My Dog Has a Broken Gear

Since childhood I have loved collies. One thing I love about them is their graceful, effortless trot.

I have been blessed enough in life to have been owned by several collies: Esther, Abby, Scot. All of them have exhibited that lovely gait that no other dog can emulate. And then there’s Savannah.

Savannah has owned us since puppyhood. She does not trot. She plods. She gallops. The trot is missing.

Because she is a blue merle—meaning her coat is black and grey—and because she plods, people mistake her for an old dog. She is seven. She has been mistaken for an old dog for years.

My writing resembles Savannah’s plodding. Thankfully I now have 49 books published, but, oh, those early years. I have a folder of rejection slips I’ve saved—150 of them. I don’t know how many I threw away before I started saving them. One east coast publisher wrote me a kind rejection letter for my children’s book, “Hubert the Friendless Snake.” I inundated him with children’s book manuscripts, none of which have ever been published.

I decided the solution was to get a literary agent. I got one. A crook. He took $150 for zero efforts and results and refused to return it. I desperately wanted to show up on his doorstep and demand a refund. But the logistics and travel expense of reaching North Carolina from Texas ultimately defeated that idea of revenge. I’ve since discarded that manuscript.

Then there was the publishing company that did accept one of my children’s book manuscripts. It held it for more than a year before deciding that the market had changed and they couldn’t use it. I still have it—several versions of it along with some beautiful illustrations an artist in Nevada did for me.

Enter the publishing company that accepted the first two of my Miz Mike cozy mystery-romance books. I wrote a total of eight books for that series. The publishing company promised to release them six months apart to build the momentum and keep it going. They published the first one. Two years later I was still waiting for the second release. It was released, but when the publishing company went bankrupt, I took back my rights to both books. I rewrote the books, hired an illustrator to do new covers, and changed to self-publishing. All the rest of the eight Miz Mike books were released quickly. I changed the title of the second Miz Mike to “Dead Body in a Pickup Truck,” which was what I wanted to call it from the start. The publishing company had deemed that title unsuitable. Dead Body in a Pickup Truck now has 23 ratings on Amazon with a 4.5 average. It is dedicated to my late son, Marine Corps Major Luke Parker, and includes the prophetic poem he wrote a year before his plane crash.

Plodding. I do my best to encourage other writers who want to give up. Plodding is difficult, both in writing and in dog walking. Take walking Savannah. When she plods in front of me, I have a tendency to run over her because she’s so slow. When she walks behind me, I need to stop frequently to let her catch up. And her gallop? It is so unexpected that she snatches the leash handle right out of my hand.

If you are reading this and you are a plodding writer, don’t give up. Even plodding writers experience explosions of success and joy.

Collies are my favorite breed of dog—even when they are missing gear. My favorite Psalm is Psalm 27. Verse 14 encourages, “Wait! On the LORD; be of good courage and He shall strengthen your heart. Wait, I say, on the LORD!”

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A New Book for the New Year

God blessed me with an amazing and wonderful son, Luke, known by the Marine Corps as Major Luke Parker. Luke was everything in a son than any mother could ever imagine, yet, I always wanted more children.

I now have 49 kids. The second kid (book), “Dead Body in a Pickup Truck,” is dedicated to Luke and includes the prophetic poem he wrote a year before flying into the arms of Jesus when his plane fell out of the sky.

They can never replace Luke, but I am proud of all my kids. Still, I rarely dedicate a blog to them. “Hell to Hole Mystery” is different. For one thing, it uses the childhood sexual abuse that I suffered as background for the protagonist. For another thing—satan didn’t want this book published. I know that because problem after problem came against it, pushing the publication date ahead weeks at a time—a month in total by its publication today. If satan is against it—God is for it. There are only two gods in this world; the Lord God Who is all good and the Author of everything good, and satan who is all bad and the author of everything bad.

Like my other kids, “Hole to Hell Mystery” is a Christian cozy mystery. I would like to think that all my books are powerful and that readers leave the pages with more than what they brought into them. “Hole to Hell Mystery” is, however, more powerful and thought-provoking than my other cozy Christian mysteries. It is definitely different. My prayer is that it will enrich readers and bless them. That’s what I pray for all my kids, but even more for my newest one since God’s enemy fought so hard against its publication.

Thank you for loving my kids. May they always be welcome in your homes and lives. God bless.

