When a Blessing Isn’t

At times a Bible verse perplexes me—sometimes even for years—until the Lord gives me understanding. For instance, Proverbs 27:14. “He who blesses his friend with a loud voice, rising early in the morning, it will be counted a curse to him.”

Isn’t a blessing always a good thing, I wondered.

The same with Proverbs 25:17, “Seldom set foot in your neighbor’s house, lest he become weary of you and hate you.”

Surely friends are always glad to see one another. Human wisdom, not God’s wisdom.

A recent experience taught me that blessings are not always blessings. A couple of days after Jesus took Alan home with him, a Facebook friend from another country sent me an email that she was going to send me an Amazon gift card—a small amount—that I could use to help with expenses. That was extremely kind, especially since I had never met her. I thanked her, but told her not to send anything. She insisted she was sending it regardless.

My computer is fifteen years old and I’m ashamed to say that I really don’t know anything about it or computers in general. I admit to mental laziness. If I think I don’t need to know something, I don’t burden myself with attempting to learn it. I know how to write books; save them; email them to the editor, even attach cover illustrations. But I don’t surf the internet, I don’t open unfamiliar links…I just write.

I had never heard of Amazon gift cards and had no idea of what one was, what it looked like, or what to do with it. Then I got several emails over the next few days complaining that the gift card wouldn’t go through. I thanked her and explained—again—that her friendship was important, not anything she sent. She said she would send it through Paypal. More emails. Had I received it? She had sent it. Why hadn’t I thanked her? Was there something wrong with my Paypal? Could I check it and make sure it was working? Could I set up a new Paypal for her?

Alan went to Heaven and left me behind with a slew of unexpected red tape to slice through and so many hoops to jump through that I grew weary attempting to do everything and get it right. Plus the additional burden of making a decision about rough collie Savannah—take her with me when I go back to the U.S., or re-home her? That meant researching travel expenses and regulations. Add to that the near daily emails about why I didn’t receive her gift.

That’s when I finally remembered the Bible verse that had perplexed me: “He who blesses his friend with a loud voice, rising early in the morning, it will be counted a curse to him.” The anticipated blessing—wasn’t.

Oh, but that’s not the end of the story. When the money was finally sent back to her by Paypal because I had “never accepted it,” it turned out that she had used the wrong email address even though she assured me all along that she had used the right one. No apology for the drama. She said she would send a check.

Groan. Our bank left our little village a long time ago. There is no way to cash or use a check here—even a small amount. It requires driving to the passenger ferry, purchasing a ticket and return ticket, taking a taxi to the nearest bank—which is NOT in the same town where the ferry docks—and then, me being me, getting lost attempting to find another taxi to get back to the ferry from the bank (I don’t have a mobile phone). It takes more than half a day to complete—longer depending on how long I stay lost.

I love my Bible. I read it cover to cover. I believe it cover to cover. And now just one more example of how I know that I can trust God’s wisdom over my human wisdom.

Sometimes, a blessing isn’t.

It will take practically the entire amount of the check to finance getting it to the bank. There might be enough left over for lunch—but I will be wandering around lost at lunchtime.

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My Dog Has Trust Issues

It is disappoints me that my rough collie Savannah has trust issues. I’ve given her nothing other than love and the best possible care I can since puppyhood.

Okay, I admit—the drop foot is a problem for both of us. Drop foot is interwoven into the plot of my Christian cozy mystery, “Hole to Hell Mystery” https://www.amazon.com/Hole-Mystery-Stephanie-Parker-McKean-ebook/dp/B0GDG6T6GS . The condition causes me to fall when the foot I lift up when I’m walking falls down on its own accord. When Savannah walks in front of me she casts frequent sideways glances behind her to make sure that I am still there—and that I’m not about to fall. When she hears my shoe scuff—she runs far enough ahead that I won’t land on her if I fall.

The part about the trust issue that I don’t understand, however, involves the vet’s office. She loves going to the vet. We walk past it nearly every morning and she always goes in to say “howdy” to the folks there. Recently, they have started giving her treats—which has increased her keenness to visit. Our vet’s office is closed on Saturday.

When we walk past the vet’s office on Saturday, Savannah is determined to visit. I explain to her—every Saturday—that it is Saturday and that they are not open on Saturdays. She doesn’t believe me. She will stand at the gate waiting for it to magically open until I shake it and prove to her that it is locked. Then she walks around to the other side and we repeat the performance. “Savannah, the vet’s office isn’t open on Saturday. It’s closed. No one is there.” And, again, she doesn’t believe me and waits for me to shake the gate and prove to her that it’s locked.

