Thursday, July 22, 2010

. :

18 months. 18 months struggling with depression and anxiety. I've neglected this blog for far too long. It's been a busy 18 months. After my last post, I started having trouble getting through just the basics each day. It took all I had to get up, go to work, and keep up with the housework each day. Even medication didn't help much beyond easing the anxiety attacks I was having. In May or 2009, King B and I lost another little angel. I was sent to a reproductive endocrinologist who basically said it was simple age. Which is what I figured it was, I am, after all, in my 40's now. My regular endocrinologist agreed to put me on a small dose of synthroid to boost my thyroid levels from the low end of normal - to smack dab in the middle of normal. And in August, Deke came into being. Because of what happened with both Daisy and Angelus, we didn't tell many people for the longest time. And even after we told people, I didn't want to talk about it at all. It took until I started feeling him move throughout each day for me to start feeling "safe" with the pregnancy. Deke is now almost 3 months old, chunking up very nicely, and is a joy.

I'd like to try blogging again. I'm not sure I'll manage it, with 3 teens, a toddler, an infant, and starting back to teaching 3rd grade in September. But I would like to try. Even if only for myself - to document recipes, patterns, frugality tips and the like that I design and discover. If I have any readers, please pray for me.

Blessings to you,

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Using Leftovers Creatively


Tonight we used some left over turkey for two types of meals (for the differing tastes in our family).

A week ago, I put two halves of a turkey carcass into each of two crockpots with an onion each and let them cook on low overnight (about 12 hours). The stock was rich and flavorful. I used that and made some dumplings (recipe to follow) which I simmered in the stock until done, then added some of the turkey.

King B had the idea of a "turkey taco salad" and chopped an onion, sauteed it in oil, added turkey and some fajita seasoning and cayenne pepper to taste - tossed it with a bag of salad we needed to use up and each person eating it dressed it with their own preference - he used taco sauce and sour cream. As I'm not a fan of spicy (hot peppery type spicy), I stuck with the turkey soup with dumplings.

Both went over well, and were a wonderful way of using up food that might have otherwise languished in the recesses of the fridge! Martha would have been proud of me!

Quick and Easy Rolled Dumplings

1 1/2 cups flour
1/2 tsp salt, mixed through the flour
ice water - enough to make a very stiff dough

roll out to about 1/8 inch thickness, cut into squares (I use a pizza cutter - very quick and easy)
drop into *very gently simmering broth, cook until dumpling squares turn translucent and then thicken up
add chopped turkey (or chicken - but we had turkey)


Blessings to you,

Thursday, January 8, 2009

Losing Control and Liking It


The name of a wonderful parenting resource for those approaching, entering, or entrenched in the teen years. Between us, King B and I have 3 teenage daughters, and a pre-teen son. I also teach middle schoolers. This book is helpful for both situations.
The book goes through different ways of relating to teens in regards to responsibility and control and influence. I found myself dealing much better with my middle school students after reading this book. Somehow my parenting skills don't always make it to the teacher part of me. I highly recommend this book!

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

and the book:

Losing Control & Liking It

Focus (December 8, 2008)


Tim Sanford is a licensed professional counselor with Focus on the Family and in private practice. An author, speaker, ordained minister, and former youth worker, he has more than 30 years of experience with teenagers. Tim and his wife, Becky, have two adult daughters and reside in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

Product Details:

List Price: $13.99
Paperback: 192 pages
Publisher: Focus (December 8, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1589974816
ISBN-13: 978-1589974814


Getting Too

Much of

a Grip

Control: It’s Not Your Department

As a therapist working with teenagers and their families, I’ve heard many a story from parents. Some of them go like these.

• Denise’s daughter is overweight, and the two constantly battle over junk food. While Denise serves low-calorie dinners and packs healthy lunches, she frequently finds her daughter sneaking between-meal cookies and chips. The 14-year-old spends her babysitting money at the nearby convenience store, loading up on snack cakes and soft drinks. Angry, Denise strikes back by withholding allowance and repeatedly warning of the consequences of unhealthy eating habits. Nothing seems to work.

•Mac’s blood pressure skyrockets when he thinks of his 15-year old son getting his driver’s license in a few short months. The boy has completed an expensive, private driver-training course and seems cautious and responsible. But Mac can’t stop remembering his son’s kamikaze approach to theme-park bumper cars five years ago. This hapless father’s knuckles turn white when his teenager is at the wheel; his right foot presses an invisible brake pedal while his heart races like crazy. He wonders if he should make his son wait to get his license until he’s 17 . . . or 18 . . . or 20.

• Joe wonders where his little boy and girl have gone. His sweet, bright-eyed grade-schoolers suddenly have been replaced by a shaggy, lanky 15-year-old boy who appears unaware of his own overwhelming body odor—and a 13-year-old girl who favors tight tank tops and too much eye makeup. Joe’s wife has had some loud conversations with their daughter about her tastes in clothes and cosmetics, but neither parent has confronted their son about his pungent smell. Joe knows it’s probably up to him, but he hates to destroy the boy’s self-esteem. He wonders whether he’s just being a control freak. He looks on his bookshelf for help, but finds nothing. They never deal with anything practical in those parenting books, he thinks.

Like Denise, Mac, and Joe, you probably face plenty of situations in which a book called The Complete Guide to Controlling Your Teenager would seem helpful. It wouldn’t be, though. The idea of being your son’s or daughter’s puppeteer might sound appealing, but the results would

be disastrous for both of you. This book takes a different approach. And when it comes to control,

many of us parents need to as well.

Are You Out of Control?

Parenting is a daunting task when you consider the consequences of major decisions like these:

• how your teen spends his free time

• which friends she spends time with

• how he makes and spends money

• how she approaches her schoolwork

• when he starts driving

• what she eats, where she eats, and how much

• whether he goes to church or youth group

• what she looks like

• what level of personal hygiene he attains

• whether or not she uses foul language

• what parties and other social events he attends

• whether she smokes, drinks, or uses illegal drugs

It’s no wonder so many parents would like to control those decisions until the last possible second. But is that wise, not to mention doable? Here are some questions you may be asking about control as you try to set boundaries with your teenager:

•Which parts of a situation belong to me and which belong to my teen?

•What’s mine to decide and what’s not?

•How much “rope” can I give my daughter before she “hangs” herself?

•What does my son get to choose, and what do I choose for him?

• Should I make my teenager go to church with the family?

•What about rules?

•What about freedom?

•What about being responsible?

•What about respect?

•What about his hair?

• How do I get her to do her homework?

•What if my daughter is already 18 years old?

Over and over I’ve heard parents ask questions like these. Control is one of the biggest issues they encounter, and one of the most misunderstood.

Illusions of Control

I try to base all my counseling on what Jesus said in John 8:32: “Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.” Jesus was talking about a particular truth—who He is as the Son of God. But I believe His observation applies to all reality. Knowing and understanding the truth—what reality actually is, like it or not—can set you free from the problems that come with lies and mistaken perceptions.

