable than they? See how the lilies of the field grow. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field. That, I believe, is at the heart of what this search is all about. As I stated earlier, Plato believed that all philosophy began with wonder until it was replaced by knowledge.

    He argued that there was a world of difference between belief and knowledge. Belief, he said, was the position of a child; knowledge was that of an adult.

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    The Greek word for wonder is thaumas. The world of fantasy and of the fantastic was captured in that word. But this is where it becomes very intriguing. In his Republic, Plato relates a conversation between his brother Glaucon and Socrates. Socrates is explaining to Glaucon that human understanding of ultimate reality is more like seeing the shadows than it is grasping the substance. To illustrate his point he imagines a cave in which he sees human beings chained from childhood, facing a wall with their backs to the opening of the cave.

    The light coming into the cave from the outside casts shadows of all that is happening on the outside onto the walls of the cave. There is no way, says Socrates, that anyone looking at the wall would be able to distinguish what is real from what is not. They would only know the shadows. If they could be freed and released from the cave, at first the light would blind them, so much so that the most painful thing would be to see the source of the light itself. But over time, they would get used to it and see reality as it really is, including the light itself.

    Through its central aperture, light is processed so that we see the grand tapestry of colors so magnificently present in this world. I cannot help but wonder if it might be the root word from which we get the Anglo-Saxon name Thomas. It was the apostle Thomas who wondered whether Jesus had really conquered death.

    And when he saw and touched the Lord, the encounter completely redefined reality for him, which had to that point been prejudiced against the miracle. Can it not be our hope as well that the shadows and beliefs of childlikeness become only greater and more wonderful when dispelled by knowledge?

    Can there not be a reality where the mere world of fantasy is superceded by the fantastically true?