tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2704518855939827472024-03-14T03:54:04.124-07:00Lost in the PlainsJoin me on the road less traveled as it reveals its wonders, its puzzles, and its potholes. Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.comBlogger235125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-80268644583901006922019-02-06T13:05:00.001-08:002019-02-06T13:05:26.561-08:00Lost in the Plains: A Dilemma of Blessing$<a href="https://valleyrise.blogspot.com/2019/02/a-dilemma-of-blessing.html?spref=bl">Lost in the Plains: A Dilemma of Blessing$</a>: Remember me? I know it's been a very long time, but I'm still here. The past twelve months have been mostly filled with more of the ...Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-26558588840182963082019-02-06T12:45:00.000-08:002019-02-06T12:45:27.908-08:00A Dilemma of Blessing$<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSaN6zaVKVHfDl9vnsTOYvCtGlFNPlGWvOjy7dtR3MX87Aqt0dm5YYHLFh00E50TPk58PKFzBjO7d06VxW98HCbjxJi4o7dcKFt6PkvC4zmExQkHQyw30ca4hRfN45agKjRoQt2pSblRpQ/s1600/new+writing+corner+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1317" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSaN6zaVKVHfDl9vnsTOYvCtGlFNPlGWvOjy7dtR3MX87Aqt0dm5YYHLFh00E50TPk58PKFzBjO7d06VxW98HCbjxJi4o7dcKFt6PkvC4zmExQkHQyw30ca4hRfN45agKjRoQt2pSblRpQ/s200/new+writing+corner+002.JPG" width="164" /></a>Remember me? I know it's been a very long time, but I'm still here. The past twelve months have been mostly filled with more of the same for us. Medical appointments, procedures, bills, and the ongoing financial insecurity. I hate to admit, but by the first of December, '18, I was feeling pretty worn out with the whole scene. John had been through four procedures to attempt to ease his back pain and allow him to stand for more than two or three minutes at a time. Those four had necessitated at least three times that many trips to Kansas City, a six hour or more drive round trip. I did almost all of that driving, until my own medical issues almost sidelined me. Thank heaven for friends who helped out, for determined, compassionate physical therapists, and finally for the relief provided by steroid injections. All those trips, all that effort to keep going from both of us, and by the end of the year, we were facing the distinct possibility that none of it had improved John's condition.<br />
<br />
By the first of December, our bank account was tipping toward the negative, we were fiercely nurturing our holiday spirits, and faith was only thing keeping us going. I was once again wondering if things would ever change, or if we could somehow find some other means of meeting the challenges.<br />
<br />
And then the Blessing$ began to flow in. I've said many times that without the generosity of family, friends, and even strangers, the past four years would have brought us to a very different place. But what amazes me is that after so much time, the generosity has not diminished. It seems our situation, not unlike so many others, has somehow inspired ever greater willingness to help. I can't explain it, but every gift feels guided by goodness, marked with love. We accept them with prayerful thanks, knowing just how blessed we are, and try to faithfully use them wisely.<br />
<br />
December's gifts quickly brought us relief from the immediate strain. I could pay the bills on time, the pantry shelves were replenished, and a whole deer took up residence in our freezer! We even bought new shoes, replacing the ones John and I had worn most days for the past four years. Most amazing of all those gifts was the new mattress John's brother gave us! Two people with bad backs on a marshmallow/trampoline, we had despaired of ever having a comfortable night's sleep again. I wake up every morning thankful for that particular gift!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPQnWpXHhDZvbEApIGZP9MNA-58Z3bBOM5MUfKWKsOAQRQ9EzIqtrIQlJHSCiE6-Icq5gY3nwJEqiUUhD8YT2-kLqs50IMBe1RQ-wYXle9lBclVHbA5O85Y9ZePT4fHirStwLcIOWUfGK/s1600/wee+flock+of+flying+pigs+002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="934" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPQnWpXHhDZvbEApIGZP9MNA-58Z3bBOM5MUfKWKsOAQRQ9EzIqtrIQlJHSCiE6-Icq5gY3nwJEqiUUhD8YT2-kLqs50IMBe1RQ-wYXle9lBclVHbA5O85Y9ZePT4fHirStwLcIOWUfGK/s200/wee+flock+of+flying+pigs+002.JPG" width="116" /></a>We have a rule here. Beyond the essential monthly bills--if it cannot be eaten, isn't necessary for our basic health, or won't go in the gas tank of the car, we don't NEED it. The one exception, what we call our one vice, is seed for our bird feeders. John is convinced our feathered friends will not survive without our help, and he takes such pleasure in watching out for them, I'm willing to keep those feeders filled.<br />
<br />
At the end of the year, we were breathing much easier. With strict stewardship, stretching every penny, we might be able to stay ahead of the due dates for a good while. But then something completely unforeseen happened. The gift$ kept coming. For the first time in years, there was--for us--a substantial balance in the bank plus a tidy sum of cash tucked away. For the first time in years, we started to look around for things we've needed, but never thought we would be able to afford<br />
.<br />
I hear a lot from my friends about self-care. Being a caregiver is endless work and leaves little time for attention to the caregiver's needs. I know it's true, that if I don't take care of myself, I won't be here to take care of John. But the days go by, and I do what I do no matter how I feel, until I realize I'm near the end of my endurance. When my Primary Care Provider told me in January--sternly but with a hug--that I was close to collapse, it hit me hard that she was right. It was time to do something for myself, regularly, or the needs would outlast me. But what?<br />
<br />
On the way home from choir last week, we were talking about things worthy of our gift$. At John's insistence, I had already gotten new lenses for my glasses. (I think he'd been quietly terrified during those KC trips, knowing I couldn't read the road signs.) We know he'll need a new wheelchair soon, but it looks like Medicare will take care of most of that. Of course, we could just squirrel away the money for unexpected expenses ahead, but was that what the givers intended? We walked into the house still debating, and I was struck by the pathetic condition of John's recliner. He'd mentioned often, with a laugh, that someday he'd like one that didn't lean sideways.<br />
<br />
"You need a new chair! That's what we should buy!" And then a wild idea blew in. <i>I </i>needed a chair, too. One I could sit in for more than a few minutes without my back complaining. One I could get out of without groaning. One comfortable enough to read in, or even watch TV with John sometime. Two chairs? That's crazy, right?<br />
<br />
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Cut to the end. After some online research, and visits to our two local furniture stores, I found two chairs, matching, no less! With a little negotiation, they even came within my allocated budget. I was glad to be able to buy local, too. Within a day, the chairs were delivered, the old one taken to the alley for trash pickup, and I was battling my conscience.<br />
<br />
Judge me if you will, but I've decided I did the right thing. There's still a very comfortable balance in the bank, and I did something everyone was telling me to do. Something for myself. I may not have a lot of time to sit in that chair, but when I do, it feels good, almost like something I deserve. I refuse to regret it, no matter what my conscience says. But the greatest benefit of all is that I spend more time with John, just sitting side by side. That's the best therapy of all, I'm pretty sure. I think it's even worthy of the shower of blessings sent our way. <br />
<br />Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-22573493306672387652018-04-27T14:00:00.002-07:002018-04-27T14:04:21.157-07:00Because Sometimes Only a "Book-book" Will Do I love ebooks almost as much as I do chocolate! But I'd never buy one for a gift. For one thing, how would I wrap it, or even slip it in one of those cute little gift bags? And how would my friend put it in a special spot, where she would remember me whenever she sees it? Where would I write that message that has meaning for both of us; the words he'd look back on and smile whenever he opened the cover?Only a "real" book--not an ebook that vanishes into the ether--a "book" book, with a colorful cover and plenty of paper pages, will do the job.<br />
For that reason, I've slashed the price
of all my paperbacks to make it easy to purchase a thoughtful gift for
under $10. Mother's Day? Graduation? Birthday? Or just a gift to say
"You're special." <br />
I would have lowered the price even more, but the on demand printer won't print them for any less. My royalties will amount to a few pennies, but that's okay. The thought of someone receiving one of my books as a gift from one of you who's read it and consider it worthy of your special someone is reward in itself!<br />
Click on over to Amazon (hover in the blank space below the photo for the link) and check out the titles available. And thank you for warming my writer's heart by sharing my words with your family and friends. <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Hc7_iqSGSiy0GoOjPOhMjJpnYGzlLtSMemgcjz_dTxWbk9BcTDtdan51hzqFemIv0BtMCL_mpny47aDjdiG-qpFi3ZMdgUQYVCRP9ACvjyzwbLj9fSqKfVtN6MH4I2bnjjdsCiiDTcf7/s1600/Books+018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1058" data-original-width="1600" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Hc7_iqSGSiy0GoOjPOhMjJpnYGzlLtSMemgcjz_dTxWbk9BcTDtdan51hzqFemIv0BtMCL_mpny47aDjdiG-qpFi3ZMdgUQYVCRP9ACvjyzwbLj9fSqKfVtN6MH4I2bnjjdsCiiDTcf7/s400/Books+018.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Karen-Welch/e/B007ILHX90/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0">https://www.amazon.com/Karen-Welch/e/B007ILHX90/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-30618407739004710962018-01-30T12:31:00.000-08:002018-01-30T12:31:24.288-08:00Spiders on the Ceiling--Bees in the Wall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The house we live in was built in 1882. I'm convinced the spiders who share our home are direct descendants of the original occupants of their species. Their population and variety is such that it would do the human occupants more harm than the spiders, if we attempted to chemically discourage them. I've gotten used to them, or at least I don't scream as loudly when one drops on my head. But I do keep a watchful eye ceilingward, in case one of the little jokers is slow enough for me to get him before he gets me. For the most part, we've coexisted in peace now for almost 20 years. In fact, they keep me on track with the housekeeping. Though I don't suppose gleefully sucking them and their webs into my vacuum cleaner is much of a way to show my gratitude. <br />
<br />
Unexpectedly, last year during a particularly hot Indian Summer day, we discovered another family of tenants sharing our old house. A cyclone cloud of bees suddenly appeared over our patio and then bearded on the eaves of one corner of the original portion of the house. Within an hour they had all but disappeared, leaving a few busy lookouts zooming about outside. Apparently, our old house is also a hive, and has been for some time.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQfaghnMyjodlhk1L0_pzUl4pMIMwvA3RTtvW9yrR9dtxjpKRlYxzv0cdSaQm_xUeBTp9yyQ5kwrH3kD-n2i11ULCnhph_BwWm9YguFVMmzWIhKmwwYTUMmDPFZ-Ys_3xM527Nns-tUXX6/s1600/Bees+011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQfaghnMyjodlhk1L0_pzUl4pMIMwvA3RTtvW9yrR9dtxjpKRlYxzv0cdSaQm_xUeBTp9yyQ5kwrH3kD-n2i11ULCnhph_BwWm9YguFVMmzWIhKmwwYTUMmDPFZ-Ys_3xM527Nns-tUXX6/s200/Bees+011.JPG" width="150" /></a>I called around for several days, seeking a reason for this bizarre event, until I was directed to a member of the local Bee Keepers Club. As all bee lovers, including myself, he was very concerned about this hive's unusual behavior. They don't normally swarm until spring. The fact that they returned to the hive seemed to mean the heat got to them, and they just came out for a breath of cooler air. I was assured someone would come and lure them out in the spring, when they are more inclined to relocate, and until then, there was no harm in letting them be. (Sorry, no pun intended!) The bee keeper speculated that we have enough honey in our soffits to keep our toast covered for quite some time.<br />
<br />
