The Terror Tree

I’ve always loved trees. I’ve always loved Joyce Kilmer’s poem, “Trees.”


I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain,
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree. 

I love trees. Walking in the woods always drains stress and puts a lower, more manageable perspective on whatever big problem I face. But across the street from our house is a tree that I dislike. It scares me. I call it the “terror tree,” because I envision it crashing down destroying the rock fence next to it and whatever vehicles are parked under it.

The funny thing about the terror tree is that we’ve lived in this location now for eight years and the tree has never fallen. Gale force winds strip leaves and scatter broken limbs along the sidewalk, but the tree remains stalwart. Or, at least, it hides whatever weakness may be silently stealing its strength at its core.

There must be a hidden weakness because the tree is the last in the neighborhood to graduate to spring’s awakening and clothe itself with leaves, and the leaves—when they finally come—are sparse and sickly-looking. Yet, the tree continues to stand.

Whenever heavy equipment visits our neighborhood near the terror tree I always hope it is there to take that tree down. Yet, the tree remains.

Even if the tree falls it is unlikely to damage our house and car. It’s probably the tallest tree in our neighborhood, but it is slightly cattycorner from us. If it falls it is unlikely to impact us—save sending a scattering of limbs and a shower of leaves our way. My dislike of that tree is unfounded and unreasonable. Yet, the tree bothers me. I do not like that tree.

Isn’t that the same as with people? Unfounded distrust and dislike because we look at the outward appearance and expect interior weaknesses? We don’t see the hidden strengths. Judgmental attitudes cause us to expect the worst even when the worst hasn’t happened yet and may never happen.

The Bible contains verses warning against judging. Jesus said, “Judge not, that you be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged.” Matthew 7:1.

James 4:12, “There is one Lawgiver, who is able to save and destroy. Who are you to judge another?” James 4:12.

When the prophet Samuel was sent to anoint a king for Israel the Lord instructed him, “do not look at his appearance or at his physical stature…for the LORD does not see as man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.” 1 Samuel 16:7.

Even though it isn’t a person, I will curb my dislike of the terror tree. Nothing in this world can hold terror for me unless I allow it by assigning it in my mind. I am in control of my mind—not the terror tree or anything else. And to paraphrase Joyce Kilmer’s words: Books are written by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update

Dandelion People

Dandelions wake up the world around them with bright cheerful yellow blooms that bees and butterflies love. Yet, they are considered weeds and unappreciated by many people because they are invasive, spread aggressively, and interfere with cultivated plants.

Formal gardens eschew dandelions and gardeners work energetically to remove them even though they are rich in nutrients and useful in medicine due to their antioxidant properties. They provide food and medicine—and yet are universally despised.

Some people go through life much like dandelions; overlooked, unappreciated, and spurned by others. Here’s lifting praises to Dandelion People. Dandelion People have shaped and enriched my life and fill my 50 books (one finished but not yet published) with vivid characters and interesting to amusing incidents and events.

Many of the dandelion people I have personally known are from home of my heart, Bandera, Texas. Since they are sadly gone from this life now I feel that I can name them. My first eight books, the Miz Mike series, depend on dandelion folks for interest and humor.

Harold Jenkins was a short, twisted man whose appearance frightened children who did not know him. It was not only his limbs that were twisted—his facial features were also twisted and caused him to speak out of the side of his mouth. He could read, he could write, and he loved driving his truck. In spite of his physical challenges, Harold was a volunteer fire fighter and ambulance driver and attended church regularly.

Ross was a deaf mute. He lived on an isolated ranch and drove his tractor down his driveway to the main road where he would wait for someone to pick him up and give him a ride into town. Old timers presiding over the “Table of Knowledge” at the OST Restaurant understood him and conversed freely with him. Sadly, I was unable to decipher his strange mixture of grunts and finger gestures enough to understand him—but son Luke, who was two at the time and needed speech therapy—understood him completely. I took Ross to Kerrville one time so he could sell his wool and he and Luke talked and laughed all the way there and back.

Then there was Gerald. My first job in Bandera was working at Frontier Village with him building tables for the Bella Union Dancehall. Gerald had a low IQ and needed supervision, but he was one of the hardest workers I’ve ever known. He rode his bicycle into town everyday and waited around the OST for someone to hire him for the day. He would do anything from building fences to wrangling livestock and cleaning up after them.

History has its share of Dandelion People, too; people who live and die as unappreciated as dandelions.