She’s an extremely intelligent dog—as most collies are—and it bothers me that she doesn’t trust me to tell the truth. I make an attempt to reel memories through my head and stop the reel at an explanation. The only one I’ve found is that occasionally—and only occasionally—I will tell her, “no treats until you eat your food,” and then I relent and give her a few more chicken strips because it’s bedtime and she hasn’t eaten anything and I hate letting her go to bed on an empty stomach. She has chronic pancreatitis. When her tummy hurts she simply won’t eat. Not anything. Therefore, it is an every-single-day battle to get her to eat even with the medication I give her. So when she eats the food in her dish she is rewarded with hugs, pats, praise—and treats.

Finally, another explanation filtered through my mind. Perhaps she doesn’t have trust issues—perhaps she has incredible faith. Didn’t Jesus say in the Bible that if we have faith the size of a mustard seed we can say to the mountain, “move,” and it will be moved and cast into the sea? (He did.) Through prayer, Jesus has moved many seemingly impossible circumstances and difficulties out of my life and put me on the road to victory. Perhaps Savannah believes that if she stands at the gate and waits long enough—someone will open it for her.

Or, perhaps Savannah is a positive thinker. Christian evangelist and author Nick Vujicic was born with no arms and legs. He travels the world speaking positive encouragement to millions of people. He is married with four children.

Martin Luther King Jr.’s unwavering optimism brought his dream of equality for all people to the forefront and brought about great and positive changes that continue to mushroom and encourage others to share the dream and reach for it.

Helen Keller was deaf and blind. Her remarkable accomplishments continue to inspire millions.

Pastor Joel Osteen’s mother Dodie, who recently died at 91, survived for more than 41 years after being diagnosed with terminal Stage 4 liver cancer. God healed her, but she fought against the killer disease with unwavering prayer and positive thinking—declaring herself healed even when she was so close to death that she could feel it reaching out to touch her.

Perhaps I should let this trust issue go and comfort myself with the fact that my intelligent dog has remarkable faith and/or is a positive thinker.

Proverbs 23:7 says, “As a person thinks in their heart, so are they.”

So we will continue to stand there in front of the gate every Saturday waiting for it to open. And someday—maybe it will.

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Poetry Lost?

My brilliant sister Leslie Garcia has always been a great poet. Here’s a link to her poetry book, “Always the Moon,” which has a perfect 5-Star rating; https://www.amazon.com/Always-Moon-Leslie-P-Garcia-ebook/dp/B0196OK5AK/ref=sr_1_14 .

Because I have now written 51 Christian Cozy Mysteries (number 51 will be released soon), people often ask me if I write poetry. I did write poetry once. While I was still in school I used to carry a folder around with me that contained all my poems. They were typed on a manual “Royal” typewriter that had such stiff keys that typing on it strained my fingers. Over the years I’ve lost the poems—but I retain the memory of sore fingers!

While I was sorting through paperwork preparing for Alan’s memorial service, I found two poems I had written for him in 2010. I probably haven’t written poetry since then. I share them in memory of my late husband, Alan Thomson McKean.

The Grand Prize

I’ve never found a treasure chest at the bottom of the sea,

Never found a pot of gold at the rainbow’s end—

Yet with your love, I’m richer in the end.

I’ve never won a contest or claimed the grand prize,

Never been the best at anything I’ve tried.

I’ve never won a million dollars or a fancy new car—

Yet with your love, I’m richer by far.

Give someone else the millions, the car, the grand prize—

All I want in life is the love reflected in your eyes.

Let someone else follow the rainbows, find gold and stake a claim—

Your love is more precious than riches or fame.

What I See in You

What do I see in you?

I see all the wonder of the world in the framework of the person God created in you.

You are apple blossoms going from spring promise to autumn fulfillment.

You are the crystal rushing waters of a mountain spring feeding a thirsty river. You are a gold nugget nestled in a gold-flecked sandbar with mindless green and blue-spangled waters splashing patterns over your bed—yet the shadows of the water cannot hide your shine.

You are a cloudless blue sky. You are the warm wonder of the sun. You are a storm cloud sweeping over the face of the mountain to feed the grassy meadows and rioting wildflowers with gentle rain.