I occasionally hear a sort of seismic humming in the wall next to my desk. On sunny days, a bee will find its way into the house through the window sash and allow me to show him the door. I have visions of a busy hive just on the other side of the plaster. While I'm severely allergic to bee stings, I'm not at all disturbed by our tenants. Unlike spiders, I encourage bees in my garden and enjoy watching them feed on my zinnias. Also unlike the spiders, they don't attempt to scare the #@$! out of me by zooming from the ceiling just as I'm crossing a dark room. The bees are our friends. I have yet to find anything as nice to say about the spiders.<br />
<br />
Lately, I've come to think of the spiders as a metaphor for our life. If you've been here before, you know that we've had our share of life-changing events in the past three years. At present, we're grappling with some, new and gnarly health issues. It seems no sooner one is resolved than another pops up. And, as is too often true in such cases, our financial security has been diminished to the state of a teeter-totter by the loss of income and addition of expense. Like spiders on the ceiling, it feels as though there's always some potential threat lurking overhead. I'm here in the dark, waiting for the fall, armed with hope and little more. But what have we if not hope? Unlikely as it seems some days, most of the things I fear either never
happen or are resolved in a way I never saw coming. The truth is, I've never been
bitten by a spider. <br />
<br />
So, if the spiders represent my anxiety, what about the bees? Those brave, honest little workers laboring to produce something sweet and nourishing? Like the friends and strangers who've offered us help, when otherwise we might have lost this old house and many of the things we enjoy, they came seemingly out of nowhere and made their home here with us. There's comfort in that idea, or at least I'll chose to see it as such.<br />
<br />
Whenever nature offers me a bit of itself, like the birds who chose to feast at my feeder, or the volunteer seeds that spring up in my garden, it makes me feel special somehow. Honored, even loved. While I doubt I'll ever really feel the love from those spiders on the ceiling, I can honestly say the bees in the wall, like the friends who hold out their hands and open their hearts, make the scary moments of this time in life immeasurably easier to face. <br />
<br />Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-33813731477363051972018-01-15T14:24:00.001-08:002018-01-15T14:24:46.451-08:00 Snowy Day Memory<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxL7e86N3eZyLN6gxCqtJsfEVrzGVPJDXE7xvrYxK_33Eegci_Bxy32WZk1eFysm7U9QV9GicNlBY-k-ijRwout5Uf59z2hfxGyGlmfO02SEaq9kwStalA22ayLhyphenhyphenIG2HrO-U3fOQBV0r2/s1600/iStock_000019111865_ExtraSmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="424" data-original-width="283" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxL7e86N3eZyLN6gxCqtJsfEVrzGVPJDXE7xvrYxK_33Eegci_Bxy32WZk1eFysm7U9QV9GicNlBY-k-ijRwout5Uf59z2hfxGyGlmfO02SEaq9kwStalA22ayLhyphenhyphenIG2HrO-U3fOQBV0r2/s200/iStock_000019111865_ExtraSmall.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> I freely admit that, at least from inside a warm house, I love snowy days. Today, here in Kansas, where the wind is teasing and tossing about the snow that fell last night, I'm easily reminded of this scene from<b> Hearts Unfold.</b> It's not coincidence I chose the wild wonder of a snowstorm in which to introduce the hero of this <i>"very special love story." </i>Snow is mysterious, romantic, even dangerous--like the meeting of two strangers. A meeting that will forever change the direction of their lives. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Through the frost-rimmed window, she saw that the snowfall had
slowed, though the wind still whipped the tree limbs and spun little white
cyclones across the yard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond the
barn, just where the land dropped away to the hillside, a moving shadow caught
her eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A deer, or maybe a cow, strayed
and lost in the storm?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stepping to the
door for a closer look, she tried to focus past the blowing snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shadow moved steadily upward over the
rise, until she saw what could only be a human figure, trudging slowly in the
general direction of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Head
down, swaying slightly, as if unbalanced by the force of the wind, he—or at
least she thought it must be a man—was dressed all in black, the windward side
of his long overcoat etched with white, and his bared head capped with
snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There seemed to be something odd
about his stance, and then she realized one arm was crossed over his body, as
if bracing the other to his side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
what must have been only a few seconds, she tried to assess his size—not very
tall; his possible intent—obviously seeking shelter; and where he could have
come from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had to be coming from the
road below, but why would anyone have walked up a steep wooded hillside in a
blistering storm?</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><div class="StandardCxSpLast" style="line-height: normal; margin-top: 0in; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: .5in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">As she watched, scarcely drawing breath, it seemed he raised
his head and gazed for a moment toward the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then in a slow, graceful spiral, he sank to
the ground, disappearing into the snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If she had not been watching his progress across the yard, she realized
she would never have seen him from the house, once he’d fallen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blinking, she wondered for an instant if she
might have only imagined him, if he had been a mirage in the featureless white
of the landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the pounding of
her pulse told her otherwise.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8">https://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8</a></span></div>
<br />
Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-50209596796188546452018-01-11T11:06:00.000-08:002019-02-19T13:20:30.650-08:00While You're Busy Doing Other Things--The Final Diagnosis<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--><span style="color: #d9ead3;">It's February 19, 2019 and I'm posting this again with an update. It's worth repeating, if it reaches someone in the same situation I found myself two and a half years ago. It's also worth noting that the friend to whom this letter was written lost his mother to bladder cancer, which I didn't know at the time. His sharing of her experience was a poignant reminder of just how blessed I am. </span><br />
<span style="color: #d9ead3;">My update is this--my most recent diagnosis, as of last week, in fact, is "<i><b>cancer free.</b></i>" There will still be check ups and tests, but at this point, I'm checking "bladder cancer" off my list of things I never expected to experience. </span><br />
<span style="color: #d9ead3;">I hope you'll read my original post. It may say something to you that you need to hear. </span><br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQ-C418JiKV235ckdU_NpTVJyLe8G7rLxu4NVdiArOSCm8SD5zT39B0fQZXjTPZMxIu0lpA7z61Codxp4L1k05myNkMlz3BvToD2UBZ5VlRtPS8NVaJ-P5peEtYCC9oRW1HcvgKVXjk2D/s1600/019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpQ-C418JiKV235ckdU_NpTVJyLe8G7rLxu4NVdiArOSCm8SD5zT39B0fQZXjTPZMxIu0lpA7z61Codxp4L1k05myNkMlz3BvToD2UBZ5VlRtPS8NVaJ-P5peEtYCC9oRW1HcvgKVXjk2D/s200/019.JPG" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Recently I was called to task by a dear friend after I mentioned in my Christmas letter that "my cancer was in remission." He asked if I'd <i><b>mind</b></i> telling him what kind of cancer and how it was being treated. Shamefaced that I had dropped the C-word so casually and left him hanging, I dashed off this letter. (And before you ask, my friend does not partake of social media and we really do maintain our relationship via good old fashioned letters sent through the US mail.) After thinking about it for a few days, I decided that by posting it here, it might speak to someone who needs to hear its message. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Dear E----, </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Sorry to
have overlooked sharing the cancer episode, but just credit my abysmally
sporadic letter writing. With all that was happening at the time, I kept
putting it on the back burner, but thanks to a benevolent God and a couple of
fine doctors, it didn’t take me out. </span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
story goes something like this. For at least three years before John’s fall, if
not longer, I would occasionally see pink in the toilet. Since I’d had numerous
bouts of hemorrhagic cystitis in the past, I just went to my doctor and got antibiotics,
drank plenty of cranberry juice, and never gave it another thought. Google
“blood in urine” and you get urinary tract infection, so even the web
vindicated my complacency. Not to discredit a very nice man and a pretty decent
GP, but the doc I was seeing at the time wasn’t inclined to push for tests or
raise concerns unless the patient insisted, which I didn’t. </span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">As you
know, in June of ’15, John took his fall and life turned upside down. My
health, which really seemed okay, probably due to constant adrenaline rushes,
was my last concern. But the pink was more frequent, enough so that even in his
condition, John made note of it. By the following June, several things came
together to change the situation. John was finally able to spend an hour or two
on his own without me, my doctor retired and a very energetic nurse practitioner became
our primary provider, and I was passing sizable blood clots regularly. Suffice it
to say, this young woman was more proactive than my former doc. She sent me
post haste to a urologist, who had a scan done that day and scheduled a
cystoscopy for the following week. Verdict—a largish polyp, possibly a tumor,
which was removed two weeks later and proved to be malignant. It was very close
to the point where the ureter from the right kidney opens to the bladder, so a temporary
stint was put in to keep things flowing. I was not far from a toilet for the
next six weeks, but otherwise there was nothing in my recovery that I could complain about. </span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">I wasn’t
at all surprised that it was cancer. I just felt grateful it hadn’t gone through
the bladder wall or worse, because I was the one who ignored every message my body tried
to send me. By the time I saw the new PCP, I was seriously anemic and, to be honest, could barely
make it through each day, but I was still clinging to denial.</span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
urologist I was referred to is the kind of physician I immediately feel
confident with, but when he suggested the most frequent follow-up treatment for
bladder cancer, called BCG, I balked. This in very basic terms involves
infusing the germ that causes tuberculosis into the bladder, which produces
immunity against the cancer. Still worried I might have PFS—Physician’s Family
Syndrome, whereby any member of a physician’s family will suffer any and all
possible ill or side effects from any treatment of routine illness—which I had
experienced when married to “my second husband the doctor,” I refused at first.
The major side effect from the treatment is, of course, contracting TB. But during the next cystoscopy three months later, more tumors had developed. I didn’t
argue when the urologist said it was worth the risk. Having the lining of
your bladder sliced and burned away in stages is no picnic! And more to the point, It was time I accepted that my life was worth risking even nasty, but treatable, side effects. </span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
treatments—six in all—went without incident and to date—last cysto in
November—there’s no further sign of cancer. </span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">So
that’s the story. Bladder cancer and its treatment are not nearly as visible or
dramatic as so many other types of cancer. If I hadn’t told anyone, no one
would have been the wiser. But I did talk about it, and even post about it on FB, because my case was like so many others. We (women) put off addressing
what doesn’t put us flat on our butts, especially when there are others with
greater needs, until we put our lives in jeopardy. Ignoring symptoms is stupid!
That’s what they’re for, to warn us that something’s not right. We both know of cases like mine that ended tragically. I will always have
bladder cancer, but with the same kind of follow up, it shouldn’t be a problem.
