Gideon's Gift (Red Gloves Series) [NOOK Book]

Overview

One long-ago Christmas, Earl Gibson lost the two things most precious to him: his wife and daughter. Angry and heartbroken, he ended up living on the streets and abandoned any belief he'd once had in God.
Ten years later Big Earl meets Gideon, a seven-year-old leukemia patient who believes with all her heart that "Christmas means never having to ask God how much he loves us." Gideon is determined to reach this lonely and hurting man who hates Christmas--and he is just as ...
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Gideon's Gift (Red Gloves Series)

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Overview

One long-ago Christmas, Earl Gibson lost the two things most precious to him: his wife and daughter. Angry and heartbroken, he ended up living on the streets and abandoned any belief he'd once had in God.
Ten years later Big Earl meets Gideon, a seven-year-old leukemia patient who believes with all her heart that "Christmas means never having to ask God how much he loves us." Gideon is determined to reach this lonely and hurting man who hates Christmas--and he is just as determined to rebuff her. It will take a miracle for Earl to come to understand the true meaning of Christmas. But if he can accept what Gideon wants to give him, he might find that he can return the favor with a precious gift of his own.
In GIDEON'S GIFT, Karen Kingsbury reminds us that Christmas is still a time of miraculous possibilities if only we reach out to those around us.
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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
Karen Kingsbury, the author of A Treasury of Christmas Miracles, has written a touching holiday story about a homeless man who has lost his faith, a seven-year-old girl who has leukemia, and the miracle that connects them.
Publishers Weekly
Kingsbury, a beloved novelist in the CBA market, is known for weepy tales replete with hospital bedside scenes, emotional reunions and miracles. This eager if predictable novella will please her established fans, and may win a few new ones as well, provided they are armed with enough Kleenex. In the story, the Scrooge-like Earl Badgett-a grumpy and aggressive version of the typical widower of CBA fiction-has his Christian faith revived through the efforts of an eight-year-old girl. Pious, mature children who lead adults back to faith were a staple of 19th-century domestic fiction, and remain so in the CBA today; sweet little Gideon Mercer is no exception. And if the novel's emotional quotient weren't high enough, she's even suffering from leukemia. Despite the overwrought stereotypes, Kingsbury writes quite well; her skill with pacing goes a long way toward redeeming this tired and contrived plot. (Oct. 10) Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Gideon Mercer, an eight-year-old leukemia patient, is hoping for a huge Christmas miracle. She does not wish that her parents will scrape together $50,000 for a life-saving bone marrow transplant for her. Nor does she want her dream Christmas with a light-filled tree and a truck for her little brother. Instead, Gideon hopes that the belligerent homeless man she met while her family worked in a food kitchen will believe in God. Five years prior, Earl Badgett lost his faith when his wife and daughter were killed in a car accident. Unable to go on, he took to the streets, hoping to die. An unexpected Christmas gift from Gideon brings God back into Earl's life with repercussions for both of them. This pleasantly conventional story will appeal to sentimental readers. Purchase to augment holiday collections. Copyright 2002 Cahners Business Information.
From the Publisher
"This may be a small book, but there is nothing little about its message of hope and the miraculous. Give yourself a gift. Read GIDEON'S GIFT."—Robin Lee Hatcher, author of Firstborn

"Heartrending and gentle....This second chance for two souls will give you goose bumps. Karen Kingsbury delivers!"—Deborah Bedford, author of A Morning like This

"GIDEON'S GIFT is fabulous! It's a perfect book for the whole family."—June Cotner, author of Christmas Blessings

"With every Karen Kingsbury novel you need a box of tissues."—Patsy Clairmont, author of All Cracked Up

"Karen is a gifted writer who confronts the hard issues with truth and sensitivity."—Francine Rivers, author of Redeeming Love

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780446567138
  • Publisher: FaithWords
  • Publication date: 9/26/2009
  • Series: Red Gloves Series
  • Sold by: Hachette Digital, Inc.
  • Format: eBook
  • Sales rank: 139,610
  • File size: 393 KB

Meet the Author

Karen Kingsbury

Karen Kingsbury is a #1 New York Times bestselling author of over 60 works of fiction and nonfiction with nearly 25 million copies in print. Widely considered America's favorite inspirational novelist, she is best known for drawing unforgettable characters and stories which evoke a range of emotions. Karen reaches over 100,000 women annually through national speaking appearances. She and her husband, Don, currently reside in Nashville, TN.