There is moonlight in your eyes, the soft touch of love in your smile. You are a walking poem, a love song, a living, walking promise of joy and happiness.

You are my life.

Poems end. Life continues in a different pattern. As long as God is in it, nothing is ever truly lost. Everything we see—or write—is temporal, even poetry. God alone is eternal.

“For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal. 2 Corinthians 4:18

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From Messed to Blessed

Walking past the corner where blackberries grow I glanced at them and stopped in surprise. They were a mess. They looked terrible—all the lovely white flowers gone. Merely tangled green vegetation left.

Messed to Blessed. Because soon the tiny green mangled mess will turn into red, then black juicy berries.

Isn’t that the same with our lives?

My childhood was a mess. I was a mess. Sexual abuse messed me up so badly that I felt alone, lonely, dirty—and unable to make friends. And I failed math.

My teen years were a mess. I was a mess. Continued sexual abuse. The perpetrator had no medical training. He performed two abortions on me to hide his crime. The abortions sent me to the hospital in intensive care. I nearly died both times. And I failed math.

College was a mess. I was a mess. I discovered I wasn’t really an artist. I was majoring in art. I quit college before I failed math.

My first marriage was a mess. Marrying an abusive alcoholic to get away from home. I married the first guy who asked me for a date. He was twice divorced and had been in prison for Driving While Intoxicated.

Messed up. Bad decisions. Lots of messes. But, oh, the blessings. The biggest blessing in my life—meeting Jesus and discovering that Jesus loved me—even me—even in spite of my messes and being messed up. Learning that I had value as a friend. Learning that I didn’t need to pass math to do life right or to get into heaven.

Second biggest blessing in my life—having a son. A son like Luke (later U.S. Marine Corps Major Luke Parker). A son who kept me smiling, kept me laughing, kept me learning; a son who made me proud every day of his life. Saying goodbye to him was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in life. Returning my biggest blessing to God who gave it.

Fifty blessings in the form of the books I’ve written—most of them Christian Cozy Mysteries. Books written to bless others. Books woven out of the messes and blessings in my life.

May everyone reading this be blessed in spite of the messes. May each mess turn into a blessing.

“For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand that we should walk in them.” Ephesians 2:10

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A Calamity of Errors

The eight-book series featuring Texas Miz Mike was a blast to write—partly because Miz Mike was an adventure-seeking klutz. My protagonist did the ridiculous things I do: shut my nose in the refrigerator; trip over the dog bed and break a toe; lean over to find the seatbelt clasp because it’s fallen to the bottom of the car and tumble out into the parking lot; open the car trunk only partially to keep the pouring rain out and straighten up under the trunk latch, and etc., etc., etc.

A calamity of errors can be funny. The 1953 Technicolor Western musical featuring Doris Day is proof of that. Highly recommended for anyone who hasn’t seen it.

My newest book, “Body in a Bush Murder” features a different brand of calamity of errors. The protagonist moves to Scotland from Georgia, and hates it because of the cool, rainy climate, and nearly constant rain. The differences between driving in the U.S. versus Scotland; the differences in food, language and the pronunciation and spelling of words, and the difference in accommodations—after the chaotic life she left behind her in the U.S. and then finding a child’s skeleton in her garden—who could blame Skye for finding solace in alcohol?

Attractive neighbor Gareth blames her. He not only encourages her to quit drinking before she can’t, but then adds to her stress by bringing her a “baby” Great Dane dog—a baby who weighs 155 pounds and loves to fly.

Errors continue to build as Skye searches for the identity of the child killer and seeks to make peace with her new country. And new love? Except Gareth hates alcohol and—to use a great Scottish word—is “scunnered” by Skye’s drinking. Skye refuses to acknowledge that she has a drinking problem. She can control it, can’t she? In spite of Gareth’s assistance that making friends with alcohol is like keeping a pet rattlesnake in a box and trusting it not to bite.

While Skye’s continued drinking push them apart, their search for the child’s killer brings them together.

Body in the Bush Murder – Kindle edition by McKean, Stephanie Parker, Potter, Victoria M. Mystery, Thriller & Suspense Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

The Teenager in Our House

We never planned to take a teen into our house at our ages—mid-seventies. Alan is preparing to leave this earth for heaven, and all I want to do is…write books.

Still, we have a teen in our house and it’s my fault. I love children, I really do. Even teens. And I love rough collies and always have since childhood, a love that probably sprang from “Lassie” films.