Many with other types of this insidious disease aren’t so fortunate. I know how blessed I am, in spite of my persistent denial, to be able to use the word "remission" with confidence. </span></i></div>
<i>
</i><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">My kind, compassionate urologist has retired as of this
month, so I will have a new doc for my next cysto. I’m assured by everyone that he’s wonderful, trained at Mayo Clinic, and no doubt looks
about 18. As long as he doesn’t rock my treatment boat, that’s fine. I’m just
thankful that when I needed him, my original doctor was on hand to get me through this.
Does it really take someone over 60 to understand the issues of caregiving and
the limitations that come with age? That is a course I’d gladly teach to every
med student in the country! </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">For everyone reading this here on my blog, my closing is this. If you see yourself anywhere in my story, get yourself to a doctor, be honest with him/her, and get the testing and treatment you need. Life is precious. Don't let it slip away while you're busy doing other things. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Love you! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Karen </span></div>
Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-63825183197767090142017-11-11T10:03:00.000-08:002017-11-11T10:03:41.886-08:00When Duty Called<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuvwf5jrjVe08Iw7sT5iW7o_DHvR0xsVskcP6Eu22QkVSp2WFQDpFsWPXWvSgXA_-mXxK1iFpJWjXuvHPr_jrbMKiwSJa2Af9WZAT9SHYlji_MtYck89BTZhxM4sEMiAB4KjJ8K3pG2fUv/s1600/Honoring+our+Veterans.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="828" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuvwf5jrjVe08Iw7sT5iW7o_DHvR0xsVskcP6Eu22QkVSp2WFQDpFsWPXWvSgXA_-mXxK1iFpJWjXuvHPr_jrbMKiwSJa2Af9WZAT9SHYlji_MtYck89BTZhxM4sEMiAB4KjJ8K3pG2fUv/s640/Honoring+our+Veterans.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
There have been many in my family who served, back to the Revolutionary War, I'm told, all with their own
stories. These are the pictures and stories I grew up with, of those
closest to me.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBgr26Xf99liScPxigMAIFW06EgzJsshlMlBBihrTTkKUHiqmWwSoxZJgQPCahjCSdfYpxDusSH-dXshHsFrI-8_Ilf0svQNueBudsJbscuAAitNW83UZXngSva_JHrvR2Jq2VP3g7Vns7/s1600/Scan0061.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="908" data-original-width="576" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBgr26Xf99liScPxigMAIFW06EgzJsshlMlBBihrTTkKUHiqmWwSoxZJgQPCahjCSdfYpxDusSH-dXshHsFrI-8_Ilf0svQNueBudsJbscuAAitNW83UZXngSva_JHrvR2Jq2VP3g7Vns7/s200/Scan0061.jpg" width="126" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU7m1BTxybwmJHXiWen9cSp7WVoAUES0k2Cop853DC0WQ5q61Te-GElLfgexXb7Uc1nYbkBsVNq9liZtn-7amA94S2RIa2PdO3Coin6VD1A8Wa4DwwsB7DyK5KzzYo0DZxyedNkwjbCNx0/s1600/Scan0044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="662" data-original-width="632" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU7m1BTxybwmJHXiWen9cSp7WVoAUES0k2Cop853DC0WQ5q61Te-GElLfgexXb7Uc1nYbkBsVNq9liZtn-7amA94S2RIa2PdO3Coin6VD1A8Wa4DwwsB7DyK5KzzYo0DZxyedNkwjbCNx0/s200/Scan0044.jpg" width="190" /></a> Serving in World War I--My grandfather Henry Rowlette,
who never left Ft. Lee, VA in the year after he enlisted. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My great-uncle Levi Yeatts, my
grandmother's youngest brother, who is buried in France.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Levi left behind his mother, ten brothers and sisters, and his fiance. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4MBFgcfuQk6r6fV1TeOd_1AH3hqraG42HQhKP1RMTyXPbfzIsFohoaFre4mK2xcghpz5K_ta5mNNkLfCanW8va54CmiQNWXg6s62PCXM2Xk9r6DD88ebWRPZ_cHjZII0WAaTYtgycqaV/s1600/Scan0059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="809" data-original-width="766" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl4MBFgcfuQk6r6fV1TeOd_1AH3hqraG42HQhKP1RMTyXPbfzIsFohoaFre4mK2xcghpz5K_ta5mNNkLfCanW8va54CmiQNWXg6s62PCXM2Xk9r6DD88ebWRPZ_cHjZII0WAaTYtgycqaV/s200/Scan0059.jpg" width="188" /></a>WWII Veterans--My uncle, Anthony Rowlette, who became a surgical nurse
by the end of the war. He talked about serving on board the Queen Mary
carrying troops to Europe, and bringing back the wounded, some of the
same men, after D-Day.</div>
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<br /> My father, Guy White, Jr., who failed to meet
the Navy's weight requirement and "hung around Washington, DC eating bananas"
until he gained enough to enlist. </div>
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While I'm told my father would much have preferred a few combat tales to
pass along, he never saw action while "floating around the Caribbean."
Still, he was able to put his talents to work for his country. He not
only chronicled the ship's travels, but photographed the entire crew and
all of their adventures. (I still have many of the photos.) Of, course,
his greatest service was painting this portrait of Buggs Bunny on the
side of the ship!</div>
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Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-90453556861445925572017-09-21T13:03:00.000-07:002017-09-21T13:03:03.291-07:00Raise Your Glasses, Please! <div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmcbYTD-Csm46kmcljjusWEjSJkDKE-nAqpiVv8uO-nT4pGrhZE1leRu7rM0bW2mgNO_lyFSgcVdz086Kjtz_8eITddHc5ulL81KwZi5TWxV2o0-RH54PSj2j1StoyucVGNQZWDFpnCbvF/s1600/Scan0017+%2528989x1280%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="377" data-original-width="377" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmcbYTD-Csm46kmcljjusWEjSJkDKE-nAqpiVv8uO-nT4pGrhZE1leRu7rM0bW2mgNO_lyFSgcVdz086Kjtz_8eITddHc5ulL81KwZi5TWxV2o0-RH54PSj2j1StoyucVGNQZWDFpnCbvF/s200/Scan0017+%2528989x1280%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a>Today is the twenty-sixth anniversary of <i><b>the</b></i> smartest choice I've ever made. Marrying John set my life on a path that, for the first time in my almost 40 years of twisting, turning, often jolting travel, felt absolutely right. I've decided that if there is no doubt about your choice of partner for a journey, there should never be doubts about where it leads you, regardless of the inevitable ups and downs. We've had plenty of those, still do, but I don't for a moment question the rightness of "us."<br />
<br />
My first novel is dedicated "to John, who makes me possible." I'd lived decades locked in relationships that dictated my every step, because any independent ventures were in some way threatening to my partner. With John, I was free to be, even encouraged to be, whatever I believed I might be. He has never questioned my ability to do whatever I dared attempt, whether it be taking on a starring role in a play two weeks before opening night, or tearing apart and reconstructing a 1940's kitchen. He has far more confidence in me than I have. It's that confidence that finally made "me" possible.<br />
<br />
When I started writing, and amazingly continued writing, my first novel, I had no idea it would ever become more than a little story I wrote to affirm the shaky belief that I did indeed "have a book in me." I wasn't even willing at first to share it with John, but eventually it became perversely vital to me that he read what I'd written. He did. At the appropriate points, he laughed, he sighed, and he wept. It was then that we both knew, without knowing how, that this story could do more than exist for a time merely taking up space in my hard drive. I'm certain that without his encouragement, his patience, and his 20-plus years experience as an editor, I would never have attempted to send my little book out into the world. He's made so many wonderful things possible through our years together, and my writing life definitely ranks near the top. <br />
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The book John made possible, <i><b>Hearts Unfold</b></i>, is currently free wherever ebooks are sold. We can't offer you all a glass of champagne, but won't you join us in celebrating this special day by helping yourself to, or sending your friends a copy? We'd be honored to have you share in a "toast" to one more year of "us." <br />
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<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8">https://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8</a><br />
<a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/hearts-unfold-karen-welch/1124015694?ean=2940153094076">http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/hearts-unfold-karen-welch/1124015694?ean=2940153094076</a><br />
<a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/x/id1127912900">https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/x/id1127912900</a><br />
<a href="https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/hearts-unfold-miracle-at-valley-rise-book-1">https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/hearts-unfold-miracle-at-valley-rise-book-1</a><br />
<a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/643753">https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/643753</a><br />
<a href="https://www.instafreebie.com/book/28297">https://www.instafreebie.com/book/28297</a><br />
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<br />Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-51620610626446759312017-09-15T13:35:00.000-07:002017-09-16T10:04:28.866-07:00Take My Heart--and Other Broken Bits<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The other day John called our pastor to give him an update on all of our various health issues. "The cat is the only member of the family who's well," he began with a slightly weary chuckle. These calls have been a regular form of communication for the past two years, thus the weariness of placing yet another one. Going on to fill in the current details, first his, then mine, and finishing with our cocker Raleigh's, he wrapped things up with gratitude for continuing prayers and all the many practical ways our little congregation has helped to keep us afloat.<br />
<br />
I'm grateful, too, don't get me wrong. But the truth is, I'd rather not be in need of their gifts. I'm tired of being broken, not to mention broke. I'm sick of being sick, taking pills, seeing doctors, making appointments, taking tests, all at the expense of the life I'd love to be living. There was a time, a few years ago, when I regularly remarked at how healthy I was as I got older. I figured I'd put in my sick time in my twenties and thirties (that's a sad tale all its own.) Now I was able to enjoy doing most of the things I loved at the risk of nothing more than a few sore muscles. I actually anticipated being one of those tough old ladies, one like my grandmother, who at seventy could swing a grubbing hoe with zeal, can fruit and vegetables all day and then cook supper, and heft a load of wet laundry without so much as a grunt. Things are definitely not working out the way I expected.<br />
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After John's leg fractured in June of '15, my strength was put to the ultimate test. A non-ambulatory husband is more work than a newborn baby. Laundry, meals, baths, plus dressing changes, wobbly one-footed transfers, and restorative exercises, and don't forget the endless bills and paperwork, kept me steadily moving pretty much around the clock. Sure, I got tired, but who wouldn't? If I had a pain, I kept it too myself. I was prideful enough to insist I could handle things, mostly because who else, in all honesty, could or would?<br />
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I had a little secret, though, which I even tried to keep from myself. I was peeing pink. Whatever the cause, it wasn't going to be seen to until I could leave John for more than an hour, so why worry? That little secret turned out to be bladder cancer, and it was at that point, in June of '16, that I really started to fall apart. I went through a year of tests and treatments and at the moment, things look pretty good on that front. However . . .<br />
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I wonder now if I should have just kept some other things to myself. I know all too well that once you mention chest pain and profuse sweating to a doctor, they're not going to just let it ride. I'm having a cardiac cath next week. And this nasty sinus infection that hasn't cleared up after two years of treatment? The ENT, who looks like he recently finished high school, predicts only surgery will do the trick. And sadly, I expect he's right. I'm not worried about myself, but I do fret over leaving John alone so much and not feeling up to taking care of him as I want to.<br />
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Enough about me. Recently, we noticed John having what looked a lot like TIA's and discovered he has a "smallish" cerebral aneurysm. Since his mother died with one, and his brother had one treated, we're certainly not ignoring that! Neurologists are as scarce as fresh seafood out here in the heartland, but we finally got an appointment with one in November. Meanwhile, I'm watching him like a hawk does a newly mowed field. He says he's not worried at all about himself, but he does admit to worrying about me. We're even on that front.<br />
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Of course, along with all of the above mentioned ailments come the bills--for every test, every unseen doctor who reads the results of said tests, every doctor's visit to get the order for the test and hear the test results. That's before the bills for the actual treatments, which would make my heart race even if it's perfectly healthy. Thank heaven for all the generous souls whose gifts at least keep us in groceries and more. Those gifts are more than money, they are love. They remind us that, worthy or not, we are cared for. <br />