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Read an Excerpt

Gideon's Gift

A Novel
By Karen Kingsbury

Warner Books

Karen Kingsbury
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-446-53124-3


Chapter One

The red gloves were all that mattered. If living on the streets of Portland was a prison, the red gloves were the key. The key that - for a few brief hours - set him free from the lingering stench and hopeless isolation, free from the relentless rain and the tarp-covered shanty.

The key that freed him to relive the life he'd once had. A life he could never have again.

Something about the red gloves took him back and made it all real - their voices, their touch, their warmth as they sat with him around the dinner table each night. Their love. It was as though he'd never lost a bit of it. As long as he wore the gloves.

Otherwise, the prison would have been unbearable. Because the truth was Earl had lost everything. His life, his hope, his will to live. But when he slipped on the gloves ... Ah, when he felt the finely knit wool surround his fingers, Earl still had the one thing that mattered. He still had a family. If only for a few dark hours.

It was the first of November, and the gloves were put away, hidden in the lining of his damp parka. Earl never wore them until after dinner, when he was tucked beneath his plastic roof, anxious to rid himself of another day. He would've loved to wear them all the time, but he didn't dare. They were nice gloves. Handmade. The kind most street peoplewould snatch from a corpse.

Dead or alive, Earl had no intention of losing them.

He shuffled along Martin Luther King Boulevard, staring at the faces that sped past him. He was invisible to them. Completely invisible. He'd figured that much out his first year on the streets. Oh, once in a while they'd toss him a quarter or shout at him: "Get a job, old man!" or "Go back to California!" But mostly they just ignored him.

The people who passed him were still in the race, still making decisions and meeting deadlines, still believing it could never happen to them. They carried themselves with a sense of self-reliance - a certainty that they were somehow better than him. For most of them, Earl was little more than a nuisance. An unsightly blemish on the streets of their nice city.

Rain began to fall. Small, icy droplets found their way through his hooded parka and danced across his balding head. He didn't mind. He was used to the rain; it fit his mood. The longer he was on the street the more true that became.

He moved along. "Big Earl!"

The slurred words carried over the traffic. Earl looked up. A black man was weaving along the opposite sidewalk, shouting and waving a bottle of Crown Royal. He was headed for the same place as Earl: the mission.

Rain or shine, there were meals at the mission. All the street people knew it. Earl had seen the black man there a hundred times before, but he couldn't remember his name. Couldn't remember most of their names. They didn't matter to him. Nothing did. Nothing except the red gloves.

The black man waved the bottle again and shot him a toothless grin. "God loves ya, Big Earl!"

Earl looked away. "Leave me alone," he muttered, and pulled his parka tighter around his neck and face.

The mission director had given him the coat two years ago. It had served its purpose. The dark-green nylon was brown now, putrid-smelling and sticky with dirt. Earl's whiskers caught in the fibers and made his face itch. He couldn't remember the last time he'd shaved. Across the street the black man gave up. He raised his bottle to a group of three animated women with fancy clothes and new umbrellas. "Dinner bell's a callin' me home, ladies!"

The women stopped chatting and formed a tight, nervous cluster. They squeezed by the man, creating as much distance between them as they could. After they'd passed, the black man raised his bottle again. "God loves ya!"

The mission was two blocks up on the right. Behind him, Earl could hear the black man singing, his words running together like gutter water. Earl's cool response hadn't bothered him at all.

"Amazing grace, how sweet da sound ..."

Earl narrowed his gaze. Street people wore thick skins. Layers, Earl called it - years of living so far deep inside yourself, nothing could really touch you. Not the weather, not the nervous stares from passersby, not the callous comments from the occasional motorist.

And certainly not anything another street person might say or do.