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Dressing for Church

I dress up for church. I put on a clean pair of jeans. I put on an old green T-shirt that says, “God’s Got This.”It’s faded, but it’s clean. And this being perennial cold Scotland, I pull a clean hoodie or pullover over the T-shirt. I slip into my grey shoes. They are just like my everyday slip-on shoes—the same color—but they are newer. Then, the most important part of adorning myself.

I don’t wear makeup or adornments on the outside, but I dress up the inside. I snap on a genuine smile. I shovel out any negative thoughts and imaginations that have piled up during the week. I search my heart for any bad or wrong things banked inside me for which I have not sought God’s forgiveness. I ask God’s Holy Spirit to wash me inside and polish the lamp of God’s Word so it shines brightly with Jesus’ love and forgiveness.  Jesus, the Light of the World.

Still, there is one more important aspect of dressing for church. I thank God for everything, past, present—and future. Everything—even the bad and sad things that build my strength and endurance.

A final check in the mirror. The mirror of my soul. Is everything clean and bright and attractive? If I am to have any positive impact on others and be a winning witness for my Savior, I must mirror His beauty.

Off to church. I help with the children—thus the jeans. Some Sundays are chaotic. Some are messy. Some are challenging. They are all blessings. Children are a heritage from the Lord. I am mightily blessed to be entrusted with them on Sundays.

Sometimes I am weary when I get home. I want a nap. But there is a meal to fix, a dog to walk, an immobilized husband who needs constant care. So I go through the dressing up for church again and give thanks to God for everything as we are instructed in 1 Thessalonians 5:18, “In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”

Thanksgiving; the garment for everyday that never grows old or goes out of style.

“Oh come, let us sing to the LORD! Let us shout joyfully to the Rock of our salvation. Let us come before His presence with thanksgiving; let us shout joyfully to Him with thanksgiving…”Psalm 95:1.

With thankful hearts, we are always dressed right for church.

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Leftover Christmas Card

I was going to give him a Christmas card—but he died.

Eight years our neighbor, but he died three days before Christmas and his card sits on the shelf behind me.

Eight years our neighbor and I never really got to know him. And now I have a leftover Christmas card.

For the eight years he lived next to us I attempted to befriend him. I gave him a ticket for our church’s Christmas bouquet. I invited him to our church, and to special events. I bought treats and food for his dog. When he lost his car, I offered trips to the store. For eight years he rebuffed offers of help and friendship, and now his leftover Christmas card sits on the shelf behind me.

His death came as a shock. I thought I would have more time to cultivate friendship with our next door neighbor. I thought I would have more time to make a difference in his life.

Sometimes—there is no more time. Sometimes time runs out.

The leftover Christmas card reminds me to walk in the Biblical truth of Ephesians 5:15, “See then that you walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise, redeeming the time, because the days are evil.”

“Teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” Psalm 90:12.

Don’t leave any leftover Christmas cards sitting on your shelf.

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Christmas First

I’ve had a blog written to share for a couple of weeks. Ironically, it is about all the hindrances that have come against the publication of my new book—which still has not been released. But, that’s okay—because Christmas should come first.

The Christmas Story, as told in Luke, Chapter 2, is matchless.

And it came to pass in those days that a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed. So all went to be taxed, everyone to his own city. Joseph went up from Galilee to Bethlehem with Mary, his betrothed wife, who was great with child.

So it was that while they were there the days were completed for her to be delivered and she bought forth her firstborn Son and wrapped Him in swaddling cloths and laid Him in a manger because there was no room for them in the inn.

Now there were in the same country shepherds living out in the fields keeping watch over their flock by night. And behold, an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were greatly afraid.

Then the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign to you, you shall find a Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths lying in a manger.”

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, goodwill toward men!”

And no book, no blog, no surfeit of words that I can write could compete with that beautiful story. God came down to earth so we can go to heaven.

Merry Christmas. God bless all of y’all.

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When Tomorrow Comes

A woman who clawed her way to fame and fortune by becoming ‘the human Barbie Doll’ spent $42,000 on 27 plastic surgeries. She is dead at 31.

Global basketball icon Kobe Bryant died in a helicopter crash in 2020, at age 41.

TV icon Steve Irwin died in 2006, at 44, after he was stung by a stingray.

Princess Diana died in 1997, at age 36, in a vehicle crash.

Actor River Phoenix died in 1993, of a heroin overdose. He was 23.

Musician Kurt Cobain died in 1994, from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. He was 27.

They chased tomorrow. Tomorrow came. Youth, beauty, fame, riches—nothing kept them from death.

Nor will wisdom, education, and learning defeat death when tomorrow comes.