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I so long to go back to becoming a tough old lady. My hope is that repairing all these broken bits will give us the time to do things we still want and even need to do. I even hold out hope of becoming a writer again some day. While we accept we'll never have money to spend the way we used to, money is nothing compared to days and nights spent together doing what we love. If you're one of those praying for us, just ask for that--time together to watch the garden grow, time to listen to the music, to read the books, and just be. <br />
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<br />Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-65862518886866729022017-05-13T12:29:00.000-07:002017-05-13T12:29:58.108-07:00Small Town Inspired<br />
In the real world, small towns are love 'em or leave 'em kinds of places. In fiction, they are often airbrushed with rainbow colors of innocence or brutalized in darker shades of prejudice or worse. It's no secret that I grew up in a small town--well, to be honest, a small village--situated on land first granted to my ancestors by the King of England in the 1720's. I've since lived in towns with populations of 1,000 to 10,000, and the dynamic is pretty much the same, regardless of the number of souls within the city limits. Unique to small towns are treasures such as unsolicited support in hard times, shared celebration and grief, life long friendships, time honored feuds, and mutually respected secrets.<br />
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I keep in touch with a childhood friend who unequivocally declares the years he and his family spent in our little village are the foundation for his life. "Everything I needed to know I learned there." I agree that the lessons were simple and straightforward, possibly purified by memory and softened in the haze of experience by now. While his memories are idyllic, mine include the bumps and bruises of living where everyone not only knew your name, but those of the skeletons in your family closet, the transgressions of your ancestors, as well as your daily business.<br />
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My friend's family were not "from there." They came from a nearby city and eventually returned there. While they were welcomed and accepted during the years they spent with us, they never experienced the deeply rooted ties of those who shared DNA with the generations who pioneered, timbered, plowed, and constructed everything in sight. My friend enjoyed the benefits of a close-knit community without the obligations history passed down to some of us.<br />
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I eventually left what I saw as the confines of that little village, only to find myself in similar places time after time. Of course, in those places I wasn't one of the "original settlers" but I clearly recognized the inner workings of a small town. As happens with experience and age, I came to appreciate the value of those deep roots, despite their obligations. All of those benefits my friend had enjoyed came into focus for me, too. Sadly, I can't go back to apologize to my village for my lack of proper respect. It barely exists today and bears little resemblance to the place where I grew up.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl3efWckqGsN44qSTTJMp_Eqkiw5QFhljTfDrvCKnIIGw9JzMNcPXYtSWy6XZ7knTNsMrEgqTmAf6W3PJNbjn-lYL6tVKSHOjPSPhH2WHsNOV4x0BpRqnhx6K5rX7KJ7ZYoZ3qeBoKX8qO/s1600/heartsfontF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl3efWckqGsN44qSTTJMp_Eqkiw5QFhljTfDrvCKnIIGw9JzMNcPXYtSWy6XZ7knTNsMrEgqTmAf6W3PJNbjn-lYL6tVKSHOjPSPhH2WHsNOV4x0BpRqnhx6K5rX7KJ7ZYoZ3qeBoKX8qO/s200/heartsfontF.jpg" width="133" /></a>Instead, without setting out to do so, I memorialized my small town experiences when I started writing<i><b> Hearts Unfold</b></i>. Once I saw what I was doing, folding the best of my memories into Emily's story, I wondered if anyone would believe a single, small community could possess so many sterling qualities. But the memories were truth, from the town fathers at the coffee shop to the postmistress who passed on the latest news along with the daily mail. I hadn't fabricated the "courthouse" or the characters who populated the surrounding farmlands.They were carefully preserved in a benevolent corner of my mind.<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;">Stani gently brushed a
windblown strand of hair from her cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“You really love it here, don't you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You positively light up when you talk about it.”</span></i></b></div>
<b><i>
</i></b><br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;">Emily blushed, turning to lead
him further along the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I know
it's all very ordinary, but yes, I love it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I was a little girl, I would come into town with Pop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everywhere we went everybody knew us and
seemed to genuinely care about us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
made me feel important when someone asked how my mother was doing, or how the
garden was coming along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that I'm
back, everybody makes me feel included, like a part of the community.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She swept her hand through the air, taking in
the four blocks of the square and all of the shop fronts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“These people are my family, although I'm not
related to any one of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From Mr.
Harris at the bank, to Katie Malone at the flower shop, to Mr. Brown at the
market, to Martha Jean at the boutique, I know I can count on every one of them
to be there if I need anything.”--Hearts Unfold </span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: normal; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<br />
Like Emily, I was raised by a small town. As a fatherless child, the
daughter of one of the founding family's daughters, I was gathered to
the collective bosom of my village. If at times I felt more smothered
than cherished, I know now that was not the intention. They, like
Emily's neighbors, recognized a need and were called to address it.
Unlike Emily, I can't go back, and probably wouldn't chose to if I
could. Still, there's no doubt growing up in the secure embrace of a
small town inspired not only my writing, but much of what is best in me. Thankfully, my village lives on in the memory of those of us who grew up there, not only as inspiration for written word, but also for life well lived. </div>
Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-84618059068762355512017-05-02T15:50:00.001-07:002017-05-02T15:50:51.924-07:00The Years of Seven<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCS4brNzpmNgEg9GHP1zeIeqnXc99ABrgp1XH-lyqT3oenYS_XZ1by5rtLUXuIcfX30pnfEnXTM13jmHoNHPlv7g9B6-16n8TgV5WxItAyig7o1Tgc9c7sE6PpwNv7z-G4AN0IgDsAbUzE/s1600/019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCS4brNzpmNgEg9GHP1zeIeqnXc99ABrgp1XH-lyqT3oenYS_XZ1by5rtLUXuIcfX30pnfEnXTM13jmHoNHPlv7g9B6-16n8TgV5WxItAyig7o1Tgc9c7sE6PpwNv7z-G4AN0IgDsAbUzE/s200/019.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
Numbers are not my thing. I don't have a lucky--or unlucky--number. I'm pathetic with phone numbers, house numbers, even birth and anniversary dates. I'm a word person. From grade school on, I chose to nurture my vocabulary and leave the numbers to fend for themselves. <br />
<br />
There is one major exception--the dreaded seventh year of every decade--<b><i>The Year of Seven</i></b>. Now, I know how that sounds, but I categorically deny being the least bit superstitious. I love black cats and have been owned by several in my lifetime. I'm blessed with the lack of inches that allows me to walk under ladders without even noticing them. On rainy days, I leave my open umbrella to dry in the foyer. I frankly don't have the nature or the time to indulge in superstition. But these years of seven aren't about superstition. Instead, they are about a a very real story about grief and loss. Yes, you can argue that there is all of that in other years. But over time these particular years earned a badge of mystical significance in my life, first through my mother and then for myself. I hope the story speaks for itself. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoiC_C_LwidNGDHP9rQlNVcX7DNjpxx_X3ecV5Ahh_jhpDVVZYO3WFnRwX4w1g2wjqZxPDzHqFDjPvgV0TuAul-adxVvqTpfE7EnAgYnx3ngtlX4TUip_1AdlwzqKt0MevBwjz5l7M7ayY/s1600/Scan0041.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoiC_C_LwidNGDHP9rQlNVcX7DNjpxx_X3ecV5Ahh_jhpDVVZYO3WFnRwX4w1g2wjqZxPDzHqFDjPvgV0TuAul-adxVvqTpfE7EnAgYnx3ngtlX4TUip_1AdlwzqKt0MevBwjz5l7M7ayY/s200/Scan0041.jpg" width="182" /></a>In 1947 my mother's fiance drowned at a party celebrating her birthday and their upcoming marriage. His death resulted in a very different life than the one she was looking forward to. She eventually married a brilliant young school teacher, gave birth to a daughter, and fought tooth and nail for the happy ever after that was never to be.<br />
<br />
In 1957 my father committed suicide. It's fair to say, my mother never stopped grieving for him, <br />
never lived fully without him, and never stopped reliving their time together. His death was the defining moment of her life.<br />
<br />
In 1967 my maternal grandfather, a wise and gentle man who saved this fatherless child when her five year-old world imploded, died unexpectedly two days after Christmas.<br />
<br />
At this point you can see the pattern, but you might also say this rule of seven was more about my mother than about me. You wouldn't be wrong. For years, I tried to lay it at her door. Hard things happened every year. But even I was impressed with the fact that the hardest things, the kind that change the color of our worlds forever, seemed to strike in the seventh years of each decade.<br />
<br />
Then came 1977. I was a young, but dedicated, wife with two small children by this time. Short version--the marriage ended when my husband literally drove off into the sunset without a word of explanation or farewell. I ended up hospitalized for months with a major bipolar breakdown. That was the year I embraced the truth of what many might call coincidence.<br />
<br />
That said, 1987 was just one more year in the horror story of my second marriage. It might have been worse. It certainly wasn't better.<br />
<br />
On Valentine's Day of 1997, my dearest friend died of cancer. I was blessed by her invitation to share her journey toward eternity, to sit by her, read to her, plan her memorial, and make sure all her pet projects were brought to a satisfactory end. I remember '97 as the year I cried almost daily, often at something we'd laughed at; the year I started talking to the familiar angel perched on my shoulder.<br />
<br />
In 2007 my mother passed to her well deserved reward, exactly fifty years and twenty days after my father left her. If I'd never believed the seventh years held a special place in our lives, that would have confirmed it for me. I remember early that year, as she grew weaker and, between the two of us, we accepted that her fight was almost over, she stopped talking about my father. I sensed that she was thinking of him and that her thoughts were private. I knew she was hoping he'd waited for her.<br />
<br />
Was I hoping during the past ten years that just maybe the cycle had ended? After 2015, when our lives were changed so drastically with John's fall, I couldn't imagine '17 topping it. Not that I was challenging fate. More like asking for a pass for this decade. Or forever. <br />
<br />
It's now 2017. Maybe it's just coincidence that I've been diagnosed with cancer? Not the worst diagnosis, specifically bladder cancer, but one I hoped would never be entered in my medical history. Juggling all I <i><b>have</b></i> to do and <i><b>want</b></i> to do with surgery, treatments, and tests seems to be asking a lot, just when I've begun to realize I'm not as young and strong as I once was.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHRmGU7G45GRabkRoOYfjErfzHXChPZhvOTlVM0efjKFDhzfBYoONOnzJ52BfqXgJKIytvISpzdpqi6JFaHypBumcBjFI_hn3T5yVslbBpQ7nUurzm3lkbsDDtabYD6HM1YViMEv5BdAD6/s1600/John%2527s+Birthday+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHRmGU7G45GRabkRoOYfjErfzHXChPZhvOTlVM0efjKFDhzfBYoONOnzJ52BfqXgJKIytvISpzdpqi6JFaHypBumcBjFI_hn3T5yVslbBpQ7nUurzm3lkbsDDtabYD6HM1YViMEv5BdAD6/s200/John%2527s+Birthday+008.JPG" width="200" /></a>Whatever I think about these symbolic seventh years, I certainly do not expect the worst. Much like what I recall as the Black Hole of '77, I intend to fight my way out of this and survive. I have a husband I adore who needs me, literally, every hour of the day. I have family, friends, my old house, and my garden, to spend time with and care for. I have stories to tell, and possibly new ventures to undertake. Most of all, I have my God, who has held me close and carried me forward in the worst of times. I know I have nothing to fear and everything to look forward to beyond this seventh year.<br />
<br />
This detour may be unknown and certainly unwelcome, but I'm looking forward to new things to learn and new people to meet along the way. I hope you'll join me. <br />
<br />
<br />
Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-7959558438634162292017-04-27T21:22:00.000-07:002017-04-28T08:23:18.882-07:00To Blog or ???<br />