The mission doors were open. A hapless stream of people mingled among the regulars. Earl rolled his eyes and stared at his boots. When temperatures dropped below fifty, indigents flooded the place. The regulars could barely get a table.

He squeezed his way past the milling newcomers, all of them trying to figure out where the line started and the quickest way to get a hot plate. Up ahead were two empty-eyed drifters - young guys with long hair and years of drug use written on their faces. Earl slid between them, grabbed a plate of food, and headed for his table, a forgotten two-seater off by itself in the far corner of the room.

"Hey, Earl." He looked up and saw D. J. Grange, mission director for the past decade. The man was bundled in his redplaid jacket, same as always. His eyes were blue. Too blue. And piercing. As though he could see things Earl didn't tell anyone. D. J. was always talking God this and God that. It was amazing, really. After all these years, D. J. still didn't get it.

Earl looked back down at his plate. "I don't come for a sermon. You know that," he mumbled into his instant mashed potatoes.

"We got people praying, Earl." D. J. gripped the nearest chair and leaned closer. Earl could feel the man's smile without looking. "Any requests? Just between us?"

"Yes." Earl set his fork down and shot D. J. the hardest look he could muster. "Leave me alone."

"Fine." D. J. grinned like a shopping-mall Santa Claus. "Let me know if you change your mind." Still smiling, he moved on to the next table.

There was one other chair at Earl's table, but no one took it. There was an unspoken code among street people - sober ones, anyway: "Eyes cast down, don't come around." Earl kept his eyes on his plate, and on this night the code worked. The others would rather stand than share a meal with a man who needed his space.

Besides his appearance would easily detract even the most hardened street people. He didn't look in the mirror often, but when he did, he understood why they kept their distance. It wasn't his scraggly, gray hair or the foul-smelling parka. It was his eyes. Cold, dead eyes.

The only time he figured his eyes might possibly show signs of life or loneliness was at night. When he wore the red gloves. But then, no one ever saw his eyes during those hours.

He finished his plate, pushed back from the table and headed for the exit. D. J. watched him go, standing guard at the front of the food line. "See you tomorrow, Earl." He waved big. "I'll be praying for you."

Earl didn't turn around. He walked hard and fast out the door into the dark, rainy night. It was colder than before. It worried him a little. Some years, when the first cold night had hit, another street person had swiped his bed or taken off with his tarp. His current tarp hung like a curtain across the outside wall of his home. It was easily the most important part of his physical survival. Small wonder they were taken so often.

He narrowed his eyes and picked up his pace. His back hurt and he felt more miserable than usual. He was anxious for sleep, anxious to shut out the world and everything bad about it. Anxious for the red gloves.

He'd spent this day like every other day, wandering the alleyways and staring at his feet. He always took his meals at the mission and waited. For sundown, for sleep, for death. Years ago, when he'd first hit the streets, his emotions had been closer to the surface. Sorrow and grief and guilt, fear and loneliness and anxiety. Hourly these would seize him, strangling his battered heart like a vice grip.

But each day on the streets had built in him another layer, separating him from everything he'd ever felt, everything about the man he used to be and the life he used to lead. His emotions were buried deep now, and Earl was sure they'd never surface again. He was a shell - a meaningless, unfeeling shell. His existence was centered in nothingness and nightfall.

He rounded the corner and through the wet darkness he saw his home. It was barely noticeable, tucked beneath an old wrought-iron stairwell deep in the heart of a forgotten alley. Hanging from seven rusty bolts along the underside of the stairs was the plastic tarp. He lifted the bottom of it off the ground and crawled inside. No matter how wet it was, rain almost never found its way beyond the tarp. His pillow and pile of old blankets were still dry.

He'd been waiting for this moment all day. His fingers found the zipper in the lining of his parka and lowered it several inches. He tucked his hand inside and found them, right where he'd left them this morning. As soon as he made contact with the soft wool, the layers began to fall away, exposing what was left of his heart.

Carefully he pulled the gloves out and slipped them onto his fingers, one at a time. He stared at them, studied them, remembering the hands that had knit them a lifetime ago. Then he did something that had become part of his routine, something he did every night at this time. He brought his hands to his face and kissed first one woolen palm and then the other.

