Book Spotlight: My Last Baggage Call Aboard Air Force One by Glenn W. Powell

Sergeant Glenn W. Powell’s MY LAST BAGGAGE CALL is the story of a most unlikely young man who leaves his working-class environment of Toledo, Ohio, to become a soldier. Seeking excitement and a way to “make something of himself,” Glenn Powell’s journey exceeds his wildest dreams—a journey that began in basic training in Fort Hood, Texas ends at 1600 Pennsylvania avenue—the most important address in the world. MY LAST BAGGAGE CALL is about so much more than Glenn Powell’s military journey, but about poignant memories of family, friendships, sacrifices, and love—central to his story is Ronda Holloway, the beautiful young woman he falls in love with in Manheim, Germany, and, who joins him on his life journey as wife, soulmate and mother to their two sons. MY LAST BAGGAGE CALL offers readers a glimpse into Sergeant Glenn Powell’s 30-year transformation from the much-beloved boy who seeks more in life…to the man, who discovers it—in adventure, in friendships, and in service to three American presidents. a service he delivered with pride, unquestioned loyalty, distinction and in the end, great admiration.

EXCERPT

A Soldier’s Story

Shortly after I turned 18, I enlisted in the army. Around that time, I learned that the young woman I’d been dating was pregnant, so going into the army would be an opportunity to provide for my child. The army sent me to Fort Dix in New Jersey for boot camp training on April 22, 1982. It was the perfect enlistment site for me.

Because of the popular television show, Dallas, I had in mind that I wanted to go to Fort Hood, Texas and meet JR Ewing. Not only did I meet Larry Hagman, the actor who played JR, but I also met the entire cast at one of the big Dallas malls. That was in the 80s when the networks spent money to have cast members show up to greet their fans, and when fans could easily get a photo with the stars. Meeting JR had been on my mental bucket list. Later I learned that “Klinger” from Mash and Danny Thomas were both from Toledo, and so I added them to the list.

In 1983, I re-enlisted and chose Hawaii as my next army stint. There for 18 months, I’m convinced that the Hawaii move helped me look long and hard at myself and my future. In Hawaii, I decided I needed to better myself. I enrolled at the Wahiawa Community School for Adults and got my high school diploma. My mother was so disappointed when I didn’t graduate from high school, so I did it as much for her as for myself.

My long transportation management career began in Wahiawa. I was one of a large number of applicants who applied for a temporary mission of driving for the Sergeant Major for the division. He was the senior enlisted man at the post. I beat out the other candidates for that position. Later, I drove for the one-star general at the post. After that, I returned to my unit and worked as the battalion mail clerk until he left in 1985. While there, I met friends and mentors who would help me decide on my career journey. That same year, I was asked to re-enlist, and First Sergeant Herbert Harris became a lifelong mentor and friend. Sergeant Harris recommended that I choose Fort Eustis in Newport News, Virginia for my re-enlistment. I remained at Fort Eustis from April 1985 until January 1988.

I became a squad leader, and for the next six months, I managed a squad of truck drivers in and around the base. After that, I was set on transportation becoming my specialty, but my career trajectory changed some when I was appointed to head up NCO Training, where I was responsible for the training of 270 soldiers.

Around this time, I met First Sergeant Fletcher Walker. He was sent in to straighten out our company, and he did just that. He would stand up at the top of the stairs with his hat covering his eyes but looking down at us. Sergeant Walker was a ‘soldier among soldiers,’ an airborne paratrooper, a Vietnam Veteran who had been shot three times. There was no one more surprised when he chose me to run the training.

I knew he had high expectations, and I was determined not to disappoint him. He was the kind of leaders for whom soldiers would fight and die. He was a true hero who taught me how to be a soldier and a man. He shared a lot about life with me. I imitated him in many ways so much that everyone would call me “Baby Walker.” I met his family and it was an honor. He retired as a Command Sergeant Major.

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Sergeant First Class Glenn W. Powell (Retired) is a native of Toledo, Ohio. He enlisted into the United States Army in 1982 and retired in 2002. During his military career, he served as a heavy vehicle driver, a squad leader, and non-commissioned officer.

In September 1991, SFC Powell joined the George HW Bush White House as a chauffeur, and in 1992, was promoted to transportation coordinator for the white house Press Corps, serving in the Clinton Administration.

In December 1995, he assumed the duties of transportation supervisor for Air Force One.

In January 2001, during his service under President George W. Bush, SFC Powell was transferred to the White House Military Office, Customer Support and Organizational Development where he served as deputy director.