<div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSDz2He3cxQDMT-L6l85PGVhTpDWFsxfYtUYzmjKlrFzz4bzu_Pa8AzwWb6Y4LAM6Z_EM4kO3F7R4mfWZ16X0c4rXsE-FLVHCY7xO-5lsJEqt5ImTbdzLlBtDFUZ-4rQzW0aGpyt2Qr96/s1600/019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSDz2He3cxQDMT-L6l85PGVhTpDWFsxfYtUYzmjKlrFzz4bzu_Pa8AzwWb6Y4LAM6Z_EM4kO3F7R4mfWZ16X0c4rXsE-FLVHCY7xO-5lsJEqt5ImTbdzLlBtDFUZ-4rQzW0aGpyt2Qr96/s200/019.JPG" width="150" /></a><i><span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> Would you believe I almost gave up on this blog?</span></span></i><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> <span style="font-size: large;">I mean, most days I hesitate to even call myself a writer anymore. My muse seems to have wandered off without even bothering to write home. My books are still selling, but very, very slowly. Frankly, I don't have much time to worry about it, what with taking care of my husband, the bills, the house, the yard and, when there's a free minute or two, myself. Maybe I should cross blogging off my list and move on? </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://hwalls.com/upload/roads_wallpaper4219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" id="img" src="https://hwalls.com/upload/roads_wallpaper4219.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"> Instead, because I hate quitting anything I enjoy, I decided to spruce up the look of the blog a bit. I decided to keep writing about the things I love--my garden, my old house, even my writing life, such as it is. Just as it says at the top of this page, I decided to continue my journey on the road less traveled, and explore some of the wonders, the puzzles, and the potholes along the way.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"> Please join me if you can. There's a lot of road left to travel. </span></span><br />
<br />
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<br />Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-72643010759892581252017-02-20T10:26:00.000-08:002017-02-20T10:26:31.627-08:00You're invited to a Birthday Celebration! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4lX8MUT99aMbcZBUctmucSRY6oDUJuBBf4iarlHORJPWSicf8ND2KGYk5CHevv8bxgrSH6O5_EGrboIxXac2s8_FcOK0Pr65s_n1mU-eQw3KW1NF3_XByjDdN7rVGzFt_J0AdHOKe9eq/s1600/Hearts%252C+flowers%252C+violins+and+love+.+.%25283%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG4lX8MUT99aMbcZBUctmucSRY6oDUJuBBf4iarlHORJPWSicf8ND2KGYk5CHevv8bxgrSH6O5_EGrboIxXac2s8_FcOK0Pr65s_n1mU-eQw3KW1NF3_XByjDdN7rVGzFt_J0AdHOKe9eq/s640/Hearts%252C+flowers%252C+violins+and+love+.+.%25283%2529.png" width="640" /></a></div>
Join the party right here~~<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Karen-Welch/e/B007ILHX90/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0">https://www.amazon.com/Karen-Welch/e/B007ILHX90/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0</a>Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-74496735948658498672017-02-09T09:10:00.001-08:002017-02-09T09:10:08.388-08:00Lost in the Plains: Double Deal<a href="http://valleyrise.blogspot.com/2017/02/double-deal.html?spref=bl">Lost in the Plains: Double Deal</a>: Begin at the beginning! For the next few days, BOTH of the first books in BOTH the Valley Rise and Walnut Lodge series will be FREE . K...Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-31077517940114066572017-02-08T19:14:00.000-08:002017-02-08T19:14:42.936-08:00Double Deal <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<h3>
Begin at the beginning! For the next few days, BOTH of the first books in BOTH the Valley Rise and Walnut Lodge series
will be FREE . Katie Lost and Found is FREE FEB 9-11 from <a href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2FAmazon.com%2F&h=ATPTGDQzdRTQgvs5oihTVmp95THKP7FKSVveI5DSRXZGy8K2VpPpXdIt1sF6pABVsDOPUiGWArBmiAATEeOX-XS_DHtt5brqYT9bSCuaE_CltzdzcNfdGhdKw6Xa9lHcB7d7itYwP3f3K-WxXQ&enc=AZM19sBFsccwaRvQ0LjJRnqiHTi9tRQMXoTB8-eDLVOsbEeP3FOo9TwNN6OKYjvXPUXqkxMd9OrHGqwmA_7pIfa8kzlTrWF7vWS0mapxWs0Ac-NIqXvHKy7a03gSHK2_ArFblsKgbwv2j1ntApMowC3cykuduFXy7zGrq1x9Q3XBE8cB1alNPdoHfjfa-Jdo91i5M-K3ytmFn90TsOpRsyc1&s=1" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Amazon.com.</a> Hearts Unfold is FREE every day wherever you buy your ebooks. Find these two special love stories, along with all my other books, right here~</h3>
<h3>
<a href="https://www.amazon.com/Karen-Welch/e/B007ILHX90/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0">https://www.amazon.com/Karen-Welch/e/B007ILHX90/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0</a></h3>
<h3>
</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsr3ISVckYN2_fMzga_5MSn8_bUlEDI6QlEvHDBZieldtNVUHRpYeqFNMSTGkVbVXtSGHIMyAd_OB63JM4rtsWKRr7pK64vSW4s0xIb1Hi1ttiAKQdj1UdmgE4Vi9jbtCc8cbGrPSdXoJj/s1600/Valley+Rise%25281%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsr3ISVckYN2_fMzga_5MSn8_bUlEDI6QlEvHDBZieldtNVUHRpYeqFNMSTGkVbVXtSGHIMyAd_OB63JM4rtsWKRr7pK64vSW4s0xIb1Hi1ttiAKQdj1UdmgE4Vi9jbtCc8cbGrPSdXoJj/s640/Valley+Rise%25281%2529.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-73407029864925663662016-12-24T10:27:00.000-08:002016-12-24T10:27:32.995-08:00A Valley Rise Christmas--Day EightThis scene from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Heart-Miracle-Valley-Rise-Book-Three-ebook/dp/B008A6Q1IQ/ref=pd_sim_kstore_2"><b><i>Heart of My Own Heart</i></b></a> joins Stani and Emily for Christmas morning at Valley Rise Farm--<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7U8eoPsYDBgcvyWo0ukGMUOQvCsUkDT9hnWD2KoTqcaGmZgFOXK9Ibt9o1npv01Mw2jPblf_yZBuSro5Zgx5k3bqw7K-rGV4WLS623mlZQMDSbGcuyO1JIKpCInsYV8YrcHPe8pqM7At/s1600/newheartofF.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ7U8eoPsYDBgcvyWo0ukGMUOQvCsUkDT9hnWD2KoTqcaGmZgFOXK9Ibt9o1npv01Mw2jPblf_yZBuSro5Zgx5k3bqw7K-rGV4WLS623mlZQMDSbGcuyO1JIKpCInsYV8YrcHPe8pqM7At/s1600/newheartofF.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>Emily was in the kitchen just after dawn, humming along with the carols
on the radio as the bacon sizzled and when Stani crept up behind her at the
range, she let out a little sigh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You
didn’t really think you could startle me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I could feel you coming all through the house.”</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>“Feel me?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He lifted her hair
and nuzzled her neck, his hand finding the little bulge at her waist.</i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>“You’re radiating something this morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Christmas joy, maybe?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could hear it echoing in your
footsteps.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She turned in his arms, a
twinkle in her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Besides, I heard
you banging around in the hall closet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What is it you have hidden in there, anyway?”</i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>“Christmas surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But not
until after breakfast.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His kiss was
meant as a reminder of all the past breakfasts they’d shared, including the one
on Christmas morning only a year ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>They didn’t rush through the meal, and John joined them while they were
still at the table, pouring a cup of tea and helping himself to a chunk of
cinnamon bread.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What’s on the agenda
this morning?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>His eyes widened as Emily went down the list.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Open a few gifts, dress for church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have a quick lunch after church, then start dinner
preparations, which would involve a list of things all its own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>“No just sitting around the fireplace with our feet up?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yesterday was hectic enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could use a day off.”</i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>Their voices rose in unison protest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“John, it’s Christmas Day!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is
the real celebration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Friends and family
all gathered for a meal, music and gifts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Tonight, when we’re all so full we can’t move, then we’ll sit by the fire.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Emily was on her feet, pulling at Stani’s hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But right now, I want to show you something,
darling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, if I don’t, I’ll just
explode.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get your coat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hurry!”</i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>Laughing and rolling his eyes at John, he let her lead him to the front
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Really, love, you want me to go
outside now?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s snowing!”</i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>“Only a little flurry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
there’s nothing much on the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
won’t take long!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her excitement was
tangible, as she bundled into her coat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And it was infectious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
realized his own heart was racing as he did the same.</i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>He took a moment to tie her muffler high around her ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Are you sure you can’t just tell me what it is I’m supposed to see,
without running out into the yard yourself?”</i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>She grabbed his hand and pulled him through the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
want to see your face.”</i></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrbrdFNzK-MRw4p4azsUzZU6rglBO3ZktfS7_opCdvxvFeoUvA-vzhndHi1YnLobfI21OHGdjdy_pDi-a7dX_emd9zsGl2p9khF4fjw-11qKBB05HtSHGnl8XHFSFoRY_L-kUh7Uh6BKW/s1600/iStock_000013512822_ExtraSmall.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjrbrdFNzK-MRw4p4azsUzZU6rglBO3ZktfS7_opCdvxvFeoUvA-vzhndHi1YnLobfI21OHGdjdy_pDi-a7dX_emd9zsGl2p9khF4fjw-11qKBB05HtSHGnl8XHFSFoRY_L-kUh7Uh6BKW/s200/iStock_000013512822_ExtraSmall.jpg" width="181" /></a><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>He followed her across the yard toward the gate, struck by the stark
winter scene that spread in every direction from the high ground on which the
house was situated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond the
surrounding valley, the distant ridges were nearly obscured by a blue haze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ground underfoot was covered with a light
dusting of dry snow, and huge flakes drifted lazily through the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Near the gate, a lone pair of cardinals took
flight, their bright wings a startling intrusion of color into the gray
landscape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The silence was profound, and
he took a moment to appreciate the peace of this place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then Emily pulled him through the gate
and came to an abrupt halt, steering him around until he stood facing the house
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The satisfied smile on her face suggested
they had reached their destination, but he couldn’t imagine what he was
expected to see.</i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>“Look, Stani!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She nodded toward
the fence, or was it meant to be toward the house?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, he couldn’t grasp this marvelous thing
she was showing him so proudly.</i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>Finally, his eyes fell on the sign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The large oval that bore the name of Valley Rise Farm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been newly painted, the letters a
fresh, crisp green against the white background.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beneath, scripted in red, were the names of
the farm’s proprietors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, instead of
the former “J.E. Haynes,” it read “S. and E. Haynes-Moss.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he couldn’t find words, she hugged his
arm and said softly, “James brought it out and hung it last night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do you like it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to use our names the way you did
for the foundation.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>He took another moment to recognize what this really meant to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was her farm, her legacy from her
parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now she was adding his name to
the most treasured thing in her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I
love it, darling girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know, I even
had a thought about it, when we were shopping for the caretaker’s home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But then I decided it was too much yours to
ever change it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Haynes has always been
here, and for some chap named Moss to move in was just too overreaching.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wrapped her in his arms, staring into the
intense gray depths of her eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span><br />
<i>
</i><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>“Not
overreaching at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s yours now
too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s ours, Stani.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that J.E.