What I forgot when we introduced rough collie Savannah into our home and heart is that to successfully train a dog—one must be smarter than the dog. That gets me every time with every collie. Training is completed—in me. I become well-trained. The collie…not so much.

What happened with Savannah this morning made me recognize the teen status of our dog. She reminds me of a foster child I once took into our home. Terri was stubborn and determined. When she came out of the bedroom dressed for school in a mini-skirt that a friend loaned her, I made her change. Her tears and protests rode with us all the way from our house to the school. Thus I was suspicious the next day when she meekly donned the knee-length skirt I had purchased for her. When I visited the school later in the day for an appointment with one of Terri’s teachers I saw why Terri hadn’t protested. She breezed into the office with her skirt rolled up at the top displaying her legs all the way up to her butt. Terri was good at circumventing the rules. So is Savannah.

Savannah loves our veterinary clinic. She loves the staff. She seems to believe that they are there solely for her. When she plans the schedule for the day it begins with a walk to the vet clinic to visit her friends. Once when Savannah needed treatment as a puppy, the clinic’s owner told me, “Your dog is stubborn. I’ve never seen a more stubborn dog.” Savannah apparently failed to be offended by the criticism

The vet’s office is enclosed in a fence with two gates at opposite ends. When the office is closed over the weekend, Savannah insists on trying both gates even after I explain to her that it’s closed. When I say, “Savannah, we’re not going to the vet clinic today, it’s closed,” Savannah will lead me around the grocery store to approach the vet clinic from the back. She refuses to continue her walk until she has checked both gates.

This morning I was in a hurry to get back home. I had people to meet and things to do. I parked at a different store, one further away from the vet’s clinic, and told Savannah we weren’t going there. We weren’t—but Savannah was. She tried leading me along the shortest route to the clinic. I stopped her. She tugged on the leash, whined, and complained, but she finally complied with my demand. At least, I thought she complied.

Then she led me eagerly toward the curved bridge over the burn (Scottish for little stream). There is a nice patch of grass on the other side that she loves to sniff. After we crossed it, however, I realized that her destination was not the grass patch—it was the loop around to the vet’s office on the back side. When I pulled her back this time, she sat down and turned such a pathetic look on me that I could see the conversation bubbles over her head. “Mom, I have to go see my friends. They’re waiting for me. I can’t disappoint them. They’re my friends, Mom. You have to let me go see my friends. All the other dogs are going.”

At that point, it might as well have been Terri in her mini-skirt with tears in her eyes saying, “Mom, let me wear this skirt. All my friends wear short skirts like this.
They will be disappointed, Mom. I can’t let them down.”

And that’s when I realized…we have a teen in the house.

“These words you shall teach diligently to your children.” Deuteronomy 6:6.

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CRAMP!

Because I was a strong swimmer as a child I was always amazed when I heard someone say, “The swimmer got a cramp and drowned.”

Without realizing it, and without intention, I would judge the person who had a cramp and drowned. Really? How could a little old cramp drown someone?

Then I got a CRAMP! No “little old” cramp. A nighttime throw-you-out-of-bed to the floor, roll you around in agony—a cramp that made me shout and rendered me totally unable to stand, walk, or limp—and a cramp that wouldn’t release. Frequent cramps that started after my hip replacement and the resultant three-month hospital stay when it became infected. I wrote and published two books during the three months which was good, but I came home with a tendency to get CRAMPS.

The difficult part of living with a hip injury or a worn out hip is that the hip controls every part of the body by its placement. Sitting, you sit on the hip. Standing puts pressure on the hip. Walking depends on the hip and becomes nearly impossible. Even prone on the bed puts stress on the hip. So, I am thankful daily for the hip surgery that restored my mobility—but I became frightened to go to bed at night and allow a cramp to wake me up and throw me to the floor.

To the rescue—my sister, the editor of my books, and my not-a-doctor sister Vicky who is my medical go-to. She told me blood pressure medicine robs the body of potassium and recommended taking a potassium supplement. Thank you, Vicky. Good riddance to CRAMPS…mostly.

Now that they are less severe I can be thankful for the occasional return of a cramp because it reminds me… Not. To. Judge. The last several of my soon-to-be 50 books contain a non-judgmental theme. I remember me as a child scoffing about reported drowning from a cramp because I thought that if someone was a good swimmer they couldn’t possibly drown from a cramp. What unkind thinking. Shame on me. I image that if I were out in the ocean and got one of the cramps I’ve been experiencing since my hip replacement I would thrash so wildly that I would attract a shark or other hungry predator.