Karl Patterson Schmidt, 67, was a world renowned herpetologist. He had handled thousands of snakes over forty years and traveled around the world presenting lectures and identifying snakes. He excelled in wisdom, education and learning.

Schmidt was contacted in 1957, to identify a small, colorful snake that no one else could identify. When he saw it, Schmidt immediately knew what it was; a juvenile boomslang, deadly in adulthood but usually harmless as a juvenile. The snake’s fangs were located in the rear of its mouth and its mouth couldn’t open wide enough to inflict a bite on a person—so Schmidt calmly explained as he handled the venomous reptile. The snake bit Schmidt. Twenty-four hours later—he was dead.

The popular cliché “tomorrow never comes” is false. Tomorrow comes. So does death.

Nothing we can accomplish in this life on earth can stop tomorrow. Beauty will not paralyze it. Money will not purchase relief from it. Fame will not faze it. Knowledge, wisdom, and education will not outsmart it.

Our victory over tomorrow is to outlast it by living for God so that when tomorrow comes it brings the sweet victory and relief of heaven with it.

“And this is the testimony; that God has given us eternal life, and that life is in His Son Jesus. He who has Jesus has life; he who does not have the Son of God does not have life.” 1 John 5:11.

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Raincoats on Dogs

Growing up in rural Georgia in the 1960s, folks were too poor for a lot of things. I daresay that if any of us had seen a raincoat on a dog—we would have laughed. Where we lived, people could not afford raincoats even for themselves.

Many pet owners never took their animals to the vet. They couldn’t afford that either. Our 4-H Club sponsored a rabies clinic once a year so folks could get their animals vaccinated. For a lot of dogs it was the only time in their lives that they saw a vet.

It probably stems from the “Lassie” TV series we watched as kids, but I have a lifelong love for collies. As a child, the closest I ever came to owning a collie was a neighbor’s black and white border collie that kept following me home until the owners finally let me keep it.

Then there was Prince, a part-collie stray dog that showed up at our house and stayed. He saved my life when the Hester’s horned cow cornered me against the side of the barn and charged. Prince leaped between us with ferocious growls and frenzied barking and bit the cow on her nose.

Along with “Kicker,” the killer cow, the Hesters were given a gorgeous tri-colored collie. I was jealous. I had wanted a collie dog like “Big Boy” for as long as I could remember. Somehow, Big Boy got hit by a car. He survived, but with a limping gait and an ugly cut across the end of his nose. Big Boy wasn’t my dog, but I loved him. He was a collie. I knew he needed veterinary attention, but the Hesters didn’t have money for that. In fact, in all the years I knew them none of the Hesters went to a doctor either. Their solution for injured animals was to spit tobacco juice on the wound or cover it with purple horse liniment. I begged my parents to let me take Big Boy to the vet since the Hesters couldn’t afford it. But my parents couldn’t afford it either.

People wearing ruined blue jeans that they purchased that way new confounds me. In my 1960s rural Georgia, we wore jeans like that because we couldn’t afford anything else. We wore our clothes until the holes would no longer hold a patch. I often went to school wearing tennis shoes that were held together with the thick rubber bands off the Sunday newspaper. It wasn’t “cool” or fashionable to wear jeans with holes in them—we were embarrassed—but we wore them anyway because it was all we could afford.

How times change. Nowadays, folks choose to wear ruined clothes—and pay big bucks for them—and dogs wear raincoats.

It is comforting to know that not everything changes. “For I am the LORD, I do not change.” Malachi 3:6.

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Walk Quickly

Walk quickly past my window

Do not stop.

Walk quietly past my window

Do not make a sound.

I do not want to see you in your ruined clothes of ice and death.

I do not want to hear your shouts of anger and chaos.

Walk quickly, quietly past my window so I will not know

That winter is here again.

“To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1.

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Problems with Facebook

A lot of folks complain about Facebook. I never have. It’s free. Why should I complain about something when I’m not contributing to it?

I don’t know when it changed, because with writing new books and taking care of a husband who has blood cancer, Parkinson’s, and vascular dementia and is unable to weight-bear—plus walking a dog since we have no yard—I stay rather occupied. Sometimes it takes me several days to find enough free time to cut my fingernails.

The point is that I suddenly noticed that Facebook had changed my profile from author to “digital creator.” Now that is funny. Computers are as much of a mystery to me as math. What I know about computers is how to turn them on—and even that is iffy if it isn’t my computer—write a book, save it, and email it to my editor. I can even download the cover the illustrator sends me and send it to the editor. That’s all. I only visit internet sites if I am researching for a book. I don’t download anything on my 15-year-old laptop computer—which is running out of memory—and I don’t have a mobile phone, “smart,” or otherwise.