Error, wrong thinking, skewed beliefs, and misconceptions lie at the root of many, if not most, conflicts. That’s certainly true of control. The more accurately you think about something, the healthier your life will be. The converse is also true. The more inaccurate your thinking, the

more dysfunctional your relationship with your teen will be—even if you assume your thinking is fine, which we all usually do.

So here’s a good place to start: thinking more accurately about control, in order to undo common confusion about its role in relationships.

Many tensions between parents and teens boil down to the issue of control. Sometimes it’s not visible on the surface, but lurks below. For instance, you may think you’re pressuring your son or daughter to work harder in school to have a better chance at college scholarships. But the deeper issue may be how you feel about the way your teen spends time—texting from that iPhone or hanging with friends instead of doing homework. The two of you are battling for the right to decide.

There are as many myths about control as there are days of the year.

Our culture doesn’t make it any easier; an alien visiting our society might think we’re all a bunch of control freaks. Consider the phrases we use that have the word control in them. Here’s a starter list:

• remote control

• quality control

• cruise control

• climate control

• traffic control

• crowd control

• master control

• weight control

• arms control

We talk about controlling our destinies, our lives; we study ways to control the aging process; we attend expensive seminars in an effort to control our eating habits, anger, financial future, thinking, moods . . . and children.

Self-help books and workshops—in the Christian arena as well as the general market—promise control. Much of the psychology practiced in the U.S.—cognitive behavioral therapy—focuses on control, too.

Don’t get me wrong. The idea of having control is not bad in itself.

Therapy that focuses on what you can legitimately control, as well as what you can’t, is a healing and helpful tool.

But a person’s fixation on needing control, which I often observe as a therapist, and the illusion that you need or have more control than you actually do, turn healthy ownership into a control-freak thing.

Most of us want control, plain and simple—and the more the better, thank you very much! That’s because when we have control, we can make things turn out the way we want. We can be happy and avoid pain or displeasure.

If only it were that easy.

High-control people believe the best way to avoid pain is to keep a tight rein on the things around them—including key people, especially their children. After all, there can be a whole lot of hurt when children go astray.

I met such an over-controlling parent many years ago when I worked at a psychiatric hospital. I was the primary therapist for a teenage girl from a military family. She was rebelling, skipping school, experimenting with alcohol. Her family diagnosed her as a “behavior problem.”

In our second weekly family therapy session, the girl’s father—a high-ranking officer—stated emphatically that the only reason something goes wrong is because somebody didn’t do his or her job correctly. Therefore, that somebody is at fault. He was referring to his teenage daughter, of course; everything else was under his control.

This father had an exaggerated sense of control, and a huge misconception about it. He’d carried his “systems checklist” mentality home from the office, refusing to see that there were some things he

couldn’t control. He also refused to see that his campaign to over control his daughter was partially—though not completely—to blame for her rebellion. Her behavior was an attempt to escape his over control.

When you think of control, you might have visions of someone like this father—or a power-mad villain from an old James Bond movie.

While I’ve met a few who could have been cast for such a part, the vast majority of us parents are much more “normal” in our desire for control.

But because our culture encourages us to seek control—and because some Christians overemphasize its role in parenting—it’s important to look at the way you think about the topic.

Everyone Has “Control Issues”

Most parents don’t behave as extremely as the aforementioned dad. But that doesn’t mean they have no problems with control. It’s not an “all or nothing” proposition.

Take, for example, the issue of trying to “guarantee” what will happen to our children.

My early years were spent as a missionary’s kid in Ecuador. In that culture there was a life philosophy that could be summarized as “Quesera, sera”—“What will be, will be.” There was no “I am the captain of my fate and the master of my soul” quoted at graduation ceremonies.

As a result, I’ve come to see the truth in the following observation:

• You can drive the safest car built in the world (control).

• You can place your infant in the safest car seat manufactured (control).

• You can be the safest driver in your state, with all the necessary skills for every possible situation (control).

• Yet a drunk driver can still cross the double yellow line, hit you head-on, and take the life of your baby.

“Que sera, sera.”

Where is your control now?

You were very wise and responsible. You did everything correctly. You controlled the things that were yours to control. But after all was said and done, there was no guarantee that you could keep your child safe. There were a lot of elements—including people—you couldn’t control, yet which could have a huge impact on you.

“But I want a guarantee!” you may plead.

You’re not alone. As parents, we want certainty that we can keep our children safe and raise them so they’ll turn out well, following scriptural guidance.

But there is no guarantee.

“That kind of thinking is negative and scary! I don’t like that.”

Yes, it is scary.

“But what about the verse that says, ‘Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it’?”

Proverbs 22:6 communicates a very wise principle. But it’s not a guarantee that magically or spiritually overrides your teenager’s free will—which, by the way, was given to him or her by God Himself. This biblical principle does not obligate God to you or force Him to make your teenager turn out the way you think he or she should.


I hear you.

We parents want control so badly because we think that if we do the right things, our kids will turn out the way we want them to. It doesn’t matter whether we’re Christians, or whether we’re “high-control” people or think we have no control at all. We still want it.

We want to be able to lay our heads on our pillows at night, with our teenagers snugly tucked into their clean beds, and know we did it “right.”

Since there aren’t any guarantees, many parents settle for illusions of control. An illusion often is more comforting than the truth. That may sound harsh, but I’ve found in my years as a therapist that most people have a hard time with the truth.

Reality can be a hard pill to swallow. But last time I checked, whenever you fight reality you lose.

That’s just the way life is. Reality wins.

The only absolute assurance, for those who have a relationship with God through Christ, is that eventually they’ll enjoy life forever with the One who made and redeemed them. That’s guaranteed.

The rest of life isn’t. Ask parents who’ve lost a son or daughter to an automobile accident on the way home from a church meeting, or in a rock climbing fall, or to the sudden onset of cancer, or in a school shooting incident, about guarantees. See what they have to say about control.

I know parents like these. I’ve looked into their tear-filled eyes and attempted to field the “Why?” questions. Maybe you are one. If so, I’m truly sorry.

No Control?

Does this mean our lives are careening, like cars with the brake lines cut, toward the edge of a cliff? Should we just take our hands off the wheel and brace for the crash? Why try to guide our teenagers at all?

Keep in mind that there are degrees of control. While you can’t guarantee the outcome, you can make a baby safer with a good car seat.

There are also different kinds of control: the kind that is actually yours to exercise and the kind that isn’t. The key in parenting is knowing which is which—and knowing what to do with each.

You need to keep and use the control you’re entitled to—or take hold of it if you’ve lost it.

And you want to lose the control you really don’t have in the first place—and give up illusions you may have about it.

It’s not easy to figure out! But that’s why you have this book. It explains what’s truly yours to control—and helps you quit trying to grasp control that doesn’t belong to you.