Rosalind Franklin’s x-ray images of DNA revealed the molecule’s double helix structure, but she was not recognized for her work until after her death.

Ignaz Semmelweis’ pioneering work in antiseptic procedures reduced deaths from childhood fevers. Like Franklin, he was not recognized for his contributions until after his death.

Chico Mendez was a rubber tapper in Brazil. He led a fight for the preservation of the Amazon rainforest, and fought equally hard to gain rights for his fellow toppers.

Claudette Colvin, a black woman, refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery bus—and yet—it is Rosa Parks who gets celebrated in history. Probably few people have ever heard Colvin’s name or know her role in the Civil Rights movement. She was one of the Dandelion People.

Jesus has a promise for the Dandelion People—and all of us: “Your Father who sees in secret will Himself reward you openly.” Matthew 6:4.

Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update

The Writing Life: Letting the Pain Live Again

Even in works of fiction, most writers reveal hidden parts of themselves and their lives within their creative output. Sometimes that means letting the pain live again.

Some folks have asked me why I don’t write an autobiography. The answer? There are things about my past I don’t want anyone to know.

Some folks have pointed out that I don’t need to include everything; I could pick and choose segments of my life. For example, childhood pets included snakes, monkeys, opossums, a skunk, a jaguarondi, a racoon, a fox—and an African lion which threw me to the ground and bit me on my stomach. There are interesting stories connected to all of the above. For example, my secret college crush who “rescued” me from the lion forever avoided me after that incident. And, the day after appearing on a TV program to explain how to tell a poisonous snake from a harmless one, I caught a snake at the pond in an attempt to identify it. The snake bit me. It was a water moccasin. I spent the rest of the day in the hospital.

But there are other incidents and events that I choose not to share.

I have now written 49 books, almost all of them Christian Cozy Mysteries. Animals grace the pages of most of them, and our grey fox Tandy inspired “Fox on the Roof Murder.” Several of our wild animal pets figured into “All the Colors of Murder.”

My newest book, however, “Hole to Hell Mystery,” opens up a part of my past that I usually keep locked away where it can’t hurt me; the extreme childhood sexual abuse I suffered from a person who should have protected me—my father. This includes the abortions he—with no medical training or expertise—performed on me to hide his crime, and my resulting close calls with bleeding to death. Sometimes, to write something meaningful, you must let the pain live again.

“Hole to Hell Mystery” is all mystery, all suspense.

From a fellow author’s review, “What resonates most is the way your portrayal of two estranged sisters is paired with a relentless, high-stakes mystery. From their fractured upbringing marked by abuse and abandonment to the dangers that confront them as they investigate their father’s murder, the work blends emotional depth with narrative tension, ensuring readers feel invested, unsettled, and deeply moved rather than merely entertained.”

From a publicist, “Two estranged sisters must confront their painful past while investigating their father’s murder only to discover that the truth may destroy them both.”

Good to get praise for the book after opening up the past to let the pain live again.

“All things work together for good to those who love the Lord.” Romans 8:28.

Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update

The Day the Dog Drove the Car

Because my sister and I had an after-school activity, Mom let me drive us to school in our car, an old battered Cadillac, posh only in name.

The car was, in fact, dangerous. Whenever we were driving it and saw a roadblock ahead—we took a detour to avoid being stopped. The car had no safety sticker. One reason it didn’t have a safety sticker is that it had no emergency brake or parking brake.

That day when we got to school, we discovered a small, white, shivering poodle-type dog huddled against the front of the school while some of the boys threw rocks at it. Leslie and I were outraged. No one abuses animals around us. We flew into the fray, sent the boys running for cover, and took the poor little dog out to the Caddy where it would be safe until school let out for the day.

But it wasn’t safe because someone stole the car. When school let out, Les and I flew out to the parking lot to discover that…the car was gone. Les and I ran frantically around the parking lot looking for the car, but it was nowhere in sight. It was gone.

In total panic mode we rushed along asking other students if they had seen anything. Finally one student said he had. “The last time I saw your car, a little white dog was driving it.”

We were furious with him for mocking us and our predicament. This was in the days before mobile phones. We lived some five miles out of town. Our father had taken the other vehicle to work, so we had our family’s only transportation—except we didn’t have it. It was gone. Either stolen or driven off by a poodle.

The student walked with us back to where I had parked the car…then a bit further. We followed him—and there was our car. In a deep gully. The poodle was in the driver’s seat.