When I noticed the FB shift, I decided to rectify it immediately. Back to why it was so funny to designate me as a digital creator. I didn’t know how to change the change. Before I knew it, FB had changed it itself. It decided I was a government agency. With everything that is going on in the world at the moment, that’s not funny—it’s scary.

Changing it again was no easier than the first time because the computer program running Meta had no category for author. Authors must be an endangered species.

Now I finally have a working profile that fits me better—writer. I’ve dreamed of being an author all my life—at least from the time I was eight—so it seems a bit disappointing to settle for “writer” rather than “author”—but at least I’m not looking over my shoulder because I’m listed as a government agency—so I will return to not complaining about FB in spite of the seemingly random and unnecessary changes it makes constantly.

I have a new book coming out in a few weeks. A powerful, hard-hitting mystery that does not ignore the correlation between child abuse and crime. My FB label—writer or author—really doesn’t matter just so readers buy the book.

Labels change. People change their ideas about labels. One thing never changes. God. People give Him many labels, but He is the Lord God, Creator of the universe.

“He knows the way that I take; When He has tested me, I shall come forth as gold. He is unique, and who can make Him change?” Job 23:10 & 13.

No matter what label anyone or anything attaches to me, it can’t change what God created when He made me and called me to write books.

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

A Matter of Perspective

As a three-year-old, I made an amazing discovery. The old, worn, torn, smelly couch on the debris pile next to my house hid the most delicious, desirable treats; brightly colored orbs with chocolate inside. I didn’t know what chocolate was—I just knew I loved it. I didn’t know the name of the candies—M&Ms.

An adult would have been scandalized to see me digging the candy out of a couch on a trash pile and eating it. They would have screamed words at me that I wouldn’t have understood—nasty, germs, bacteria. To me the candies were delicious and delightful. A matter of perspective.

I worked at a Christian preschool with a woman named Norma. Norma was just over six-feet tall and weighed close to four-hundred pounds. Her daughter, 12, nearly hit the six-foot mark and weighed close to two-hundred pounds. Norma drove a little Ford Courier pickup truck. One day Norma pulled into the parking lot and the tire on the driver’s side exploded. Instead of being embarrassed by his severely overweight wife and daughter, Norma’s husband laughed gleefully. “Look at that!” he exclaimed. “My wife and my daughter just popped a tire.” A matter of perspective.

When son Luke was eleven and we lived in the Nevada desert, I sat on the kitchen floor crying on Thanksgiving Day. People all around the country would celebrate the special holiday with turkey and all the trimmings. Thanksgiving was the only meal that Luke—a picky eater—really liked. He loved it. But as a single parent—I had no money for a Thanksgiving meal. We would have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

There was a knock on the door. Our next door neighbor, a woman in her eighties, invited us to share Thanksgiving Dinner with her family. I was ecstatic. So was Luke.

Luke and I helped Mrs. Merca set the table and put the finishing touches on the feast. Enter her family; parents swigging cans of beer and toting 12-packs because Mrs. Merca didn’t drink; their son and daughter with wildly colored hair and metal junk sticking out of unrealistic places. This was nearly 40 years ago. I had never seen “body jewelry” before. The boy had a row of safety pins in both ear lobes. Luke couldn’t quit staring at him.

However, it wasn’t the outward appearance of Mrs. Merca’s family that was so shattering—it was their actions and attitudes. They barely bothered to greet their mother/grandmother. They piled onto the couch and turned on a football game. No effort or offer to help the 85-year-old carry heavy dishes to the table. And when the food was on the table, they converged on it like starving wildlife—no prayer, no mention of things for which to be thankful. They filled their plates, and plopped back down on the couch to watch the ballgame leaving Mrs. Merca at the table with Luke and me.

When we got home after helping clean up after the meal, Luke was sad and pensive. I asked what was wrong. “Well, Mom. It was nice for Mrs. Merca to invite us to Thanksgiving and everything, but I wish we had stayed home and had our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches so we could have prayed and thanked God.” A matter of perspective.

“Make a joyful shout to the LORD…Serve the LORD with gladness; come before His presence with singing. Know that the LORD, He is God; it is He who made us, and not we ourselves; we are His people and the sheep of His pasture. Come into His gates with thanksgiving, and into His courts with praise.” Psalm 100.

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