Believe it or not, when it comes to raising teenagers, losing control can be a wonderful and freeing thing!

Your Brain and Control

To understand your assumptions about control, it helps to understand what you’ve been telling yourself about it. Your need to control grows out of your experiences, and how they affect your thinking and decision making.

The neurology of your brain is complex, but for the moment let’s compare it to a jukebox.

I mean a real jukebox, not a digital one—the old kind with vinyl 45s inside and a panel of buttons, each corresponding to a hit single. You watch as the record drops onto the turntable, the arm swings over, and the needle slips into the grooves to play your selection. If you have teenagers, maybe you can remember when these weren’t called antiques!

That’s what your brain is like. Each “record” has etched on it a simple, short phrase known as a belief. A belief is a statement of what you think is fact. Most of your beliefs were recorded, catalogued, and filed in your jukebox during the first seven to ten years of your life.

When you hear the word belief, you may think first of religious beliefs. But you have beliefs about every subject under the sun. You use them every day as you try to make sense of life. They’re your worldview— all on a bunch of 45s!

So your thought process plays out (no pun intended) in the following sequence:

1. A new experience happens, or a series of similar experiences. Perhaps a bully trips you in the school cafeteria, and you land in the middle of your own mashed potatoes. Or you feel guilty while reading a “how to raise a teenager” book.

2. You attempt to understand this situation as best you can.

3. You draw a conclusion from the experience. It may be based on

incomplete information available at that moment, but you

assume your conclusion is true.

4. A recording of your conclusion is made into a belief statement

and filed in your jukebox. The new record is polished, catalogued,

and ready for future reference.

5. Every time a similar situation arises, that record plays. You

respond according to the belief it contains.

We all have one record that sounds pretty much the same. It says, “All my records, all my beliefs, are true. I can even validate them with life experiences if I have to!”

We’re quite defensive about our record collections. If you disagree with me, my defenses shout, “What do you think I am? Stupid? I wouldn’t believe a lie! I’m intelligent! I know what’s right and true, and I can back it up!”

If you’re willing to drop those defenses, you may find some of your records are a bit warped. Some conclusions you’ve drawn about walking in the school cafeteria may have been based on incomplete information. What you read in that parenting book may be partly true, but may not be the best advice for you and your situation.

Remember, most of your records were forged in your first seven to ten years—long before you ever thought of raising a teenager. Your beliefs about things like love and discipline—and control—may not be totally accurate.

There are plenty of books for Christians that tell you what you should have on your records. But I want to encourage you to think deeply about the “control songs” your jukebox is already playing and whether they’re true.

It matters because those records remain in the slots of your jukebox, some of them warped and misleading, waiting to be activated when life “pushes your buttons.”When one of them plays, it may sound funny to everyone but you. To you, it sounds true. Most of us, after all, never stop to question our beliefs; we just believe them.

Some of your records may need to be remixed, updated, even tossed. This book will help you do that with records that revolve (so to speak) around the subject of control.

Many of us have whole albums on that subject. One of yours probably features the hit single about how every parent’s job is to make sure his or her children turn out “right.” Even though most of us don’t quite know what that standard means, we feel obliged to meet it.

Oh, how wrong that record is.

If it were true, it would mean God messed up.

Control: A Reality Check

In Genesis we read about a place called the Garden of Eden. It was a perfect environment, a perfect “home.”

In this perfect place there were two perfect people—God’s children, Adam and Eve. Wouldn’t that be nice to have perfect children?

And there was a perfect God—the perfect parent.

There was also a rule: “You must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat of it you will surely die” (Genesis 2:17).

You’ve probably heard the rest of the story.

Adam and Eve chose foolishly, defying what God had told them.

Our human decay and ultimate death are stark reminders of that wrong choice—made by perfect people in a perfect environment with a perfect parent.

So what did God do wrong? If He “trained them in the way they should go,” why did Adam and Eve choose the other option? If Proverbs 22:6 is a guarantee of success for parents, why wasn’t it a guarantee for the Author of the Book?

Enter free will.

I’m talking about a God-given freedom to choose—part of being created in His image. Adam and Eve exercised it, and your teenagers exercise it today.

“But I want them to turn out right,” you say.

Yes. I agree with you. But that’s not your job.

“But I want the best for them, for their sakes.”

I won’t argue with that. But it’s still not your job to make sure they do.


I know. I’m a parent, too.

You do have a job, which I’ll get to in the next chapter; it’s just not that one. You could do everything exactly “right” all 18 years of your child’s life under your roof—assuming you could know what “exactly right” was—and he or she could still choose “wrong.”

God has given our children the option to be foolish, even to sin.

He doesn’t want them to be foolish or to sin. But they’re free moral agents to pick right or wrong, wisdom or folly, truth or lies, righteousness or evil.

To a parent, that’s scary news. There really is a whole lot more that you can’t control than you can control.

But before you get too discouraged, rest assured that we’ll get to the topic of influence—of which you have a great amount with your children. You are not powerless as the parent of a teenager.

For now, though, I want you to go back and read the fine print on the bottom of that contract—the one you signed when you became a parent, the one that includes the possibility of having your heart broken.

“I never signed up for that,” you might say.

But that’s exactly what you did. You opened your heart to the possibility that it would be broken by the very child you love and want the best for.

You signed up to raise a little person—one for whom you’re responsible but are not able to control.

So before we go on, take time right now (yes, I mean right now, or you probably won’t do it at all) to contemplate the powerful words of “The Serenity Prayer.”

It may be familiar. You even may have it memorized. But as you reflect on it this time, don’t do it as an abstraction or for somebody else’s benefit. Do it practically, for yourself as the parent of a teenager. Make it a personal prayer from your heart to God.


God grant me the serenity

To accept the things I cannot change;

Courage to change the things I can;

And wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time;

Enjoying one moment at a time;

Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;

Taking, as He did, this sinful world

As it is, not as I would have it;

Trusting that He will make all things right

If I surrender to His will;

That I may be reasonably happy in this life

And supremely happy with Him

Forever in the next.

Blessings to you,

Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Goodbye 2008!!


It's been a busy, eventful year. Lots of stress, lots of joy, lots of sorrow. I expect that 2009 will be similar, as every other year has also had the same. I am hoping for more joy, and better coping skills to deal with the stresses and sorrows of life.
I wish all of you a very Happy and healthy New Year, filled with God's Love and Blessings!