SFC Powell retired with distinction from the Military in 2002. He received numerous awards and decorations throughout his service, including the Legion of Merit Metal, Meritorious Service Medal, the Joint Service Achievement Medal, and the United States Army Achievement Medal with four oak leaf clusters. He received U.S. Service Ribbons for both domestic and overseas service.

Glenn and Ronda Holloway Powell have been married for 25 years, and have three sons, Darius, Warren, and Glenn, II. They reside in Virginia. For more information, or to contact Glenn Powell regarding availability for speaking opportunities, please email him at glennwpowell@aol.com.

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Book Spotlight: What I Gain Through His Pain by Nicole Benoit-Roy

Write Now Literary is pleased to announce What I Gain Through His Pain, by Nicole Benoit-Roy. Virtual Book Tour. August 1-31, 2018. @wnlbooktours @nicoleroy52

ASIN: B0746QSMG3

Genre: Christian Non-fiction

In a society filled with easy Christianity and cheap grace, Nicole Benoit-Roy takes her relationship with Christ to a much deeper level. Since becoming a Christian, she has been learning about her newfound Savior, Jesus Christ. She is an educator who vows to be a student for as long as she lives. The more she learns about the cross of Christ, the more she realizes the importance of it in her life. As she meditates on His suffering, she concludes that His pain is the reason for every blessing in her life. In this book, "What I Gain Through His Pain," she shares her story about the benefit of the cross as she expresses gratefulness for His pain.

Excerpt


Something Fishy

Daddy practiced Voodoo, but even as a child I considered it foolish. During summer vacations in Haiti, the family expected my sister, my next younger brother and me to go to Lèogane. As the summer months drew to a close, my father lined up every child in the house to bathe us with a special Voodoo water made with crushed leaves.

As I got older (though not much older), I grew to detest the act and so I decided not to go on vacation anymore. I thought it ridiculous to allow myself to be bathed with stinky water. I never believed in the Voodoo stuff either. I had a good sense of who I was since early childhood. I knew God made me, and no evil could harm me (Now I know evil can’t touch me without His permission). That knowledge made me very bold and never afraid of any Voodoo stuff. My father had a special table with a white small washbasin and other Voodoo items on it. No one was supposed to touch them. However, on many occasions, I pretended to be cleaning just to touch and rearrange everything on that table. I held no fear. I just knew they lacked any authority over me. It's weird though, no one told me that Voodoo held no potency. It was always a gut feeling. I was always very bold about expressing my belief every chance I got.

My father use to hold Voodoo ceremonies where kids in the house were expected to eat out of special wooden bowls. All that I shunned eventually. Because my brother Kesnel and sister Carol were twins, the ceremony held every year honored the twins (a Voodoo ritual) even though Carol died as a baby. Those were the kinds of things that made no sense to me, leading me to refuse to take part in them as soon as I grew old enough to say no. With me so hardheaded and strong-willed, no one in my family could force me to take part once I said no. Not even my father.

On one occasion, something terrible happened in my family, causing my father to be the focus of suspicion. I felt his pain afterward. He needed so much to have someone on his side. Unfortunately, not even his favorite little girl was willing to be that someone.

In desperation, one evening in Port-au-Prince, the capital of Haiti, he pulled me aside. In a private conversation, he explained his own version of the incident after he visited my mother in the U.S. in 1982 for the first time.

He said, “Nicole, I know you’re getting older. You can understand what I’m about to tell you.”
I was 14 years old then.

“When I went to New York,” he continued, “I swear I did not take your mother’s soiled panties. It’s only after I came back to Haiti I saw them in my suitcase. I swear I did not take them.”

I listened attentively, but my eyes stared at the cement floor as we sat on the edge of my bed.
“You believe me, don’t you, my girl.” He held onto my left arm as if begging me to say yes.
I’d heard the rumor that he wanted to use her underpants to hurt my mother through witchcraft so often that I’d already made up my mind of his guilt.

My father returned to Haiti finding himself in an awkward predicament. At that age, I was naïve and awfully honest.

“Well, I can’t say whether you did it or not. I wasn’t there. You’re the only one who knows if you did it or not,” I said.

Suddenly, the look he gave me told me he wanted another answer. His eyes turned red. His pain turned into hatred.

I knew then I was not his favorite little girl anymore and I would pay.

In retrospect, I realized I could have answered differently had I known better. I still feel his pain even now as I write about it.

As soon as my mother found out her panties were missing, she demanded that my father purchase a plane ticket and return them to her.

When he did, she burned them in his presence.