Haynes person is gone forever.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her kiss
was deep and sweet and for a time he was lifted off the cold hillside, swept
away by the miracle of this girl in his arms, who carried his child deep inside
her, whose love had brought him to a place he could call home.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-75001097300610661412016-12-23T12:08:00.000-08:002016-12-23T12:08:01.693-08:00A Valley Rise Christmas--Day Seven<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgSrSHuWzFGg2IwWyugvFg931n-RpLzm3FfLzWT66xa-1lJh06U2tbl4r50LBxQqWDU_ksgaMt2f1jd4KdFV19Yu63dly2XXoGTHugKfo2bd5u_RZgGeIVM7Sve4rhuZqhqiBUBNIBlZEO/s1600/newheartofF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgSrSHuWzFGg2IwWyugvFg931n-RpLzm3FfLzWT66xa-1lJh06U2tbl4r50LBxQqWDU_ksgaMt2f1jd4KdFV19Yu63dly2XXoGTHugKfo2bd5u_RZgGeIVM7Sve4rhuZqhqiBUBNIBlZEO/s320/newheartofF.jpg" width="213" /></a> We move next to <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Heart-Miracle-Valley-Rise-Book-Three-ebook/dp/B008A6Q1IQ/ref=pd_sim_kstore_2">Heart of My Own Heart</a></i></b> to join Stani and Emily as they celebrate Christmas at the farm--their first Christmas as a married couple. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="StandardCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>For the first time, Stani Moss performed in the church where a year
earlier he had begun his own journey to meet the Christ Child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the night of their return to the farm,
Pastor Mike had asked if he would consider playing at the Christmas Eve service
and he had immediately agreed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now, as
he sat with Emily and John in a pew full of friends who had been strangers a
year earlier, he knew he had completed that journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watching the cherub choir, now under the care
of Sara McConnell, seated around the crèche just as they had been with Emily
that night, he felt the same tingle of anticipation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Glancing at her candlelit face beside him, he
saw much the same emotion shining in her eyes, and the corners of her mouth
were turned up in that sweet, tranquil smile he so loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond her, James and Penny sat hand in hand,
their eyes meeting briefly as if to confirm the step they had taken together
such a short time ago.</i></span></div>
<div class="StandardCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>At the rear of the already crowded church, a whispered commotion could
be heard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turning, Stani saw that Jack
had arrived and was ushering in a group of late arrivals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leading the way down the aisle, he was
followed by Bobby, walking slowly and leaning heavily on a cane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next to him, Ruthie carried little Emily, who
gazed down on the faces along the way, her eyes bright with curiosity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three little boys followed, Robbie Joe
bringing up the rear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stani watched
their progress, as Jack brought them straight to the front of the church, where
they filed into the pew directly opposite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>From his seat on the aisle, Robbie Joe looked across at Stani and smiled
his brightest gap-toothed grin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he
turned to leave, Jack laid a hand on Stani’s shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Merry Christmas, son.”</i></span></div>
<div class="StandardCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>The organ began to play, as the last of the congregation filed in, and
when Pastor Mike took his place in the pulpit, a chill touched the back of
Stani’s neck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This is the night of
brilliant stars and heralding angels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is the night of humble shepherds and watchful wise men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is the night of our Savior’s birth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let us worship God together, on this night of
miracles.”</i></span></div>
<div class="StandardCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 1em 0px; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i>Stani listened to the scriptures and carols, Emily’s hand tucked
securely in his.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the appointed time,
he rose and took his violin to stand near the manger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aware of the wide-eyed cherubs, watching from
the other side of the crèche, he smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then closing his eyes, he played.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>What Child Is This?, a tune as familiar as his own breathing, tonight
infused with a new spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the
choir joined him, the music soared, swirling within the little church to draw
in every listener.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his mind’s eye, he
saw Emily, her eyes glistening in the candlelight, her hand resting lightly
over their unborn child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His heart
swelled in his chest, filled with more love and longing than he could ever have
imagined a year ago, when he had stood at the back of this church and for the
first time recognized the voice of God speaking so clearly.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><i> When
he returned to his seat, he met the gaze of the little boy opposite, a gaze so
full of awe that he felt another shiver of emotion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a long moment, he stared at Stani as if
seeing him for the first time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But when
Stani smiled into the dark eyes, Robbie returned an adoring grin and darting
across the aisle, threw himself into Stani’s arms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wordlessly, he gathered the child to him,
momentarily overwhelmed by his own response.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This boy, so earnest and open, would never understand the power of his
simple gesture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But for Stani, who had
yearned for the courage to show the same kind of gratitude to the man he most
wanted to please, Robbie Joe’s arms, tightly hugging his neck, were the finest
Christmas gift he could ever receive</i>.</span>Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-68703584150292416462016-12-22T08:37:00.001-08:002016-12-22T08:37:49.059-08:00A Valley Rise Christmas--Day Six<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0McSpD1AvrFPz9lMh-eVFxA31IEtv1ETb0bJkHJ4Iq9qPnuMQ0bA_9aE5HCMqPYoUHvq5Wp5Squh2Nf4zLMVUhY26xQXIP6y7FQscP8QhhShBl0gaSe2vUq6c_fvTfIfb7f4Z5pSCEBZ6/s1600/heartsfontF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0McSpD1AvrFPz9lMh-eVFxA31IEtv1ETb0bJkHJ4Iq9qPnuMQ0bA_9aE5HCMqPYoUHvq5Wp5Squh2Nf4zLMVUhY26xQXIP6y7FQscP8QhhShBl0gaSe2vUq6c_fvTfIfb7f4Z5pSCEBZ6/s200/heartsfontF.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
Late on a very eventful Christmas Eve night, as Stani reflects on all
he's experienced in a few short hours, he <span id="goog_1194616096"></span><span id="goog_1194616097"></span>and Emily welcome in their
first Christmas together in one final scene from <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-Book-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=pd_sim_kstore_4">Hearts Unfold</a></i></b>.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 1em 0px; mso-hyphenate: none; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i>They sat by the fire for a
long time in contented silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could
believe in miracles after this night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>His experience in church, witnessing the birth of a baby, and the
discovery of just how intensely he loved her, wanted to protect and care for
her, were all miraculous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every hour
with her seemed to change him, lead him forward to a new sense of himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He tried to recall the pastor's words at the
close of the service tonight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Words like
strengthen and support, honor and serve; words which gave direction, pointing
to a better life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peace and love, and
courage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had begun to believe he
might be capable of much more than he'd ever attempted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With inspiration in the form of this girl now
nestled so warmly at his side, he might learn to be the kind of man she
deserved.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i>Three years earlier, it seemed
to him now, he had in fact died, only to be born into this new life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If almost losing his life had earned him this
amazing woman's love, then he could accept the idea that there was a plan, a
divine vision for them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was so
much more to learn, more to discover on this journey; but he knew tonight he
had at last opened his heart and, as she had promised, God had been there, had
spoken to him, and he had recognized his voice.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i>“Emily, it's almost
Christmas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Should we put the baby in the
manger now?<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">"</span></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i>Together, they went to the
mantel and she took the tiny figure from its hiding place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever so gently, she placed it on the little
straw bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Softly, lovingly, she spoke
words familiar, but never before understood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“And he shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, the Mighty God, the
everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace.</i></span></div>
Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-33480526550481805132016-12-20T09:02:00.000-08:002016-12-20T09:02:07.154-08:00A Valley Rise Christmas--Day FiveThis one of my favorite scenes from <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-Book-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=pd_sim_kstore_4">Hearts Unfold</a></i></b>, as Christmas Eve continues. . .<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0McSpD1AvrFPz9lMh-eVFxA31IEtv1ETb0bJkHJ4Iq9qPnuMQ0bA_9aE5HCMqPYoUHvq5Wp5Squh2Nf4zLMVUhY26xQXIP6y7FQscP8QhhShBl0gaSe2vUq6c_fvTfIfb7f4Z5pSCEBZ6/s1600/heartsfontF.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0McSpD1AvrFPz9lMh-eVFxA31IEtv1ETb0bJkHJ4Iq9qPnuMQ0bA_9aE5HCMqPYoUHvq5Wp5Squh2Nf4zLMVUhY26xQXIP6y7FQscP8QhhShBl0gaSe2vUq6c_fvTfIfb7f4Z5pSCEBZ6/s200/heartsfontF.jpg" width="133" /></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i> With each reading of the
beloved scriptures, with the singing of each carol, she found deeper peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her littlest charge, Jenny, curled on her lap
and at times one or the other of the children snuggled against her as they
watched the glimmer of the candles and listened to the choir.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she knelt before them, leading them in
the first stanza of “Away in a Manger,” their sweet, clear voices were the only
sound in the church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tears filled her
eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They not only sang like cherubs,
but their faces glowed with the wonder of their accomplishment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the choir joined in the next stanza, she
felt a shiver of joy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was her home,
her church, her people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was where
she was meant to build her life.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i> When they returned to their
places near the altar, her tiniest cherub tapped her on the shoulder and
pointed into the congregation, calling out a name she couldn't quite
understand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Emily put her finger to her
lips in a silent shush, and the little girl sweetly imitated her gesture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a soundless laugh, she gathered the child
onto her lap, hugging her close, but something made her look back in the direction
Jenny had pointed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the rear of the
church, where several latecomers stood along the wall, she spotted Jack, rain
glistening on his uniform jacket.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
was surprised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d planned to attend
the eleven o'clock service, she was sure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She wondered briefly if there had been some kind of emergency.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i> The congregation sat in rapt
attention, all eyes focused on Pastor Mike as he read the final passage of the
nativity story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first chords of
“Silent Night” sounded and Emily got to her feet, checking that the children
were holding hands as instructed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When
she looked back for Jack, the place where he'd been standing was empty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still wondering about his disappearance, she
started to sing, getting through the first measure before her voice caught in her
throat.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i> She could see him clearly,
framed by the heads and shoulders of rows of familiar faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes, fixed on a place somewhere above
her head, were glistening with unshed tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jenny pulled gently on her hand, and she lifted the little girl to her
hip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When she raised her eyes, he was
looking straight at her, smiling tenderly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jenny reached up and touched her face, and she realized tears were coursing
down her cheeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lowering her head, she
kissed the tiny fingertips, smiling into the little face beside her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hymn ended and in the hush which
followed, everyone stood with heads bowed, waiting.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i> Pastor Mike's voice rang in
the silence with the words of the Charge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Go out into the world in peace; have courage; hold on to what is good.