"Good night, girls." He muttered the words out loud. Then he lay down and covered himself with the tattered blankets. When he was buried far beneath, when the warmth of his body had served to sufficiently warm the place where he slept, he laced his gloved fingers together and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning he was still half given to a wonderful dream when he felt rain on his face. Rain and a stream of light much brighter than usual. With eyes closed, he turned his head from side to side. What was it? Where was the water coming from and why wasn't his tarp working?

He rubbed his fingers together - - nd sat straight up. "No!" His voice ricocheted off the brick walls of the empty alley.

"Noooo!" He stood up and yelled as loudly as he could - a gut-wrenching, painful cry of the type he hadn't uttered since that awful afternoon five years ago. His head was spinning. He grabbed at his hair, pulled it until his scalp hurt. It wasn't possible. Yet ... He'd been robbed. In the middle of the night someone had found him sleeping and taken most of what made up his home. His tarp was gone. Most of his blankets, too.

But that wasn't all. They had stolen everything left of his will to live, everything he had to look forward to. Nothing this bad had happened to him since he took to the streets. He shook his head in absolute misery as a driving rain pelted his skin, washing away all that remained of his sleep.

He stared at his hands, his body trembling. The thing he'd feared most of all had finally happened. The red gloves were gone.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Gideon's Gift by Karen Kingsbury Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 15 )
Rating Distribution

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Sort by: Showing all of 15 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 8, 2004

    Tear Jerker

    This was a great book! I read a couple chapters here and there until chapter 5 - then I couldn't put it down... I cried for the last half of the book because it touched me so much! I would recomend this book to anyone!!! PLEASE READ IT!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 2, 2012

    A touching story

    With the many cases of childhood illnesses and the stories of homeless people, this touched my heart. A good read.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 17, 2011

    :)

    Short, sweet story!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 2, 2007

    A BEAUTIFUL STORY

    Don't miss this one. With this book, I've completed reading the 'Red Glove' series. Each book was beautifully written and well worth reading.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 26, 2005

    Exceptional Book !

    I read this book in 6th grade, and have read it every year since, and I am now in 9th. This book was truly inspirational and amazing. I would reccomend it to anyone and everyone !

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 23, 2005

    BEST BOOK EVER!!

    I couldn't put it down I loved it more than anything its my favorite book some books are too discribing but this book was perfect. I want to read all of the books after it.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 8, 2003

    One of my favorite books!

    I picked up this book at the store, thinking it would be a good read. But I had so much school reading to do that I wouldn't have had time to read it, but then I got strep. I read it in one day, even though this book is short, it is one of the best books I have ever read! It was a terrific story about a young girl, who is suffering from leukimia, and the grouchy old man who has lost all faith, and the way that they connect.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted January 8, 2003

    Great reading!

    Gideon is an angelic little girl who is dying with cancer. However, just at Christmas, in the season of miracles, she gets one, remission from her disease. Determined to spread the joy, she uses all she has saved to buy a cynical, homeless man a pair of red mittens, hopefully replicating the ones he lost, and with their loss, lost hope and faith. Somehow, the used mittens she is able to buy are the very ones that he lost. Then, life turns for the worse, and Gideon needs another miracle. Her cancer is back, and worse than ever. Will there be another miracle, or will she join the angels for whom she is named? **** As always, Ms. Kingsbury delivers a story that warms your heart through the tears pouring down your face. Closing one of her books never fails to leave the reader untouched and with a new lease on life. I also encourage readers to take time to read the author's message at the end and support the projects mentioned so as to help bring miracles to more people. ****

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 26, 2002

    Heart Warming - Feel Good Story

    This book was awesome! I read it in one day - I could NOT put it down. This was such a warm, feel good story! I even cried at the end! Definitely a book to read!

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    Posted October 30, 2011

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    Posted July 6, 2011

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    Posted December 28, 2011

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    Posted December 29, 2011

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    Posted January 4, 2011

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    Posted December 26, 2010

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