My father continued to make his regular weekly visits from Lèogâne bringing us fresh produce every time. Our relationship was never the same, however. At times, I’d purposely stayed away to avoid seeing him altogether, not showing up until after he left. He was the enemy of the family. He knew it. That made him very uncomfortable and angry.

During one of his visits, he threatened to beat me because I did not greet him. Of course I put up a fight. He tried to pin me to the ground. I escaped from his grip and ran to a nearby stony hill. I picked up a stone and made the motion to throw it at him, but an invisible power stopped me. I knew Who kept me from flinging the stone, and I’m glad He did. Deep down inside I really loved my father. I believed that he gave me so much love and attention that he made it possible to never feel insecure about myself.

During my college years at Stony Brook University in New York, our father-daughter relationship remained broken. I recall lying on the bed in my dorm room reminiscing about my childhood. My entire family lived in the U.S. by then. My mom and dad separated shortly after the panties incident, although they waited to divorce until eleven years later. I finally realized the pain my father must have gone through to have his whole family against him, and the pain he continued to feel every time he and I met.

“Look at Nicole, the daughter I loved so much. Now, she can’t even talk to me,” he sometimes said.
At that time, we were on greeting terms. As I empathized with my father, I decided to put an end to our broken relationship. I picked up the phone.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hi, daddy, how are you?” It felt uncomfortable saying “daddy” but I also realized that doing the right thing was never easy.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“This is Nicole,” I said. “I just call to tell you that I love you. Bye.”

“Ok,” he said.

I hung up the phone, feeling a burden lift from my chest.

For the first time I began to understand the power of forgiveness. I still had a long way to go.
Our relationship continued to improve after that phone call. My father is now ninety-two years old, and I love him as if nothing ever happened between us.

The Bible says in Deuteronomy 5:16, “Honor your father and your mother, as the LORD your God has commanded you.” (NLT). I desire to obey God's Word. Through this experience, I learned that making mistakes is what we (humans) specialize in the most. What’s essential is that we learn from them.

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Amazon: ebook: https://goo.gl/wRdrXS

Nicole is currently pursuing her doctoral degree in educational leadership at Andrews University. She directs the Children Ministries Department at her church. She works as a special education teacher by day, a literature evangelist by night, and writes during the wee hours of the night. She enjoys reading and playing the piano (beginner). Nicole struggled with college writing, which lead her to eventually drop out. For this reason, one of her many goals in life is to become a best-selling author to the glory of God. Nicole and her husband, Roosevelt Roy, have been married since 1994, and are the proud parents of a handsome brown-eyed son, Nolan. They currently live in Brooklyn, New York.

Connect Socially

Website: http://nicoleroyministries.org

Twitter: https://twitter.com/nicoleroy52

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/identityinjesuschrist/

Tour hosted by Write Now Literary www.wnlbooktours.com

Book Blast: 40 Days of Healing by Danyelle Scroggins

Write Now Literary is pleased to announce the Book Tour for 
40 Days of Healing by Danyelle Scroggins. 

Publication Date: June 12, 2017

Genre: Inspirational

ASIN: B072MS2TLR

ISBN-10: 154806775X

ISBN-13: 978-1548067755

 

40 Days Of Healing takes the reader through 40 days of fasting in hopes of being delivered from the "IT" that has caused separation between them and God, and gives them the opportunity to journal their most personal prayers, thoughts, and intentions.

40 Days Of Healing is also a complete guide to 40 days of fasting and spiritual renewal. It is an opportunity for mind renewal in your mind, body, and spirit. It is saturated with wonderful scriptures to help usher you into your healing.

Pastor/ Author Danyelle is the Senior Pastor of New Vessels Ministries North in Shreveport, Louisiana. She studied Theology at Louisiana Baptist University, has a Psychology Degree from the University of Phoenix, an Interdisciplinary Degree in Psychology /Biblical Studies from Liberty University, and is presently working on a Master’s in Religious Education from the Liberty University. Pastor Danyelle owns Divinely Sown Publishing LLC and is the author of both Christian fiction and non-fiction books. She is the wife of Pastor Reynard Scroggins Sr., the mother of three by birth and two additional by marriage.

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Book Spotlight: Comes Before Winter by Elizabeth Golibart Honaker

Write Now Literary is pleased to announce Come Before Winter, a Christian Historical Fiction with author Elizabeth G. Honaker, March 20-24, 2017.