. . .” Through the roaring in her ears, over the pounding of her heart, she
could barely make out the familiar words. . . “support the weak; help the
suffering; honor all men; love and serve the Lord.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In her arms, Jenny cuddled closer, resting
her head on Emily’s shoulder with a contented little sigh as the service came
to a close. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The Lord bless you and keep
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Lord be kind and gracious unto
you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Lord look upon you with favor
and give you peace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Amen.”
</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i> The first notes of the
postlude thundered around her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She stood
still, her heart thumping against her ribs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Parents came forward, complimenting her and the children, collecting
their offspring.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She passed Jenny to her
father's arms, accepted hugs from the other children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the mothers put a wrapped gift in her
hands, but she was only vaguely aware of the activity surrounding her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pastor Mike was coming toward her, a smile on
his face, his hand extended.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"> And then he was beside her,
his arm gently encircling her waist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Somehow, she found her voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“Pastor Mike, this is my very good friend, Stani Moss.”</span></i></span>Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-37903799196885418562016-12-19T09:14:00.000-08:002016-12-19T09:14:00.065-08:00"Katie" is Nominated for Best Romance! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYC5YKM9aaS3bIPq7hM6pAFh4f3DbdZ8zoH88s_cxeZoIhsI-bfEIFghVNvTTz2D8123G6XiprkI1029o4Ch0bI9osCekdInT6aUFqryjiH56OvrxzruMreC35RJOBCIksFrLt8EpP9OfW/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYC5YKM9aaS3bIPq7hM6pAFh4f3DbdZ8zoH88s_cxeZoIhsI-bfEIFghVNvTTz2D8123G6XiprkI1029o4Ch0bI9osCekdInT6aUFqryjiH56OvrxzruMreC35RJOBCIksFrLt8EpP9OfW/s320/2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<i><b>Katie Lost and Found</b></i>, a story of lost love found and second chances in
life, is currently nominated in the Romance category here-- <a href="http://www.goldenboxbooks.com/golden-book-award-contest.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">http://www.goldenboxbooks.com/golden-book-award-contest.html</a><br /> Your vote would be much appreciated! You can even cast your vote more than once--as often as you like! It takes about 30 seconds, no signing in, or revealing your identity, or anything! <br />
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Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-41145325353392255422016-12-18T07:48:00.000-08:002016-12-18T07:48:19.960-08:00A Valley Rise Christmas--Day Four<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0McSpD1AvrFPz9lMh-eVFxA31IEtv1ETb0bJkHJ4Iq9qPnuMQ0bA_9aE5HCMqPYoUHvq5Wp5Squh2Nf4zLMVUhY26xQXIP6y7FQscP8QhhShBl0gaSe2vUq6c_fvTfIfb7f4Z5pSCEBZ6/s1600/heartsfontF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0McSpD1AvrFPz9lMh-eVFxA31IEtv1ETb0bJkHJ4Iq9qPnuMQ0bA_9aE5HCMqPYoUHvq5Wp5Squh2Nf4zLMVUhY26xQXIP6y7FQscP8QhhShBl0gaSe2vUq6c_fvTfIfb7f4Z5pSCEBZ6/s320/heartsfontF.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
Three years later, Emily is once again a permanent resident of her
childhood home. And once again, she prepares to celebrate Christmas Eve
with her friends and neighbors. For the first time, she has
volunteered to direct the children's choir, her "Cherubs," as they participate in the service. <br />
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 1em 0px; mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.2in;">
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i>Christmas Eve dawned gray and
cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The forecast called for rain, not
snow, and the low clouds held the promise of a gloomy day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Emily refused to be discouraged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She made up her mind to be brutally cheerful,
no matter how much the pain under her ribs reminded her of Stani's
absence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had plenty to keep her
busy, and the time would pass, whether she chose to be happy or sad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As music blared through the speakers, filling
the house, she hummed along, even danced a few steps across the kitchen floor,
reminding herself of all she had to be happy about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If everything else paled in comparison to the
sight of his face, the touch of his hand, so be it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Blessings were blessings weren't they, none
of them to be counted as anything less.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i>At six she ate her supper and
dressed for church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had been to
Martha Jean's and, as a gift to herself, purchased a ridiculously expensive new
blouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>White silk, with an open collar
and flowing sleeves caught at the wrist in lace cuffs, it was the perfect
complement to the camel skirt and dark green vest she’d bought in the
fall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She loved the elegant length of
the skirt, falling just above her ankles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It would be appropriately graceful as she sat on the floor with her
little ones during the service.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
wasn’t often overly concerned with her appearance, but tonight she took special
pains.<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"> </span>In honor of the occasion, she
wanted to look her best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i>Before she left, she moved
Joseph and Mary into the stable, with the noble donkey grazing on the hearth
nearby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shepherds she placed on a
table not far away, where the heralding angel's message could reach them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, she set the angel directly beneath
the star hanging above the mantel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Leaving the lamp shining in the window, she started out for church just
as rain began to fall in earnest.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i>The little stone church was
packed, buzzing with excitement as families gathered and friends greeted one
another as if they hadn’t been together in months, rather than days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her cherubs, with their shining clean faces
and carefully brushed hair, seemed suitably impressed with the importance of their
roles in the service, even a little subdued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Emily could only hope that attitude lasted through the hour they spent
in full view of the congregation.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; mso-bidi-language: HI; mso-fareast-font-family: "Lucida Sans Unicode"; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN; mso-font-kerning: 1.5pt;"><i>But as the music began, and
she led them to their places, all her anxiety melted away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a sacred night and even if the
children were restless or sang a little off key, nothing could cast a shadow
over the beauty of this, her favorite night of the year.</i></span>Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-7455480361097415212016-12-16T09:12:00.001-08:002016-12-16T09:12:43.885-08:00A Valley Rise Christmas--Day Three<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0McSpD1AvrFPz9lMh-eVFxA31IEtv1ETb0bJkHJ4Iq9qPnuMQ0bA_9aE5HCMqPYoUHvq5Wp5Squh2Nf4zLMVUhY26xQXIP6y7FQscP8QhhShBl0gaSe2vUq6c_fvTfIfb7f4Z5pSCEBZ6/s1600/heartsfontF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0McSpD1AvrFPz9lMh-eVFxA31IEtv1ETb0bJkHJ4Iq9qPnuMQ0bA_9aE5HCMqPYoUHvq5Wp5Squh2Nf4zLMVUhY26xQXIP6y7FQscP8QhhShBl0gaSe2vUq6c_fvTfIfb7f4Z5pSCEBZ6/s320/heartsfontF.jpg" width="213" /></a><br />
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Continuing in <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-Book-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=pd_sim_kstore_4">Hearts Unfold</a></i></b>,
Emily returns to her home church on the arm of her godfather, Jack
Deem,<br />
and is reminded of all she has missed since she left for college.
A chance conversation also reminds her of the possibility of miracles
even in the most dire of circumstances.<br />
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<br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>In the narthex, the smell of pine boughs and the glow of
candlelight wrapped </i></span><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>around her, drawing her in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The sanctuary was already crowded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Local families swelled with out-of-town guests, sleepy children in the
arms of proud grandparents, several young men in uniform, their mothers or
sweethearts clinging to their arms, all gathered in anticipation of the hour to
come. From her seat next to Jack, she
searched the familiar faces.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Down front,
Sara McConnell sat between sons Peter and James.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peter had let his hair grow longer, now that
he was at college, and the blonde mane was very becoming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was even better looking than the last time
Emily had seen him, which must have been almost two years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>James, home on leave from Southeast Asia, was
in uniform.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thin and deeply tanned, he
looked older, and there was a tense, haggard expression on his face as he gazed
down at his </i></span><span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>mother.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>They’d been close friends; Peter and Emily the same age and
James four years older, they had played together as children.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d even dated Peter briefly during their
sophomore year, ending the relationship with an uneasy truce after some awkward
attempts at romance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She smiled as she
recalled telling a red-faced Peter he could keep his sweaty hands to himself if
that was all he was interested in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But they had put that aside during their senior year, when she'd been
struggling to adjust to life alone and James had been preparing to go overseas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The three of them had supported each other, finding
comfort in the fact they were each moving into a future filled with
uncertainty.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Slipping closer to Jack, she looked around in
amazement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This gathering looked like
every other Christmas Eve service she'd attended through the years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The same smiling faces, some looking a bit
frail now with age; the same murmur of voices, using every moment to visit
before the first notes sounded from the organ.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There were smiles of surprised recognition, and she knew the news of her
presence would spread through the congregation by the end of the service.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Behind her, a man and woman were deep in soft-spoken
conversation, commenting on the artificial trees with their tiny electric
candles that stood grouped behind the crèche figures at the front of the
church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man was saying what a pity
about those cedar trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His wife
whispered, “You did your best.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>“But it's still a shame not to have real trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I just couldn't get to 'em before the ice
came.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guess they're still stacked up on
the side of the road by the springs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Pity, wasting all those trees.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The woman shushed him softly.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Emily gasped at the vision of a black clad figure, sailing
through the darkness and coming to rest on a nest of soft cedar branches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked at Jack's profile, but he seemed
not to have heard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could that have been
what happened?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the trees intended to
decorate the church had indeed cushioned his fall, how could anyone deny Stani
had been saved by an act of God?</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>The organ came to life, and she saw Pastor Mike step to the
pulpit, raising his hands for silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Over the soft music, Emily listened to his warm, strong voice as he
called the people to worship.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i> “This is the night of our savior's birth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let us open our hearts in welcome as we come
together to worship God, the Father, Son and Holy Spirit on this most
miraculous of nights.”</i></span>Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-59207175809270055722016-12-13T09:06:00.001-08:002016-12-13T09:06:33.657-08:00A Valley Rise Christmas--Day Two<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0McSpD1AvrFPz9lMh-eVFxA31IEtv1ETb0bJkHJ4Iq9qPnuMQ0bA_9aE5HCMqPYoUHvq5Wp5Squh2Nf4zLMVUhY26xQXIP6y7FQscP8QhhShBl0gaSe2vUq6c_fvTfIfb7f4Z5pSCEBZ6/s1600/heartsfontF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0McSpD1AvrFPz9lMh-eVFxA31IEtv1ETb0bJkHJ4Iq9qPnuMQ0bA_9aE5HCMqPYoUHvq5Wp5Squh2Nf4zLMVUhY26xQXIP6y7FQscP8QhhShBl0gaSe2vUq6c_fvTfIfb7f4Z5pSCEBZ6/s200/heartsfontF.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Last time, in <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-Book-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=pd_sim_kstore_4">Hearts Unfold</a></i></b> we
saw Emily Haynes preparing her house in anticipation of Christmas with
family heirloom decorations, honoring traditions established through the
years by her parents. Today we meet Stani Moss, who has known little
or nothing of tradition and yet recognizes the beauty and mystery of the
Christmas Eve celebration without understanding its meaning. <br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQNL_leUCHbENMNZfq-sAEhqsv0NorSpyUhXMuGCga2KXBANTrsmQ" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" class="rg_i" data-sz="f" name="GgGV29i8h6LRxM:" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQNL_leUCHbENMNZfq-sAEhqsv0NorSpyUhXMuGCga2KXBANTrsmQ" style="height: 173px; margin-top: 0px; width: 173px;" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Tuning out the conversation in the front seat, he turned his
thoughts ahead to the rehearsal tomorrow afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Robert would drive him to the church where he
was scheduled to play for midnight Mass, immediately following the radio
broadcast on Christmas Eve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The evening
would be hectic, he knew, but he never turned down the opportunity to perform
in a church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had played in cathedrals
and synagogues, churches and chapels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The same sense of intimacy, no matter the size of the building, lent a
unique depth to his performance, which he had never been able to attain in a
concert hall.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Stani especially looked forward to this event.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From that first Christmas Eve Mass at St.