Because the car had no parking brake, the little dog had bounced around until it hit the shifter and knocked the car out of gear. Being on a slight incline, the car cruised down the hill to the bottom. It took a tow truck to get the Caddy out of the gully. Even though the car was not damaged—save a couple of new dents—our parents would not let us keep the little dog who could drive.

How could a blog about a little dog who drove a car be an Easter blog?

Jesus died on the cross so our sins could be forgiven and we could invite His Holy Spirit to come and live inside us to give us help and hope for every day, every situation in life. The death of Jesus on the cross is historic. People saw it. People watched.

Three days later, Jesus rose up from the cross and walked the earth again. It’s history. People saw Him. They touched the nail prints in His hands and feet and the spear wound in His side. And, yet, not everyone believes. You might as well tell them a dog drove their car.

The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know you seek Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for He is risen. He is risen from the dead.” Matthew 28:6.

“And truly Jesus did many other signs in the presence of His disciples, which are not written in this book; but these are written that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ; the Son of God, and that believing you may have life in His name.” John 20:30.

Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update

The World is Ending!

From the absurd to the possible, “news” headlines shout for attention in both written and media forms.

“Trump Seals Deal With Aliens from Outer Space,” “Trump Hides Conversation With Space Aliens,” “Virus Worse Than Covid,” “Keep Windows and Doors Shut for the Next 72 Hours,” “UK Warned of Meningitis Epidemic,” “Prepare for World War Three,” “Steps to Take After Nuclear Blast,” “Dogs May Be Taken from Owners by Authorities,” “New Driving Laws Punish Older Drivers,” “Late Winter Storm Set to Bury UK with Snowfall,” “Mysterious Space Phenomenon Early Warning for Britons”…

And then I spot two birds playing tug-of-war with a tuft of our collie’s hair to use to line their nests.

And then I see daffodils blazing their sunshine glory in front of a rock fence.

And then I notice buds creeping over the bare limbs of a tree.

And then I lose myself in wonder at the first traces of spring green unfurling in a new leaf.

And then I watch moms and dads walking their children past our house on the way to school.

And then I celebrate a splash of sunshine making it over the top of grey clouds.

And then I marvel in the hills rising behind us, the sea rolling at our feet, the friendly greeting of complete strangers along the path we both take, and the giggle of a baby testing grass with bare feet for the first time—and I remind myself that this is still God’s world.

“Finally, brethren, whatever things are true, whatever things are noble, whatever things are just, whatever things are pure, whatever things are lovely, whatever things are of good report, if there is any virtue and if there is anything praiseworthy—meditate on these things.” Philippians 4:8

Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update

Lessons from Rain

It rains nearly every day in this part of Scotland. On the few days it doesn’t rain, it usually rains for at least part of every day. Dunoon averages nearly 70 inches of rain a year. In January this year, Dunoon saw a mere 37 hours of sun.

My heart is in the desert Southwest in the U.S. where rainfall averages between 12 and 13 inches annually with up to 320 days of sunshine. Yet, I have learned from inclement weather.

Moss blooms. Well, okay. According to the experts—it doesn’t bloom. It reproduces through spores. But it puts up shoots that look like blooms. I love to bend down and study moss intently when it “blooms.” I imagine a world invisible to us, peopled by tiny organisms that go about everyday life on their patch of moss tending the blooms that are like trees to them, building a secret life under our very eyes, a life that is impossible for us to see.

Because it is so wet here, moss grows on everything. I was amazed when we visited Rothesay on the Isle of Bute. Moss even grows on the wire fence around the castle.

When I had a hip replacement that became infected and was in the hospital for three months, I returned home to find our car encased in moss because it hadn’t been driven while I was gone.

Moss has also taught me that my elementary teachers were not infallible. They assured us that we could never get lost in the woods because moss grows on the north side of trees and we would always know which way was north. False. Wrong. It is so wet here in Scotland that moss grows all the way around tree trunks.

Inclement weather has taught me to preserve. With cold wind blowing blinding rainfall into my face and through every chink in my raingear—I don’t want to go on a walk. I don’t want to go outside the door of our little snug house. Yet, a dog needs a walk. Our dog doesn’t even have the benefit of a yard or garden. We have a two-foot strip of gravel around our house. So, out into the punishing, thrashing rain. It’s not comfortable, but it’s profitable because it strengthens me.

Inclement times in our lives are the same. We don’t enjoy them, but they grow us. They strengthen us.

“If indeed we suffer with Jesus, we may also be glorified together.” Romans 8:17.

Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update

The Problem with Toothpaste

If manufacturers depended on me to watch their commercials and buy their products—they would go broke. I ignore commercials. I simply don’t notice them, either in printed form or on television.

When I need something, I go to a local store and buy it. Just it. I’m a big believer in supporting local businesses. And I hate shopping. I’m not one to wander through stores going “ooh” and “aw” and deciding that I need something because it is attractively packaged.

Conversely, I have a friend who is a sucker for commercials. She simply has to have everything advertised as “new” and “improved” including toothpaste.  She has an unopened box on her bathroom shelf. Details on the box shout how exceptional it is. It declares that it will whiten teeth, repair enamel, improve gum health, and stand on its head and play brass instruments. I may have added the last part.

The point is—the toothpaste is on the shelf. It is available. Yet my friend has not opened it. Her teeth are still discolored from drinking copious amounts of coffee and tea. She complains that her teeth hurt when she eats ice cream. She complained this morning that her gums bled when she brushed her teeth. Yet the new, improved, exceptional toothpaste sits on her shelf unopened. The toothpaste may work all the miracles it advertises—but it has to be opened.

When my aunt Edris died she left me her colorful family Bible. It sat on the coffee table in the living room when I still lived at home. No one ever opened it. We were being raised as atheists. The Bible maintained its focal point in the family room only because the pictures on the cover were colorful and beautiful. I know now what I didn’t know then. The answer to every troubling question people face is in that book. But it must be opened.

Lonely? Jesus is a friend that sticks closer than a brother. Tempted? Resist the devil and he will flee. Fighting fear? Jesus says, “Do not fear. Do not worry. God takes care of the birds, animals, and flowers—He will take care of you. Problems in a relationship? Women are instructed to revere their husbands and husbands are instructed to love their wives as Jesus loved the church. Jesus died for the church. A relationship with that much love will not fail. The Bible guarantees that a three-fold cord is not easily broken. When Jesus is in the marriage equation it always comes up with the right answer.

If you are looking for answers, they are in the Bible. But you have to open it. Don’t wait for it to stand on its head and play a trombone.

Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update

Location, Location, Location

Our collie dog’s flea and tick spot-on treatment is sitting on the corner of my desk waiting for a dry day to be applied. It’s been sitting there for a week.

Some parts of the world cry out for rain. Dunoon, Scotland is not one of them. With an average of 185 rainy days a year, and weeks of grey skies and clouds even when it isn’t raining, some folks suffer from SAD. Seasonable Affective Disorder. Depression. Scotland gets an average of more than 59 inches of rain a year, so the sky is cloudy more than it is clear or sunny.

However, in my Bandera County, Texas home—folks celebrate rain. When it rains, Facebook fills up with “Praise the Lord for the rain.” That’s because the Texas Hill Country has a semi-arid climate and averages a mere 32 inches of rain per year.

Location, location, location.

In the wild, bears maintain ecological balance. They promote biodiversity within ecosystems by regulating herbivore growth and cycling nutrients. As apex predators they keep other species in balance. However, most Florida and Arizona residents are not amused when they get home to find a bear has entered their home, stolen food, and damaged possessions. Not to mention that a wild bear in such close proximity can be a threat to life and limb.

Location, location, location.

Likewise, alligators in the wild maintain ecological balance in their watery worlds. Alligator holes hold water even during dry seasons and provide critical habitats for fish, amphibians, turtles, wading birds, and other wildlife. However, residents who step outside their front doors and are confronted by an alligator face severe danger. Like bears, gators sometimes enter people’s homes. Finding a large gator in the living room or kitchen is not fun.

Location, location, location.

Savannah’s flea and tick treatment continues to sit on the edge of my desk waiting for a dry day. Thinking about location reminds me of my location in this life. This earth, whether Scotland, Texas, or somewhere else, is not my home. I am passing through on my way to an eternity that knows no clouds, no rain, no darkness, no pain, sorrow, illness, suffering, death, or parting. To walk the skies with Jesus is a location that eclipses everything else including human words and ability to describe it.

“The city had no need of the sun or of the moon to shine in it, for the glory of God illuminated it…and the nations of those who are saved shall walk in its light…and there shall by no means enter it anything that defiles, or causes an abomination, or a lie, but only those who are written in the Lamb’s Book of Life.” Revelation 21:23-27.

Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update

Lost Hat

The hat in the photo belongs to my son Luke Parker, known in Marine Corps as Major Luke Parker. I bought it for him when he was eleven and we lived in the Great Basin Desert of northern Nevada—39 years ago. Some of my favorite photos are of him playing in the snow wearing that hat.

