“What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” This was Solomon’s observation as the wisest of all kings. How does it apply here? Cheryl Chumley lays out clearly what is happening in this country now and the consequences are clear.
Though I do not believe there has ever been a country in the world’s history that has the individual liberties found in the United States today, there are other countries that went from individual liberties to being oppressed by increasingly totalitarian rulers. From the available information around us, Cheryl points out the usurpations of our freedoms which all sounds so very familiar to legitimate historians. . . . The coming signs of tyranny are all around us. Fortunately they can be stopped before it is too late if the American people will awaken.
—from the Foreword
As community college graduation day approached, I learned that I’d been accepted to the nearby University of California at Berkeley. As long as I passed all my finals at Chabot, I’d begin my junior year at Cal in the fall of 1977.
The La Bamba, that battered old Pontiac I bought from Bob for $250 when first I moved to Livermore, served me well. Aside from it being the reason Bob and I met, it also got me to work and school every day for the two years I attended Chabot. Since it was such a clunker, I never spent money on preventive maintenance. I oiled it when the dashboard “low oil” warning light illuminated; I replaced the bald tires when one of them blew, and then with retreads. Still, I attached sentimental value to the jalopy. When the day came for our final Chabot exam, I called Bob and suggested we ride to class in the La Bamba together for old times’ sake. Bob hesitated, knowing the car was on its last legs. He didn’t want to risk missing the crucial test. “Come on, Bobby!” I coaxed him. “The La Bamba’s our lucky car! It’ll make it! Trust me!”
Bob agreed reluctantly, and I drove to his house and picked him up. On the way, the engine broke free from a cracked motor mount, and it jumped and banged so hard under the hood that it dented the metal body. We ignored the clanging noise and set off on our rickety drive to Chabot. A few minutes later, just as we approached the freeway exit for the college, thick plumes of black smoke billowed from under the hood. Flicks of red could be made out in the sudden darkness. “The engine’s on fire!” Bob yelled at me. “Pull over!”
“No way,” I replied. “I said this car’s gonna make it, and it will.” Bug-eyed but daring, Bob yelled out a frantic go-ahead: “You crazy dude! Let’s go! Gun it!” I floored the accelerator; the glass packs screamed as we raced down the final mile-long straightaway of Airport Boulevard. Huge flames now jetted from the hood; the ominous sound of melting, buckling metal echoed through the passenger compartment. As the La Bamba raced down the road, we left behind a smoke trail resembling a NASA launch. Car passengers heading in the opposite direction stared in disbelief at the two guys rocketing past at breakneck speed and screaming out the windows, “Ohhhhhhh, shhhhh–!!!” from a car on fire. I never braked until we turned the corner into Chabot’s parking lot, when I shouted for Bob to bail out. We flung open the car doors and jumped out of the still moving Pontiac. The La Bamba rolled up the incline and into the field where it came to rest. Soon flames engulfed the entire car. Curious spectators began streaming out of class to watch the inferno as Bob and I dropped back into the crowd anonymously.
“I told you the La Bamba would get us here!” I whispered and slapped him on the back. “It’s our lucky car!”
“Hey,” a campus custodian called to me, “whose car is that? Or, should I say, whose car was that?”
“It looks abandoned to me,” I replied.
“So what happened to it?”
“Sorry,” I told him, “I can’t stay and chat. I have to go take a final.”
Anita Dittman was just a little girl when the winds of Nazism and Hitler’s coming Holocaust began to blow through Germany. Raised by her Jewish mother, she came to believe that Jesus was her Messiah at eight years old. By the time she was ten, the war had begun.
Trapped in Hitler’s Hell is the true account of Holocaust horror but also of God’s miraculous mercy on a young girl who spent her teenage years desperately fighting for survival yet learning to trust in the One she had come to love.
Noah and the ark makes it on everyone’s list of top ten favorite Bible stories—right up there with Jonah and the whale, and David and Goliath.
No biblical account has raised as many questions and has generated as much controversy as Noah and the ark. The story in the Bible is just the beginning!
* Was the massive ark seaworthy?
* Did the Flood cover the whole earth?
* Has the ark been found on Mount Ararat?
* Where can you see the ark today?