Overt judgments are easy to recognize; a person’s size, color, dress, language, ethnicity, customs, body adornments. We can police ourselves and avoid those. But human judgment is a slithery, elusive critter. What about judging someone’s work ethics, health, personal choices, or finances? “Surely they aren’t that poor.” “Her headache can’t be that bad.” “I’ve seen hound dogs under porches that have more energy than that.” “My mother wouldn’t let me out of the house wearing that.”

It’s human nature to judge others, perhaps because if they miss the mark we think they should hit it makes us feel more powerful and successful. Recognizing this human tendency, God filled the Bible with verses warning us not to judge others. Jesus Himself said, “Judge not, that you be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you.” Matthew 7:1.

“For in whatever you judge another you condemn yourself.” Romans 2:1

Not everyone who judges others will experience CRAMPS…but why take a chance?

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Toss the Cheetos

My mother was a stickler for purchasing only what was needed for cooking healthy meals. Her idea of a snack was fruit. On rare occasions, she would bring out non-chocolate, non-sugary treats like vanilla wafers or graham crackers, neither of which aroused my taste buds. But, oh, the next-door neighbor’s kids…

The next-door neighbor’s kids had Cheetos. Our yard was separated from theirs by a chain link fence, and they were kind enough to share Cheetos through the links. We were too young to walk to the neighborhood grocery store by ourselves, but we walked with Mom. I was four, my sister Leslie was two, and my brother Greg hadn’t arrived yet.

I couldn’t read and I didn’t know the name of those magical long, crunchy cheese treats that the neighbors shared—but I recognized the bag. I begged Mom to buy them for us, but she refused, so when her back was turned, I snatched a bag and hid it under my coat. Let me tell you—you don’t have to be an adult in love to have a pounding heart. My heart boomed like a loose exhaust system on a souped-up race car. I was scared to the point of shakiness on the walk home thinking that my mother would hear my heart and realize what I had done. I skipped ahead of her all the way home.

Once home, I hid in the closet to eat my heavenly snack. Either my generosity or my fear gave me away. Leslie found me in the closet with the Cheetos and wanted some. I can’t remember if I gave her some to be nice—or if I gave them to her so she wouldn’t tattle. The outcome was the same. She ran to Mom and showed her the Cheetos.

The Cheetos were confiscated. I got spanked and sent to bed without supper. The worst part of the punishment was what happened the next day. Mom marched me back to the store to confess to the shopkeeper and pay for the Cheetos.

I’m sure some who experienced a similar episode in their childhoods would never want to eat the offending food again—but not me. I still love Cheetos. Here in our part of Scotland I’ve discovered the UK version of Cheetos—and these with the added attraction of “spicy.” Considering that Bandera, Texas, home of my heart is a place with Mexican food restaurants and cowboys cooking breakfast tacos over an open fire in front of the courthouse on Main Street—spicy Cheetos want-to-bes captured me. Two problems. I can eat the entire bag in one day. I haven’t dared to look at the calorie count—but common sense says that eating an entire bag of “junk food” in one day is not good. And, when I was in the hospital for three months after a hip replacement that became infected and was on drip antibiotics that entire time, I developed diabetes. Never having had a problem with eating any food or dessert and in any quantity before in my life, this illness has taken some stringent self-training to control. After consuming a bag of the want-to-bes in one day, I tested my blood sugar and found that it was up.

As a general rule, I never throw away food. We didn’t get to pick and choose what we wanted to eat when we were kids. We ate whatever was served or went hungry. We sat at the table until we cleaned our plates. I don’t think food from our table ever found its way into a bin. Once in a while one of the Great Dane dogs might have rated a treat—but even that was rare.

When Alan and I first got married, I think he was a bit shocked. If he left something on his plate—I ate it. I did not throw out food. I still don’t. However, I broke that rule yesterday and threw out a bag of want-to-bes that was not completely empty. I tested and found my blood sugar up. The cheesy dream snack had to go. I wasn’t tossing food—I was tossing temptation.

“God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will also make the way of escape, that you may be able to bear it.” 1 Corinthians 10:13.

Tossing the bag of Cheetos was my escape. If only other temptations were that easy to toss.

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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.

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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.

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