Since moving to Scotland fourteen years ago I have worn the blue wooly hat nearly every day—winter and summer, because compared to Texas—Scotland has no summer.

When I say I have worn the hat nearly every day, I should add…every day that it hasn’t been lost. I’ve lost count of the number of times the hat has been missing—sometimes for as long as a month at a time. God always brings it back.

Still, even though I’m wearing the hat now, it is a lost hat. Lost because the hat belongs to my son. He left it behind when he moved from our Texas address to his eternal address in heaven. The hat is lost to him. He is lost to the hat—and that’s the point of this blog.

No matter our age, we are all travelers. This earth is not our home. We are just passing through. No matter how many homes we own and how opulent they are; no matter how splendid the furnishings—some day they will be lost to us. They will join the ranks of lost along with Luke’s insignificant wooly hat.

“For we know that if this earthly house, this tent, is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens.” 2 Corinthians 5:1.

When God is in our lives nothing is ever lost.

Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update

White Van Danger

There is a problem with writing cozy murder mysteries. It can make a folk downright suspicious of everything from hang-up phone calls to white vans.

The other day, walking through a store parking lot, I started past an empty white panel van. At least it looked empty from the side closest to me—but the radio was blaring. I stopped. Imagination went into overdrive. Why the radio in an empty van? Had the driver kidnapped someone? Was there a captive in the back and the radio blared to cover an attempt by that person to summon help?

I approached the van cautiously from the passenger’s side. It still looked empty. I crept around the back to the driver’s side and came face-to-face with a startled man so skinny that he practically bled into the dark leather driver’s seat. He was startled. He jumped in his seat. I was startled. I jumped—sort of. The problem with skinny folk is that they can move faster than the more fleshy folk—like me. He rolled down the window and demanded, “What do you want?”

I was so startled that I blurted out the truth. “I was just checking to make sure there wasn’t a kidnap victim in your van.”

Now he was even more startled. In an attempt to pass off my bizarre statement as a joke, I laughed. After a moment, he chuckled. Rather a weak uncertain chortle which told me that the only thing he believed about me was that—I was a crazy person.

But before y’all judge me, I have a history with white vans. When son Luke was seven, I was 20 feet up in the air repainting a billboard on the outskirts of Reno, Nevada. Luke was riding his bike around the desert lot below the sign when a white panel van pulled off the road and parked on the shoulder. Two men got out of the van and approached Luke, one of them holding a candy bar out in front of him. “Hey, sonny—look what I’ve got for you.”

I didn’t climb down from the sign. I dropped off the ladder like a stone, a growl building in my throat like a momma grizzly bear protecting her cubs. When I hit the ground, blue enamel flew out of the can and covered my arm and the front of my blouse. Before I could attack the men with the paint brush and can of paint—a stray dog that had shown up at our house the day before and adopted Luke charged the men. They saw a crazy blue-painted lady coming at them with a paint brush and a dog coming at them with teeth and flying fur. They vaulted back into their white van and took off with squealing tires.

When Luke was twelve, he started home on his dirt bike from his friend’s house a mile away. A white panel van came up behind his bike so closely that the bumper nearly hit Luke’s bike. Luke leaped the berm at the edge of pavement and rode into the desert to safety.

Fast forward to my job on a weekly newspaper in Lovelock, Nevada. I was assigned to cover the trial of human monsters Gerald and Charlene Gallego who hunted and captured young girls to rape, torture, and kill. They slaughtered at least ten young girls. They hit one pregnant girl in the head with a shovel and buried her in the desert while she was still alive. She was pregnant.

The couple traveled the Nevada desert in a white panel van with their victims and a shovel. Charlene drove while Gerald brutalized the girls in the back of the van. After Gallego killed them—he handed Charlene the shovel and told her to bury them. Sometimes they merely discarded their victims on the side of the road.

Because California courts were attempting to set the killer couple free, Pershing County, Nevada, tried Gallego in Lovelock and sentenced him to death for the two girls he killed and buried in Pershing County.

 The point: don’t be quick to judge folks who seem eccentric, strange, or bizarre. They may have a reason for being weird. Or, they may be writers.

As with all things, the Bible sums it up best. When God directed the prophet Samuel to choose a king for Israel he said, “Do not look at his appearance, or at his physical stature…for the LORD does not see as a man sees; for man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.” 1 Samuel 16:7.

Meanwhile, for the foreseeable future—I’m avoiding white vans.

Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update