Patrick's, just after they'd moved to New York, he'd had a fascination with
this particular celebration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jana had
taken him, her one venture back to her childhood religion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pungent-sweet smell of cedar, and the
glow of hundreds of candles, along with the glorious music, made a profound
impression upon him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He'd become curious
for the first time as to what motivated so many people to come, year after
year, to sing the same hymns and whisper the same prayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hadn't pursued religion; it didn't fit
into his already over-scheduled young life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But he’d discovered performing in churches evoked the same emotions he’d
experienced that night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He found himself
looking forward to the prospect of spending another Christmas Eve among people
who came to greet a child they believed had forever altered the nature of
man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be a welcome change from
the faceless crowds in dim, smoke-filled rooms, crowds which seemed to be drawing
him farther and farther from his own humanity.</i></span>Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-70675884884330930902016-12-10T13:26:00.005-08:002016-12-10T13:26:56.791-08:00A Valley Rise Christmas--Day One <i><b>The holidays are upon us again!</b> How many times have I
heard and even said those words in my life? They seem to strike so many
emotional chords in each of us. Excitement, dread, tearful memories and
warm reassurance, all tied to holidays past. The past several years I've posted this
series of scenes from the Valley Rise Series. Once again, I hope they add a little something to your holiday
preparations! </i><br />
<br />
It occurred to me that since there are so many Christmas-related scenes in the <b><i>Miracle at Valley Rise</i></b> books, I could share them with you during December as my thank you gift to you for following me here.<br />
<br />
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While
I didn't set out to feature the holidays so prominently, it turned out
that Christmas took on very special significance
from the beginning. For all of us, there are certain memories attached
to specific times of year, traditions we hold dear, and events we always
revisit when the anniversaries roll around. For the family at Valley
Rise Farm, that seems to be especially true. I
hope you'll tune in to share the spirit of the holiday season with the characters who
live in the pages of my books.<br />
<br />
In this scene from <b><i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hearts-Unfold-Miracle-Valley-Rise-Book-ebook/dp/B006YDIXVK/ref=pd_sim_kstore_4">Hearts Unfold</a></i></b>, young Emily Haynes has secretly returned to her secluded farmhouse home in
search of a way to retrieve what's left of the life she shared with her
parents. With her mother dead and her father in a nursing home, there
doesn't appear to be much hope, until Emily decides to take control of
her destiny. Since it's almost Christmas, her first step is to bring a
little holiday cheer to her home.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i> </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>After some digging in the closet beneath the stairs, she
retrieved the ornaments, garland and lights that had each year decorated a
fresh evergreen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At last she found the
crèche, tucked in its own box, each china figurine wrapped in tissue paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She recalled packing it away, that first
painful Christmas, when she and Pop had pretended not to notice the vast empty
space where her mother should have been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>By the next year, they had given up pretending and barely allowed the
holiday into the house.</i></span></div>
<div class="StandardCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0px 1em; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Setting out on her mission to bring Christmas to the room,
she eyed the mantel wall first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
fireplace, flanked by glass-front cabinets and two high windows, would
substitute for a tree, she decided.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Humming
along with the music, adding a waltzing step every now and then as she worked,
she spread silver garland and glowing colored lights across the mantel and the
tops of the cabinets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She added
carefully spaced clusters of glass ornaments, shining spheres of red, green and
gold, along with blown glass figurines of angels, stars and Father Christmas,
all well-remembered from her childhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When she’d achieved just the desired effect, she hung the delicate gold
star that had always topped the tree, in the center of the chimney.</i></span></div>
<div class="StandardCxSpFirst" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0px 1em; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>Going to the other end of the room, she spread a shawl of
fringed red velvet on the piano, just as her mother had done every year, and
placed an open book of carols on the music rack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, she took her father's violin from its
case and gently nestled it in the folds of the shawl, laying the bow carefully
across the strings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stepping back, she
let out a sigh of satisfaction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had
paid tribute to the past, mindful of the obvious changes; but she’d also taken
a step toward future Christmases. </i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 11pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i> Finally, she positioned the figurines facing the fireplace
where the little wooden shed waited, well out of harm's way, on the
hearth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mary and Joseph with the donkey
near the front door, the shepherds and their flock of three sheep on the piano
bench, and the wise men with their camel on the table next to Pop's chair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The solitary ox rested in the stable, next to
the tiny cross-legged manger filled with paper straw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The figure of the newborn baby with his outstretched
arms she tucked on the mantel near the heralding angel, hidden from sight for
now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gazing back at the travelers
journeying toward her, she laughed softly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was truly home for Christmas, as she had never expected to be again.</i></span>Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-270451885593982747.post-89376756652870172532016-10-17T12:58:00.000-07:002016-10-18T12:13:10.599-07:00So Long, Farewell. . . <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSDz2He3cxQDMT-L6l85PGVhTpDWFsxfYtUYzmjKlrFzz4bzu_Pa8AzwWb6Y4LAM6Z_EM4kO3F7R4mfWZ16X0c4rXsE-FLVHCY7xO-5lsJEqt5ImTbdzLlBtDFUZ-4rQzW0aGpyt2Qr96/s1600/019.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSDz2He3cxQDMT-L6l85PGVhTpDWFsxfYtUYzmjKlrFzz4bzu_Pa8AzwWb6Y4LAM6Z_EM4kO3F7R4mfWZ16X0c4rXsE-FLVHCY7xO-5lsJEqt5ImTbdzLlBtDFUZ-4rQzW0aGpyt2Qr96/s200/019.JPG" width="150" /></a>No, I'm not quitting this blog thing. I'm not going on a trip, moving, or even going shopping. But my laptop is going on a little trip to be repaired, and for possibly as long a week--Horrors!--I'll be without connection to what for me is the outside world. So I thought one last post before the darkness descends might be appropriate.<br />
<br />
As most of you who stop in here know, I'm the sole caregiver for my recently disabled husband. Life changes in an instant, but it takes a lot longer to settle into all the newness brought on by that change. After almost two years since the first of what we now look at as a series of events leading to the "big fall," both of us are more or less settled. We don't leave the house together often and when we do it's a bit of an event just getting out the door. We don't have much social life beyond our church family, not that we've had much of one since we moved to Kansas over 15 years ago. But now it's down to an hour or so here and there between John's Bible Study and Sunday morning worship. I make the necessary trips around town for errands and to buy groceries. Otherwise, we're here together 24/7, which is really not a bad thing at all. In the past, we both worked from home and learned how to share our space without driving each other mad. We're good. John has his television and music, and I have the internet, and we have each other.<br />
<br />
My social life is really quite active, considering all the truly loyal friends I've made on FB and, to a lesser extent, through this blog. They have seen me through hospital stays, rehab, turning our home upside down, and most recently, a brush with bladder cancer and the steady decline of our financial security. I can honestly say I could not have made it without them. I dread being separated from them for even a few days. I look forward to their posts, the pictures of their families and the events, large and small, of their lives. I watch carefully for updates on illnesses, the sale of homes, moves across country, and children growing up too fast. I enjoy seeing how their gardens grow and the beautiful things they craft, not to mention the delicious dishes they prepare. We're a community of mostly, but not exclusively, women who share and support one another in the simple business of living life and growing up and older. I, who was reluctant to put myself in such a visible place, fearing exposure to unwelcome attention from the past, have found the most comfortable neighborhood anyone could ask for.<br />
<br />
Without the convenience of email, online billpay, and access to the business of selling ebooks, I could no doubt find a way to survive for a brief period of time. But without my friends, it will be hard to get through even a day. Who will I tell how grateful I am for the generosity of the human spirit surrounding us as we deal with our struggles? Who will remind me how fortunate we are compared to so many others? Where will I find a joke to laugh at, or a sweet baby to ooh over, or an adorably silly puppy or kitten to make me smile? And where will I find the warmth of comforting words at the end of one of our harder days, or the practical solution I couldn't see for myself through the fog of simple weariness?<br />
<br />
By now you get the picture, I'm sure. I'm living my life in a fantasy world, you say? Don't laugh at me or pity me. The community I've found there is as true and real as any I've known in all the places I've lived through the years. I'd never have believed it possible, but there it is. People are much the same everywhere, but this many friends in one place is rare. Only through the magic of the internet and something we could never have imagined called social media, can so many like minded but still very individual people come together. I have collected a circle of other writers and creative minds, as well as loyal readers, old friends from times past, and just folks who reached out to me for whatever reason. I could never have met all these people in one town or had the time to form friendships that would last no matter where I moved next. I'm living my life in the company of virtual strangers who have proven to be precisely the kind of friends I needed at this time. How amazingly, impossibly wonderful is that?<br />
<br />
So for now, I'll say so long. I'll see you all in a week or so. In the meantime, give some thought to the community of virtual strangers you share your life with, and if you're as fortunate as I've been, tell them how much they mean to you. <br />
<br />Lost in the Plainshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17104826922091567767noreply@blogger.com2