Blessings to you,

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Ten Great Catholics


Janette at Ground Level In Kansas wrote a post on the ten great Catholics in her lifetime and then challenged other Catholics to come up with their own lists... I think I can comply.
First, the famous, whom I have not actually met, but who have influenced me in some way.
1. Pope Benedict XVI - Re-iterating quite a few things that needed to be said

2. Pope John Paul II - the only other pope I have any memory of, really. He was such a loving, charismatic leader - gentle and approachable in demeanor.
3. Mother Teresa of Calcutta - her immense love of Jesus through the poor is inspiring

4. St. Elizabeth of Hungary - if you've never read about her, and the love she shared with her husband - do so. Their love was truly romantic in that each saw Christ in the other, and behaved accordingly. It is a beautiful love story that I re-read periodically (especially when I feel I need to be reminded how to treat my own husband). They were husband and wife, best friends, lovers in the most pure sense.

and now for the not so famous.... some of whom I've met, others whom I only know through this virtual world of the internet:

5. Sr. Francis Marie - principal, and one of the loveliest people I've ever had the gift of knowing. Her manner with students was firm, kind, and respectful, and in return she was greatly loved and respected. Her manner with her teachers was that of a loving mentor, always respectful, and always mindful of the great responsibility entrusted to her and to her teachers - that of instructing our students to the best of our ability to love and serve the Lord. I miss her.

6. Tammy - who runs a peri-natal bereavement ministry. Having just gone through the loss of my youngest, with care-givers who were not trained in any way in how to handle this special type of grieving, I find Tammy's ministry to be a beautiful thing. She runs memorial services for the babies lost, provides photos, footprints, other mementos (depending on the stage of development of the baby lost), and most importantly compassionately listens to the bereaved.

7. Michelle - has opened her heart to many children, both those given to her by God through conception, and those given to her by God through the gift of adoption. Her family is beautiful, and her blog is a source of inspiration for me.

8. Mary - we've been friends since 7th grade.... wow, 27 years of friendship. Mary argued with me all through high school on the topic of abortion (I was foolishly pro-choice back then, before my first miscarriage made it dawn on me that what was being aborted wasn't a "clump of cells", but a BABY), and after my conversion never once said "I told you so". She supported me through my divorce, my subsequent annulment, and reassured me countless times that despite the speed with which King B and I met and married, that she truly believed it to be right. She has seen me through 2 miscarriages, 4 live births, an abusive marriage, and the deaths of both of our grandmothers within hours of each other. She is currently expecting her first child (she and her dh married in March, I am SO happy for her), and she is glowing with happiness. She showed me by example, how beautiful it is to follow the Lord's Will.

9. My oldest, KTbug. KTbug is a mystic in so many ways. She is very deeply spiritual at an age where most girls are superficial at best. She is so far beyond me in her journey, that sometimes it scares me. How can I hope to be an example for this child who is such an example to me?

and finally...

10. King B. He is the epitome, for me, of Catholic manhood. He is loving, gentle, kind. He is prayerful, and honest. He loves the Lord, and reminds me to be better about setting time aside for prayer myself.
Anyone else care to add their list?

Blessings to you,

Thursday, December 11, 2008

First Wild Card


OK, I'm trying to post my first ever First Wild Card tour (before the tour I signed up to review comes up) so that I can test it out.... here goes!

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book's FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

and the book:

Hannah Grace

Whitaker House (January 30, 2009)


Sharlene Maclaren is an award-winning novelist , retired elementary school teacher, wife, mother, and grandmother.

Visit the author's website.

Product Details:

List Price: $ 9.99
Publisher: Whitaker House (January 30, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1603740740
ISBN-13: 978-1603740746


Sandy Shores, Michigan • August 1903

The minute hand on the nickel-cased Waterbury clock ticked away the seconds as Hannah Grace Kane primped in the mirror. She leaned back and squinted with displeasure when her unruly, rusty-colored curls refused to cooperate, poking out all over like a bunch of broken bedsprings. “Aargh!” she muttered, throwing down her comb and watching it bounce off the wood floor with a ping before landing on the braided wool rug.

“Supper’s almost ready!” wailed the youngest of the Kane sisters, Abbie Ann, from the foot of the stairs.

“Abbie Ann, you’ll damage my hearing,” Jacob Kane muttered.

Even from the upstairs bedroom, Hannah heard her father’s newspaper rattle and sensed that his tone bordered on brusqueness. She pictured him sitting in his plush blue velvet chair, as he always did at six o’clock, the Sandy Shores Tribune spread in his lap, his reading spectacles perched low on his longish nose. “Why is it that at seventeen, you’re still screaming like a banshee?”

“Seventeen, Papa? Have you forgotten that I turned eighteen in May?”

There was a lengthy pause. “Eighteen? Are you sure?”

Her high-pitched giggle drifted upward. “Of course I’m sure, silly. A lady never forgets her age.”

“Well, then, all the more reason to cease with your howling.”

“Sorry, Papa.”

“Besides, Hannah Grace isn’t even eating at home this evening.”

“Oh, how could I forget? That ol’ Stuffy Huffy’s coming to call. I suppose they’ll take a long stroll in the moonlight. Blechh.” Her voice danced with unrestrained sarcasm, and Hannah could only imagine the look of disapproval on her father’s bearded face. “I don’t know what she sees in him, do you, Papa? If you ask me, he’s boring and unfriendly.”

The newspaper crackled. “Abbie.” He heaved a breath, which echoed up through the register. “Doctor Van Huff seems like a nice enough gentleman. There is no call for judging him. And besides, your sister seems to like him.”

“I’m not judging. I’m merely expressing my view on things, which I happen to think is more fact than opinion. Personally, I suspect she just likes him ’cause he’s just about the only eligible bachelor around.”

Hannah bent down to retrieve her comb and sighed in the process. Everyone knew sounds carried faster than a windstorm in this two-story, foursquare structure. Was there no respect? Why, had she wanted, she could have walked to the twelve-inch heat vent in the floor and peered through its narrow slats to give her sister a snarling glower, but she

wouldn’t, for that was exactly what Abbie wanted her to do. All three Kane sisters had played the “spying game” through that heat register as children, but Abbie seemed bent on continuing it till kingdom come.

“Abbie Ann, you mind your manners. Hannah will hear you.”

Well, it’s about time someone thought of that, Hannah mused, thankful for her grandmother’s scolding tone. Helena Kane, Jacob’s mother, had tirelessly tended to the entire family since shortly after the girls’ own mother had succumbed to pneumonia and died just days short of Abbie’s second birthday. “Ralston Van Huff is a fine, upstanding citizen, and you had best show your respect.” Even after all these years in Michigan, her British accent still lingered like a fresh aroma.

“I do, I do,” Abbie insisted. “But he’s always talking about himself and that stupendous medical practice he runs. After a while, one grows downright weary of it.”

Jacob snapped his paper and exhaled noisily. “The man is doing his best to make a success of himself. I would think taking on the task of town physician would require a bit of ambition…speaking of which, shouldn’t you be out in the kitchen helping your grandmother and sister?”

“I’ll second that,” said Grandmother. “Take the napkins out of the bureau, Abbie.”

“Do you suppose he’s a true Christian, Papa?” Abbie asked, ignoring his inquiry.