ASIN: B00PPTR5C2

ISBN-10: 1502598353

ISBN-13: 978-1502598356

About The Author

Elizabeth Golibart Honaker hails from Sparta, Tennessee, where she teaches writing support and English at Motlow Community College. Her undergraduate degree is in Liberal Arts, and her first MA is in Theology. This has given her the breadth and scope to write over fifteen full-length passion plays in the last twenty years – seven of which are in print with others being prepared for publication – as well as dozens of shorter scripts, short stories, and poems on Christian topics. Her first historical fiction novel, Come Before Winter, was published in 2014. In that same year, she completed her second MA in English and Creative Writing (Fiction) at Southern New Hampshire University.

When she is not writing or tutoring, she spends her time devising new home projects for Allen, her husband of 45 years. She also enjoys communicating with her two wonderful grown children and buying (and making) trinkets for her four lively grandchildren. She is passionate about sharing Christ, missional activities, and her local church. She also loves gardening, sewing, piano playing, and Star Trek as time permits.

About The Book

This novel skillfully mixes historical people and events from the first century A.D. with fictional characters to create a riveting narrative. What was it like to be confronted by common people from the Roman Empire who believed in an uncommon Savior? Tribune Justinius Plaxus Glatonis, a powerful member of the Imperial Guard in Rome, finds out.

It was sundown when Justinius, Tribune of the Roman Imperial Guard, entered his cubicle and wearily removed his plumed helmet. After placing it in its proper place in the crudely-crafted cupboard near his cot, the warrior stretched and flexed his arms. In the name of Mithras, he thought, am I getting old? My muscles never ached as badly as they do today. He withdrew his broad sword from its scabbard and placed it next to his pilum – the expertly-crafted Roman spear. His shield had shifted slightly on its peg, and he adjusted it to its proper position. Septimus, his tesserarius,1 had already lit his oil lamps, and a welcome cup of wine was placed on the table. Justinius stood to drink it; he awaited Septimus’ help to remove his breastplate and underlying tunic and could not relax until that was accomplished. However, as a good soldier, he was patient – he knew that Septimus would not keep his commander waiting without cause. He drank the cup slowly, savoring the r ich fullness of the wine produced but a few stadia from the gates of Rome. Wine of such quality is not to be found anywhere else in the empire, he mused. I am fortunate to be stationed in Rome herself, the Queen of Cities.

Roman aide-de-camp

Septimus entered and saluted Justinius. His commander nodded, returned the empty cup to the table, and raised his arms so that his aide could more easily access the straps and belts that attached one piece of the breastplate to another. As his aide removed the back piece, Justinius momentarily held the front piece so it would not fall to the ground. It was a heavy, durable section of armor, but the tribune did not want it scratched up unduly. As a good warrior always did, he took care of his own kit himself, polishing it daily. Each piece stood proudly in its assigned place. As Justinius’ aide, Septimus’ job was to assist his commander only in necessary tasks. He was not a servant; he was subordinate only to Justinius. However, there was a certain affection reflected in Septimus’ actions. Indeed, he went beyond the normal scope of a soldier assigned to assist an officer. It was not so much in the big things that he sought to aid his superior; he tried to notice the little things that could smooth the way for such an admirable leader as the tribune he served. His eyes fell on the tattered brown cloak with the curious stripes that draped itself over a partially-concealed scroll. He reached for it to tidy its appearance, but Justinius spoke to him with uncharacteristic sharpness: “Don’t touch that!” “Sir, I only meant…” “I will handle it myself. Do not touch it.” “Yes, Tribune.” “That will be all.” Justinius stood still until Septimus had left the room. Why did I speak to him in that manner? He asked himself. Now I have raised suspicion…What a foolish thought! Who cares whether a moth-eaten cloak and an ill-penned scroll sit in my quarters? Still… Justinius glanced once more toward the door; it had been securely latched by his aide, so he felt more secure. He stood before the cupboard, struggling with himself whether to touch the cloak and the scroll once more or no. What have I to fear from such objects – the cloak of a fanatic and the scroll of a deluded fool? Justinius sank down onto his cot. The apparatus was wellworn and had seen over fifty campaigns – like its owner – but it was sturdy and serviceable, like everything else in Justinius’ cubicle. There were plenty of other things to claim the soldier’s attention; the weekly slabs with their figures and lines and reports had to be read and digested, and more reports had to be made to superiors up the line. There was his armor to polish once again. But Justinius could not concentrate on anything but the two maddeningly distractive articles. He stood and went to the cupboard. This fear is insane. He reached out to pull the cloak from its resting place, and as he drew it closer to his body, he smelled its lingering aroma of travel and sweat and contact with horses and camels and ships. It was somehow reassuring to smell that smell again.

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