What I find unsettling is Ms. Roys repeatedly (and hard hat repeatedly!) regurgitating the same story and accusing the same people over and over (and over again!) in her articles. Is this Biblical? Is NOT letting up and NOT letting go Biblical? Does Ms. Roys hold her prey until another topic (and perhaps another paycheck) comes along? Ms. Roys wrote, "& as MacDonald and his elders have consistently done, did they drop the lawsuit to protect the guilty?" If this is not Ms. Roys slanderous condemnation and rallying call to those who have an ax to grind against Pastor James or Harvest, then what is it? Certainly not Biblical! How is the one-size-fits-all solution of firing the Pastor from the Church before he is found guilty through the proper measures, how is this Biblical? And how does it honor God for a Christian woman to attract comments by strangers who have written to members of Harvest ",,,this needs to be taken now to papers; perhaps then THOSE GULLIBLE ENOUGH TO PLEDGE MONEY to MacDonald family business aka Harvest Bible Chapel& " (caps mine). Really? Giving over major decisions about the Church to those of the world through the press is Biblical? And calling your fellow Christians "gullible" is also Biblical?
But the day of reckoning for James Macdonald and the Elders who have protected him has come. God is using Julie Roys (and many others) to expose him. He has given James chance after chance to confess and repent, but James top hat has rejected those opportunities in favor of self-interest. James will always be Founding Pastor of HBC, but God will remove him as Senior Pastor of HBC soon. Sadly, James has woven a web of deceit so complex that he believes his own lies. God is no doubt grieved by the choices of a man to whom so much was given, yet squandered.
He thinks of his parents, strangers until this moment, two people who had not spoken until after they were actually wed. panama hat Suddenly, sitting next to Moushumi, he realizes what it means, and he is astonished by his parents' courage, the obedience that must have been involved in doing such a thing. It's the first time he's seen Moushumi in a sari, apart from all those pujos years ago, which she had suffered through silently. She has about twenty pounds of gold on her at one point, when they are sitting face to face, their hands wrapped up together in a checkered cloth, he counts eleven necklaces. Two enormous paisleys have been painted in red and white on her cheeks. Until now, he has continued to call Moushumi's father Shubir Mesho, and her mother Rina Mashi, as he always has, as if they were still his uncle and aunt, as if Moushumi were still a sort of cousin. But by the end of the night he will become their son-in-law and so be expected to address them as his second set of parents, an alternative Baba and legionnaires hat Ma.
He breathes in the scent of her skin, still unable to fathom that they are husband and wife. When would it sink in? Even then he does not feel fully alone with her, half waiting for someone to knock on the door and tell them how to go about things. And though he desires her as much as ever, he is relieved when they are through, lying naked side by side, knowing that nothing else is expected of them, that finally they can relax. Afterward they open up the champagne and sit together on the bed, going through a large shopping bag full of cards with personal checks inside them. The checks have been given to them by their parents' hundreds of friends. She had not wanted to register for gifts. She told Gogol it was because she didn't have the time, but he sensed that it was something she couldn't bring herself to face the second time around. It's fine with him, not to have their apartment crammed with a dozen crystal vases and platters and matching pots and pans.
There is no calculator, and so they add up the figures on numerous sheets of the hotel stationery. Most of the checks have been written out to Mr. and Mrs. Nikhil and Moushumi Ganguli. Several are written to Gogol and Moushumi Ganguli. The amounts are for one hundred and one dollars, two hundred and one dollars, occasionally three hundred and one dollars, as Bengalis consider it inauspicious to give round figures. Gogol adds up the subtotals on each page. "Seven thousand thirty-five," he announces. "Not bad, Mr. Ganguli." "I'd say we've made a killing, Mrs. Ganguli." Only she is not Mrs. Ganguli. Moushumi has kept her last name. She doesn't adopt Ganguli, not even with a hyphen. Her own last name, Mazoomdar, is already a mouthful. With a hyphenated surname, she would no longer fit into the window of a business envelope.
looks outside. As she sits down at her desk, her eye travels upward; the window in the office reaches the top of the wall, so that the rooftop of the building across the street stretches across the bottom edge of the sill. The view induces the opposite of vertigo, a lurching feeling inspired not by gravity's pull to earth, but by the infinite reaches of heaven. At home that night, after dinner, Moushumi hunts christmas hat among the shelves in the living room she and Nikhil share. Their books have merged since they've gotten married, Nikhil had unpacked them all, and nothing is where she expects it to be. Her eyes pass over stacks of Nikhil's design magazines, thick books on Gropius and Le Corbusier. Nikhil, bent over a blueprint at the dining table, asks what she's looking for. "Stendhal," she tells him. It's not a lie. An old Modern Library edition of The Red and the Black in English, inscribed to Mouse. Love Dimitri, he'd written. It was the one book he'd inscribed to her.
10-12-2020, 05:48 AM