“Well, I would hope so. Hannah Grace wouldn’t settle for anyone who didn’t claim to have a faith of his own. May I please read today’s news now, Abigail?”

Keeping one ear to the conversation downstairs, Hannah picked up her comb and resumed her hair-styling task.

“I, for one, think Dr. Van Huff is charming.” Maggie Rose spoke up for the first time that evening. From the kitchen wafted her habitually melodious voice—melodious in that she spoke in pleasant tones rather than melodious from a musical standpoint, that is. Sadly, Maggie thought she could carry a tune quite well, but after years of sitting beside her in church, Hannah knew otherwise. “He picked two roses from our garden last week and gave one to Hannah and one to me. I’d call that rather sweet.”

“Oh, poke me with a stick!” Abbie whined. “He should rather have picked flowers from his own garden—or bought some at Clara’s Flower Shop.”

“Abbie Ann Kane, stop being so persnickety,” Grandmother said. “My goodness, what side of the bed did—?”

A deafening scream sounded through the house when something metallic made clanging contact with the linoleum floor.

“My giddy aunt, what a gobblin’ mess we have here! Don’t burn yourself, Maggie!” Grandmother screeched. “Abbie, come in here this minute and lend a hand. Noodles are everywhere.”

“What’s happened?” Jacob asked.

“It looks like a pig’s breakfast just landed on our kitchen floor. Oh, forevermore and a day! Supper will be delayed, I’m afraid.”

Abbie’s uncontrollable giggles lent to the clamor of rushing feet, running water, Grandmother’s stern orders to stop laughing and fetch some rags, and Maggie’s pathetic verbal attempts to vindicate her clumsiness.

From her cushioned bench in front of the vanity, Hannah stifled a smile, glad to be upstairs and away from

the commotion. She leaned forward to study herself in the mirror. After this close scrutiny, her slightly upturned mouth curled into a pout. Grayish eyes, neither true blue nor clear green, stared back at her as she viewed her thin, longish neck and narrow shoulders, pointy chin, square jaw, and plumpish lips. To top matters off, she had a skinny frame with very little up front to prove her womanhood. As a matter of fact, she’d thought more than once that if she wanted to pass as a boy, she could pile all her hair under a cap, if ever there was one big enough, don a pair of men’s coveralls, work boots, and a jacket, and no one would be the wiser.

She thought about her sisters’ attractive looks—Maggie’s fair-haired beauty
and Abbie’s dark eyes, olive complexion, and flowing, charcoal hair. Assuredly, they both outshone her pasty features by a country mile, Abbie’s assets originating from their mother’s Italian heritage, Maggie’s coming from their Grandmother Kane’s long line of elegant features. To be sure, Helena was an aging woman in her sixties, but anyone with an eye for beauty could see that with her high cheekbones, perfectly set blue eyes, well-chiseled nose and chin, and remarkably smooth skin, she must have been the picture of youthful elegance and charm.

But where did she, Hannah Grace, fit into the picture? Certainly, she’d inherited her grandmother’s curly hair, but where Helena’s lay in perfect, gentle waves, gathered into a tidy silver bun at the back, Hannah’s crimped and frizzed atop her head like a thousand corkscrews. And nothing she did to tame it seemed to work. She’d even lain her head on an ironing board some years ago, like a sacrificial hen, and allowed her sisters to straighten it with a hot iron—until they came too close to the skin and singed her scalp. The silly recollection made her brow crinkle into four straight lines.

She pulled her shoulders back, dipped her chin, and tried to look dignified in her ivory silk afternoon gown with the button-down front and leg-o-mutton sleeves.

“Hannah Grace Van Huff,” she whispered, testing the name aloud and wondering how it would feel to say it for the rest of her days.

Tonight, they would dine at the Culver House in downtown Sandy Shores, and, afterward, perhaps walk down to the harbor to watch the boats come and go. Along the way, they would pass the closed shops on Water Street and probably do some window gazing. Ralston would speak about his practice and tell her about the patients he’d seen that day—the broken bones he’d set, the wounds he’d wrapped. He would tell her about his dreams of constructing a new building—one that would allow him to relocate his practice away from his residence. Not for the first time, he would mention his hopes for a partner with whom to launch this undertaking, someone who shared his passion for medicine, of course, and had the financial wherewithal to pitch in his fair share. There would be a placard above the door and maybe a more prominent sign in the front yard. They would hire a nurse, of course, and, down the road, a bookkeeper to keep the multiplying records straight.

He would ask Hannah about her day at Kane’s Whatnot, her father’s general store, and inquire as to how sales had gone. She would be vague in her answer, knowing that the details would bore him to tears. Nevertheless, he’d smile and nod, appearing deeply interested, but then quickly resume speaking about his medical practice.

Perhaps Abbie was right in calling Ralston stuffy and boring, if not a trifle selfish, but he had ambition on his side, and Hannah admired that. Even Papa recognized it. Besides, she’d reached the ripe age of twenty-one, and hadn’t Grandmother once said that when a woman reached her twenties, her chances of finding a genteel fellow slimmed considerably? It was best not to listen to Abbie’s foolish musings. What did she know about the subject? Dr. Ralston Van Huff would make a fine catch for any woman.

“Hannah wouldn’t settle for a man who didn’t claim to have a faith of his own.”

Her father’s words circled in her head, almost like a band of pesky mosquitoes out for blood. Well, of course, Ralston had an active faith. She’d met him at a church gathering, after all. True, he rarely speaks about the Lord, but these things come with time and practice, she told herself. One doesn’t grow strong in faith overnight.

As the racket continued downstairs, Hannah proceeded to pile her mass of red curls on top of her head, using every available pin to hold them in place.

“Thank heaven for hats,” she muttered to herself.

Gabriel Devlin tipped his dusty hat at the woman he passed on the narrow sidewalk, then scolded himself for stealing a glance backward after she passed. What was he doing? He was done with women! And he had Carolina Woods to thank for that. No, I can thank the Lord for bringing our impending marriage to a halt, he rephrased in his head.

A horse whinnied and kicked up a swirl of dirt as it galloped by, carrying its rider through the street, a barking dog on its heels. Since stores closed at precisely five o’clock in this

small but thriving community of Dutch settlers known as Holland, Michigan, the dog and horse were about the only sounds he heard as he made his way toward an open restaurant, stepping down from the rickety-planked sidewalk and crossing the heavily trodden, dirt-packed street in the middle of town. He removed his hat and slapped it across his leather-clad thigh, letting loose a cloud of dust he estimated was almost as big as the horse’s. Setting it back on his head of sandy-colored hair, he stepped up onto a slab of newly laid concrete and saw that one entire block of sidewalk looked freshly poured. Evidently the town council had started a beautification project, at least on this side of the street. He surmised the other side would follow, perhaps before the first blast of winter weather.