With Darren Aronofsky’s $130 million religious epic Noah coming out on March 28, a lot of people are going to be …more
The time is ripe to change the current political landscape. Despite what the establishment media would like you to believe, Americans support conservative positions on the issues. Takeover provides them with the history, inspiration and practical steps necessary to succeed in taking over the GOP, electing a conservative President and establishing a conservative government in America by 2017.
What are the feasts days? What is the difference between the biblical calendar and the one we use today? Why should you be concerned about eclipses in the sky?
In Blood Moons Pastor Biltz answers these questions and more. He explains the importance of these biblical celebrations and milestones and shows how you too can be aware of the signs of things to come.
The plane was going down fast, out of control. Dark green jungle was rushing up to meet them. He ordered Kelly to punch out. He heard the thick Plexi-glass canopy above his head explode, and braced his body against the hard blast of wind surging into the cockpit as his navigator shot into space. He yanked on his own ejection seat lever and felt the hard jolt that meant he, too, had made it out of the flaming aircraft.
Relieved, he saw that he had a good chute. Floating slowly down through the hot humid air, he watched Kelly’s billowing parachute disappear into the tropical trees. He saw his A-6 hit the top of a mountain several miles away and explode into huge pillars of thick black smoke.
He landed in a tall banyan tree, his parachute snagged on a forked limb. Dangling in the air underneath the torn white nylon panels, he could see small figures heading for the foot of the mountain. He knew he had to scramble down and find a place to conceal himself, fast. Groping, he inched his way, hand over hand, up the twisting risers of this chute, trying to grab hold of the trunk of the swaying tree. Hanging on to the rough rope with one hand, he leaned his weight toward the tree trunk and felt the limb holding his parachute peel away. He fell, headlong, fifty feet or so, hitting the ground so hard he could hear the bones in his back crack.
He struggled to get his survival radio out of the zippered pocket of his olive-drab flight suit, hoping to make some kind of contact with Kelly.
“Kelly, do you read? Over.”
The black radio crackled with static, but Kelly didn’t answer. He tried again, and then again. Nothing.
Forty-five minutes went by before he heard the planes. Then he saw them, “friendlies.” They know where I am, he thought, relieved. I’ll be out of here by morning.
“I’m on the ground okay,” he said into his now-damp radio, willing one of the aircraft circling overhead to hear him.
“Roger, Red. See you in the morning.”
The raspy voice was familiar. Nick Carpenter, from his own squadron.
It would be a long night. No sensation in his feet and legs, he began to drag himself around on his belly, trying to find Kelly. He told himself it was useless, that Kelly had landed on the opposite side of the mountain. But he knew he had to keep looking. Finally, exhausted, he made a halfhearted attempt to sleep, one ear listening through the darkness, straining to decipher the strange jungle noises. He could hear the distant thrashing sound that had to be machetes, hacking away at the tangled vines.
At dawn, he heard muffled voices coming up the side of the mountain. He was sure they were enemy soldiers, making their way to his hiding place. He searched the empty sky for the rescue planes, the helicopters from Thailand, the Jolly Greens. They’re usually pretty reliable, he said to himself. Where are they this morning?
The sun was almost directly overhead when the strange-looking little militiamen burst through the dense green underbrush, AK-47s at the ready. They chattered excitedly about their prize, a downed American pilot, an American “war criminal.”
While one of the militiamen trained an AK-47 on him, another one clumsily fashioned a blindfold from a piece of brown ragged burlap, and the tallest of the four men tied it roughly and firmly around his throbbing head, obscuring his vision. He struggled to get to his feet, but two of the soldiers grabbed him and held him while the third one bound his feet with heavy hemp rope, which cut into the flesh just above the ankles. They drew his hands up behind his shoulders until he thought his arms would leave their sockets and then pulled the rough ropes taut, leaving his hands dangling just below his shoulder blades. They dragged his aching body through the underbrush and threw him into the back of a rusty, dilapidated truck. An overpowering smell of gasoline made him nauseous and he thought he was going to pass out.
He was probably on his way to the infamous Hoa Lo Prison in Hanoi, which he guessed would be about fifty miles away. Pilots had dubbed the old French prison that already held many of their fellow aviators the “Hanoi Hilton.”