He passed several storefronts, glanced in a few windows, and then saw something out the corner of his eye that brought his steps to a halt as his gaze fell on the object of interest. Across the street and another block over, a young lad was crawling out from under a tarp that was stretched over the back of a wagon. He put his hands on his hips and twisted his body from side to side, stretching as if he had just awakened from a long nap. Then, he rubbed his neck and looked at the trees swaying overhead. The horse that was hitched to the front of the wagon turned and granted the boy a disinterested glance, then swished its mangy tail.

Wondering what the boy was up to, Gabe feigned interest in a window display, embarrassed to discover that it was laden with feminine wares and frilly garments. Still, he kept up the fa├žade so as not to miss the boy’s next move. With deft hands, he was plundering through the items under the canvas, stuffing things into every pocket, front and back.Hannah Grace  17

Instinct told him to yell at the lad, for surely he was stealing from some unsuspecting citizen, but something held him back—the tattered clothing hanging off his skinny shoulders, the uncombed mop of black hair, the spattering of dirt and grime on his face and arms, and those shoddy-looking boots.

When the little vagabond had filled his pockets with who knew what, he took off on a run down an alley between two buildings, disappearing within seconds like a fox daunted by daylight. Gabe shook his head, vexed at himself for not caring more but feeling too exhausted after his long day’s ride to muster up much indignation. Maybe once he crammed his stomach with beef stew and bread and gave his horse and mule a period of rest at the livery, he’d go looking for him to see if he could figure out his story.

Pfff! Who was he kidding? After a quick bite and a bit of respite, he planned to finish his trip, following the path along the railroad tracks to Sandy Shores, his final destination. There’d be no time to look for a tattered boy who couldn’t have been a day over nine years old.

A few restaurant patrons cast him curious looks when he found a window seat in the smoke-filled room, but most kept to themselves, faces buried in newspapers or hovering over their suppers. They were likely accustomed to summer tourists, although, by all appearances, he probably resembled a bum more than anything else.

Certainly not Sandy Shores’ newly appointed sheriff.

“What can I do for y’, mister?”

He gazed into the colorless eyes of an elderly woman whose hard-lined face, slumped shoulders, and pursed mouth denoted some unnamed trial of the past. Gray hair fell around her stern countenance, straight and straw-like, reminding him of a scarecrow—the kind whose expression would chase off the meanest bull.

“I’ll have a bowl of beef stew and a slice of—”

“Plumb out.”

“No beef stew?”

“You hard o’ hearin’?”

“Chicken noodle?”

“No soup atall.” With hooked thumb, she pointed behind her. “Menu’s back there.”

His eyes scanned the chalkboard behind the counter where someone had scrawled several words with creative spellings: “Chikin liver and onyuns – 50¢; potatos and gravy on beef – 75¢; cheese sanwich – 25¢; pork sanwich on toasted Bred – 35¢; Ted’s specielty – 50¢”

“What’s Ted’s specialty?” He had to ask.

“Fish. You want it?”

“Is it cooked?”

She gave him a scornful look. “What kind o’ lame-brained question is that? ’Course it’s cooked.”

“I don’t know. Some people eat raw fish.”

“Not ’round these parts they don’t. Where you from?”

“Ohio. Columbus area.”

She sniffed. “Long ways from home, ain’t ya?”

He grinned. “It’s taken me a few days’ ride.”

Lifting one brow as if to size him up, but keeping her thoughts to herself, she asked, “You want the fish? It’s fresh out o’ the big lake, pan-fried.”

His stomach had been growling ever since he walked through the doors, and, in spite of the grit and grime beneath his feet, the dark and dingy walls, and the fetid odors of burnt onions and cigarette smoke, he had a feeling this Ted fellow could cook.

“I’ll try the fish.” He smiled at the killjoy, but, as expected, she just nodded and turned on her heel. “Can I have some coffee, too?”

Another slight nod indicated she’d heard

“Ohio, huh?”

From the table next to him, a man sporting a business jacket, string bow tie, and white ruffled shirt, lowered his newspaper. A half-smoked cigar hung out the side of his mouth directly under his pencil thin moustache. He removed the cigar and laid it on an ashtray. “What brings you to these parts?”

Always wary of shysters, Gabe examined the fellow on the sly. Experience had taught him not to trust anyone until he’d earned that right. “Work,” he replied.

“Yeah?” The man massaged his chin, and Gabe knew he was getting equal treatment, a careful scrutiny. Suddenly, the stranger reached across the four-foot span that separated their tables and offered his hand. “Vanderslute’s the name. George.”

Gabe stuck out his arm and they shook hands. “Gabriel Devlin. Good Dutch name you’ve got there.”

Vanderslute chuckled. “You’re definitely in Dutch territory. Pretty near half the town, I’d say. Maybe more.” He looked out over the small, dimly lit eatery. “Not Ted, though. He’s English, through and through. That there was Eva, his

aunt. She owns this place, has for thirty years.” He leaned forward. “She comes across as an old crank,” he murmured in hushed tones, “but on the inside, she’s nothing but mush. Known the two of them since I was this high.” He stretched a palm out level with the tabletop. “Used to stop by here on my way home from school. Depending on her mood, Aunt Eva—that’s what everyone calls her—would pass out free cookies. On good days, that is.”

Vanderslute took a sip of coffee, then took a giant drag off his cigar and placed it back on the tray. Gabe felt the tension roll off his shoulders. He glanced out the window and spotted the little ragamuffin again, his lean frame bent over a barrel as he rifled through the garbage within. “Who’s that little waif over there?” he asked.

“Huh? Where?” Vanderslute pitched forward to peer out the smudged glass.

“Oh, him. He’s been hanging around for a few days. He’ll move on. ’Spect he jumped the back of a train coming from Chicago area. Vagabonds do that from time to time.”

“Vagabonds? He’s just a little kid. Hasn’t anyone tried to help him?”

“He runs off every time. Like some wild pup. Some of the ladies leave bowls of food on their doorsteps, and he’ll run and get them whilst no one’s watching, providing some mongrel mutt doesn’t beat him to it.” He laughed, as if what he’d just said was unusually funny.

Just then, Eva brought a steaming cup of coffee to the table and George slid back in place. When Gabe looked out again, the boy had vanished—like some kind of apparition. He blinked twice and shook his head.

Silence overtook the two for the next several moments as George dug into the plate of roast beef and potatoes Eva had dropped off at his table when she’d deposited a mug of coffee under Gabe’s nose. Gabe’s mouth watered, his stomach grumbled. He sipped on his coffee and ruminated about the boy.

“What’s your trade, anyway?” George asked between chews.

Gabe took another slow swig before setting the tin mug on the table. “You ever hear of Judge Bowers?”

“Ed Bowers, the county judge? ’Course I have. I work the newspaper. I’m a line editor, not a reporter, but I read the headlines before anybody else does. I hear he just appointed a new interim sheriff up in Sandy Shores—someone from…” A light seemed to dawn in his eyes. “Ohio.” Gabe grinned. “You wouldn’t be…?”

“You should be a reporter,” Gabe said. “You’ve got the nose for it.”

“You learn, you know. Well, I’ll be. Too bad about Sheriff Tate, though. He was a good man, honest and fair. Heard his heart just gave out.” George shook his head. “The law business is hard on the body. Good thing you’re young. What are you—twenty-four? Twenty-five?”


George nodded, as if assessing the situation. “You can handle it. Most of what happens in these parts is petty crimes, but there’s the occasional showdown. Not often, though,” he added hastily. “You watch yourself, young man. You’ll do fine.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Not a minute too soon, Eva returned, this time plopping a plate of pan-fried fish in front of Gabe. On the side were cooked carrots drizzled with some sort of glaze and a large helping of applesauce. The most wonderful aromas floated heavenward, and his stomach growled in response. “Eva, you are an angel.” He smiled at her and felt a certain pleasure to see one side of her mouth quirk up a fraction and the tiniest light spark in her eyes.

“Pfff,” she tittered. “Go on with you.” She swiveled her tiny frame and hobbled off toward the kitchen, still looking like a scarecrow, but with a little less severity.

As he always did before delving into a meal, Gabe bowed his head and offered up a prayer of thanks to God. Then, he draped a napkin over his lap, knowing George Vanderslute’s eyes had taken to drilling holes in his side.

“You’re a praying man, I see.”

Gabe took his first bite. “I am. I pray about everything, actually.”

“Huh. That’s somethin’.” Seeming stumped, George forked down the rest of his meal in silence, the smoke from his cigar making a straight path to the ceiling.

As much as he would have liked taking his sweet time, Gabe wolfed down his plate of food, thinking about the miles of road that still stretched out before him. If he didn’t arrive before nightfall, he’d have to camp alongside the tracks again, and the thought of one more night under the stars didn’t set well with him.

The image of the mysterious little imp who’d stolen from the back of a wagon, rummaged through a waste barrel, and disappeared down an alley materialized at the back of his mind. Would he be shivering in some dark corner tonight, half starved? Gabe swallowed down the last of his coffee, determined to chase him out of his thoughts.

Protect him, Lord, he prayed on a whim, suppressing the pang of guilt he felt for not taking the time to search for him.

Sandy Shores came into view at exactly a quarter till ten, three hours after he left Holland. It had been the slowest, steepest, and most precarious leg of the entire trip, requiring him to navigate gravelly slopes in the light of the moon. Not for the first time, he thanked the Lord for his sure-footed mule, Zeke the Streak, who could not run if his life depended on it but still had strength enough to pull a redwood from its roots; and for Slate, his dapple-gray gelding, calmly bringing up the rear but possessing the speed of a bullet if the situation called for it.

A cool breeze was coming off the lake, bringing welcome relief from an otherwise long, hot day on the trail. Gabe cast a glance out over the placid lake, amazed once more by its vastness. At first glimpse, one would never suppose its distance across to be a mere one hundred miles; it seemed more like an ocean. Gentle waves licked the shoreline, making a whooshing sound before ebbing back into the chilly depths. The Sandy Shores lighthouse, sitting like a proud mother at the end of the pier, flashed her beacon for incoming fishing boats and steamers.

Electric streetlights lit the way as Gabe turned east off the railroad path onto Water Street, which led to the center of town. On the corner to his right stood the three-story Sherman House, the hotel he would call home until he found permanent housing suitable for his budget, if not for his taste. According to Ed Bowers, who had made all his room arrangements, he had a view of the Grand River Harbor and the big lake from his third-floor window. Nice for the interim, he thought, but not a necessity for my simple lifestyle. He’d grown up in affluence and decided he was ready for humbler circumstances. His father’s money had been well-earned, and it had reaped him warranted respect in the community and surrounding areas. Even so, Gabe couldn’t live off his father’s wealth and still respect himself. Besides, he’d had enough of women pursuing him for his family money—Carolina Woods, for one—and it was high time he moved away from Ohio, where the Devlin name didn’t make such an impact every time folks heard it mentioned. Furthermore, a smaller town meant smaller crimes, he hoped—the kind that didn’t require gunfire to resolve them.

Boisterous piano music and uproarious laughter coming from a place called Charley’s Saloon assaulted his senses after two hours spent with nary a sound, save for Zeke’s occasional braying, some sleepy crickets’ chirps, and a gaggle of geese honking from the lake. Gabe wondered if he should expect a run-in or two with a few of Charley’s patrons.

His eyes soaked up the names of storefronts—Jellema Newsstand, Moretti’s Candy Company, Hansen’s Shoe Repair, DeBoer’s Hardware, Kane’s Whatnot—and he wondered about the proprietors who ran each place. Would they accept him as their new lawman, particularly since the late Sheriff Watson Tate had held the office for well over twenty years?

When he spotted Enoch Sprock’s Livery on the second block, he pulled Zeke’s reins taut. Slate snorted, his way of exhaling a sigh of relief for having reached their destination.

“I know what you mean, buddy,” Gabe muttered, feeling stiff and sore himself. He threw the reins over the brake handle and jumped down, landing on the hard earth.

“You needin’ some help there, mister?”

A white-bearded fellow with a slight limp emerged from the big double door.

“You must be Enoch.”

“In the flesh.” The man extended a hand. “And who might you be?”

“Gabriel Devlin.”

the new sheriff. We been expectin’ ya’. Hear your room’s waitin’ over at the Sherman.” They shook hands. “Nice place you’re stayin’ at.”

Gabe grinned. “News gets around, I take it.”

Enoch snorted and tossed back his head. “This ain’t what you call a big metropolis.” He took a step back and massaged his beard even while he studied Gabe from top to bottom. “Awful young, ain’t ya?”

Is this how folks would view him? Young, inexperienced, still wet behind the ears? He supposed few knew he’d been responsible for bringing down Joseph Hamilton, aka “Smiley Joe”—a murderous bank robber who wielded his gun for goods throughout Indiana, Ohio, and parts of Kentucky. His last spree was on February 4, 1901, when Gabe received word in his office via telegraph that undercover sources determined Smiley Joe had plans to rob the Delaware County State Bank at noon that very day.

It hadn’t made national headlines, but every Ohioan had the best night’s sleep of his life after reading the next day’s headlines: Gabriel Devlin, Delaware County Sheriff, Takes Down Notorious Middle-West Bank Robber!

Having watched the entire robbery out of the corner of his eye while pretending to fill out a bank slip, Gabe, who had placed two plainclothes deputies at the door in case the villain tried to escape, confronted him while the deputies aimed their guns. “Smiley! It’s the end of the line for you, buddy,” he said coolly. “Drop the bags and turn around slowly, hands in the air.”

At first, it appeared Smiley would comply. His shoulders dropped and he started to turn. “Drop the bags!” Gabe yelled. “Hands to the sky!”

Other deputies, all placed strategically around the bank, surrounded him. The bank stilled to funeral parlor silence as customers scattered and backed against all four walls, terror pasted on every face.

But Smiley Joe wasn’t one to surrender, and, in a rattled state, he went for the eleventh-hour approach: he drew his gun. Wrong move. Shots were fired, and, when it was over, one wounded customer lay sprawled on the floor, groaning and bleeding from the shoulder, while Smiley Joe Hamilton lay dead, Gabe’s gun still hot from the bullet he shot through his head.

“That’s all right by me, you bein’ young,” Enoch was saying. “Time for some new blood ’round here. ’Sides, any friend o’ Judge Bowers is a friend o’ mine.” A slight accent from the British Isles colored his tone.

“I appreciate that.”

“Want I should take your rig inside and tend to your animals?”

“That’d be mighty nice of you.”

Gabe made a move to retrieve his money pouch, but Enoch stopped him. “You just get what you need out o’ your rig, and we’ll settle up in the mornin’.”

“You have no idea how good that sounds.” Gabe reminded himself to retrieve his carpetbag from the back of the wagon. All he needed was a change of clothes for tomorrow, his shaving gear, a bar of soap, and some tooth powder. Right now, nothing sounded better than a soft bed. Shoot, I might even sleep through breakfast, he mused. Ed Bowers didn’t expect him in his office until mid-afternoon.

Slate sidestepped the two as they went to the back to remove the tarp. When they did, they got the surprise of their lives.

“Wull, I’ll be jig-swiggered. What is that?”

Gabe stared open-mouthed at the bundle of a body curled into a tight ball.

“Looks to be a sleeping boy,” he murmured.

Blessings to you,

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Beauty Found in Sorrow


One of the most beautiful quotes relating to marriage I've ever read, has to be this one, by George Elliot:
What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for life - to strengthen each other in all labor, to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent, unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting.

The past few weeks, King B and I have been living [to rest on each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain] as we've healed from the miscarriage. Even through the pain and sorrow we experience, there was such a beauty in the love that had us supporting one another through it. It has shown me, yet again, God's grace through the sacrament of marriage.

Being *one* in a sacramental marriage is amazing in so many ways. Even though I experienced the physical pain and other effects of the miscarriage, we both lost our child, and we both needed to grieve. While the pain is not as sharp now, there is still a little ache of missing for both of us. King B has been wonderful in how he's helped me through this. He not only helped me with the physical recovery by allowing me to rest, but he's allowed me to move through the grieving process at my own pace - holding me when I cried, letting me talk my feelings out (even the not so nice feelings), laughing with me when I could.

This sad chapter has drawn us even closer than we were before, and my love for King B has grown exponentially from experiencing his immense capacity for love and kindness even through his own grief.

I love you, King B!

Blessings to you,

Monday, November 24, 2008

Veggie Recipe

After Daisy's burial service, King B's brother took us to lunch at restaurant that had sauteed veggies that were delicious! I have never been a fan of cooked carrots, but I loved these! They had a defitnite garlic taste to them, so I experimented. Here is the recipe resulting from my experiments:
Garlic Sauteed Carrots (served 6)
  1. Peel and slice several large carrots (make the slices fairly thin - 1/4 inch or so)
  2. Peel 4 garlic cloves
  3. Gently heat some olive oil
  4. Using a garlic press, press the 4 cloves of garlic into the oil and stir
  5. Add the sliced carrots, sautee for several minutes
  6. Sprinkle with REAL sea salt (about 1 tsp or so)
  7. Continue sauteeing for another couple of minutes
  8. Add 1/4 cup water and bring to a simmer
  9. Cover and cook for about 5 minutes at a time until done to desired consistency (we like them tender crisp - but I slice some a little thinner so they get softer for Busker)
  10. They are out of this world. I'm planning on trying this with broccoli this week too!

    Blessings to you,

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Daisy's Shell Stitch Blanket


I've been asked for the pattern for the blanket I made for Daisy. I've never written out a pattern before, so if you try this out, please let me know how it turns out for you.

Daisy's Blanket
Size H crochet hook

approximately 10 oz of sport weight yarn (I used about 1 1/3 skeins of "Neopolitan" yarn)

approximately 5 yards of a soft fabric (not paper) ribbon (this will depend on the size you choose to make your blanket - I made a somewhat small one, as it was meant to go into Daisy's casket, but still was too big)

Sewing thread to match ribbon

Using a sport weight yarn, loosely chain 94 sts

Row 1: in 3rd ch from hook, dc 2 times (the 2 chs count as first dc), skip one ch, sc in next ch, *skip one ch, work 3 dc in next ch, skip one ch, sc in next ch*, repeat from * to end, ch 2 turn

Row 2: in last row's last sc, work 1 dc (ch 2 counts as first dc), in middle dc of 3 dc shell, work 1 sc,*work 3 dc shell in next sc, in middle dc of 3 dc shell, work 1 sc*, repeat from * to end, ending with 1 sc, ch 2, turn

Repeat row 2 until blanket is desired length. After last stitch of last row, begin to work border.


Row 1: ch 1, turn. In same stitch, work 1 sc, ch 1, *work 1 sc in sc, ch 1 work 1 sc in middle dc of 3 dc shell, ch 1* to end, work 3 sc in corner; work sc evenly across rows to next corner, work 3 sc in corner; work 1 sc, ch 1 in every other ch from foundation chain; work 3 sc in corner; slip stitch to first stitch.

Row 2: ch 4 (counts as 1 triple crochet and ch 1 sp), *skip ch 1 sp, work triple crochet in next sc* around blanket - corners should have 3 ch sp between tc, slip stitch to top of first tc

Row 3: ch 3, work 4 triple crochet (makes large shell) in same stitch. *skip ch 1 space, work sc in next sc, skip ch 1 sp work 5 triple crochet shell in next sc* continue in this pattern around blanket. Fasten off.

Weave ribbon through "lacing holes" made by row 2, tie into a bow and stitch bow in place with matching thread


Blessings to you,

Friday, November 7, 2008


The service was short, and I have no idea what the priest read. I was too busy holding the baby the only way I'll ever be able to on this earth - in her casket.

She got her way, though, about the blanket. The whole time I was making it, I kept hearing a teeny voice saying, "Mommy, I don't need a blanket, other babies need blankets". Well, I wanted her to have a blanket. and told her I'd make other blankets for other babies. Well, the blanket didn't fit in the casket. It was so tiny. it was a little shorter than an egg carton, but a little taller and a little wider. Everything else we wanted to include fit in.

Busker is napping right now. If he wakes soon enough, my BIL wants to take us for lunch. I'm resting until then. Please keep us in prayer.

Blessings to you,