Achilles, the greatest of the Greek warriors in mythology and the hero of the Trojan War was defeated by a weakness in his heel. The term “Achilles heel” is used even today to refer to an otherwise strong person’s weakness.
Scots can be thankful that midges have an Achilles heel. Midges are small, nearly invisible flying insects that bite and irritate people and animals. Irritate relentlessly. They fall in blinding clouds making life a misery. It is impossible to have a friendly blether (chat) with friends and neighbors on summer walks—because if one stands still—the horrible biting creatures descend. They get everywhere—even under woolly hats and up sleeves.
Thankfully, midges have am Achilles heel. They can be outdistanced if one walks quickly enough. They fly slowly. This gave me the idea of marketing midges. Just think: if midges can be caught, stored in boxes, and exported to other countries to stop political unrest—everyone wins. Open up the boxes, release the midges and the midge-miserable dissenters flee. This won’t restrict freedom of speech, but it will disperse fractious crowds. Meanwhile, capturing and shipping midges will build a new industry giving Scotland a venue for employment. It will boost the Scottish economy.
God looked down on His creation and proclaimed everything He made was good. Therefore, I think that scorpions, fire ants, and midges must have been introduced by God’s enemy. Satan must have emptied out some of the ugly, hurtful creatures from hell on earth in defiance after God threw him out of heaven for his treachery and rebellion. But whatever the devil does to make our lives miserable on a daily basis—God can take the worst and turn it around to use for our good.
Marketing midges could bring peace to protests by sending protestors fleeing from their obdurate stands to get away from the tiny tormentors.
If God’s promise from the Bible is true—and I know it is—“All things work together for good to those who love the Lord,” why shouldn’t the scourge of Scottish midges be turned into something profitable and good?
Because I used to consider myself an artist—before I realized that I was a “copyist,” not an artist—and because I’ve spent most of my adult life painting signs, I have a highly developed sense of colors.
For years I’ve been flummoxed by folks who call orange “yellow” or green “blue.” And how can anyone survey rows of lavender flowers and call them “blue,” instead of purple? Fortunately, I am learning. I am slowly realizing that I have no right to assign to others the task of seeing colors the same way I do. God created them. He created their eyes. Their cones—the part of our eyes that sees color—may be different than mine. My task is to allow them their sight.
With my husband hospitalized, my brother-in-law and I have been spending a large amount of time together. No matter what our conversation, he responds, “Oh, I see.” But clearly—he doesn’t. At least, he doesn’t see the way I see because he misses the point I was attempting to make entirely and draws a totally different conclusion. At first it irritated me because I was endeavoring to explain things so clearly and concisely, and he would respond, “Oh, I see,” and trot out an entirely different scenario.
I am gradually learning to allow him his sight. His life experiences have colored his understanding a different color than my life experiences have colored my understanding.
Some things are without question right and some things are without question wrong. These things are worth fighting for or against and upholding as a standard. God wants that. But God has no interest in which hue on the color chart becomes orange instead of yellow, or green instead of blue. He created all colors.
God created us and gave us free choice. If God allows us to experience life through the color chart that He assigns for us—why should we expect others to walk in our chart instead of the one that God destined for them?
Our task is to allow others their sight.
“For we walk by faith, not by sight.” 2 Corinthians 5:7
I don’t think a single day passes that I don’t say at some point in the day, “I am blessed.”
When I share a Facebook post of someone rescuing a skunk and adding it to their family, I say to myself, “I am blessed that we had a skunk when we were kids.”
When a picture of Scotland’s Loch Ness pops up on the TV along with a report about searching for the Loch Ness Monster, I say to myself, “I am blessed that I’ve been to Loch Ness and searched for Nessie.”
When I walk Savannah and see a lovely flower, I say to myself, “I am blessed to have seen this flower today.”
God has poured out blessings into my life. He began pouring out blessings into my life even before I knew Him. He put me in places and engineered experiences in my life that infuse themselves into the cozy mysteries I write.
I am blessed to have lived in Georgia, Alabama, Texas, Nevada, California, Idaho, and Scotland. I have walked to the end a Scottish road to take photos of leaping dolphins. I have explored the Great Basin Desert in Nevada and watched a mountain lion melt off a rock along the trail. I have panned and prospected for gold in California and Nevada. I know how to pan for gold in rivers and how to operate a wet washer and a dry washer on land.
I am blessed to have poured concrete slabs, built rock flowerbeds, rocked the sides of a house and garden center—and been hired as a landscaper for other jobs. I am blessed that I learned to touch type. I am blessed to have worked as a staff writer for newspapers and have met extraordinary and interesting people—including the governor of Texas who later became President.
I am blessed to have caught and released snakes and horned toads and rescued wildlife. When I see news about a wild raven that has adopted a person—I remember my son Luke rescuing and raising ravens in the Nevada desert including Rap who lived in our house with us, a cat and a dog, and integrated himself into the family. I remember Rap flying along behind Luke when Luke rode his bicycle or four-wheeler, riding on our shoulders when we took a walk, and chasing away any perceived “enemy” threat approaching our house. I am blessed.
I am blessed to have watched a Gila monster, picked olives, walked through citrus fruit orchards, learned to drive in snow, been caught in a tumbleweed circus in the desert, watched porcupines and coyotes trail through my yard, explored ghost towns, ridden horses, had a fox and a raccoon as pets, smelled out possums in the Georgia woods, and to have been raised with completely awesome sisters and brothers: Leslie, Gregory, Vicky, Jerry, Jeff, and Chris.
I am blessed that my grandmother taught me to make hot chocolate and yeast rolls from scratch and how to make gravy.
I am blessed that I survived the bad, painful, and horrific events in my life: constant rape and sexual abuse as a child; a horse kick in the face; getting impregnated twice by the abuser and having two backwoods abortions—nearly bleeding to death followed by hospitalization; an African lion bite on my stomach; a venomous water moccasin bite on my hand and a trip to the hospital in a taxi from another town because Grandmother was having a feud with the local taxi company; marrying a mentally unstable alcoholic to get away from home; contemplating suicide following the unfaithfulness of said alcoholic husband; nursing terminally ill husband number two through cancer and staying at his side until he left for heaven; back surgery, knee surgery, hip surgery followed by an infection which kept me in the hospital for three months and caused diabetes from the constant antibiotic drip; being the sole caregiver of husband number three who has cancer and Parkinson’s Disease…and the most painful experience of all, losing son Luke in a plane crash when he was only 49. I am blessed to have survived, to be able to encourage others, and to be able to dip into life experiences and splash them into the 48 Christian cozy mysteries which I’ve written. (Only 46 available at the moment.)
I am blessed to have lived under a bridge in the back of a pickup truck. I am blessed to have lived in an open-ended garden center with no running water and to have been gifted hay bales to stack up in the winter to cut off the wind and block the cold. I am blessed to have watched baby birds hatch from overhead hanging baskets in the garden center and have them flutter into my lap while I sat quietly in a chair.
I am blessed. Every flower that I see, every bird that I hear, every new place I visit makes me realize how blessed I am.
The greatest sorrow of my life: losing Luke and living so far away from granddaughter Dulcinea.
The greatest blessing of my life: discovering that God is real and that He loves me.
“You will keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on You.” Isaiah 26:2
One of my earliest memories is playing around a garbage heap outside our house in Kansas City, Missouri, where my sister (and brilliant author) Leslie P. Garcia was born. Since Leslie was just a baby, I must have been around two-and-a-half at the time. I discovered a delicious mystery—an old piece of furniture that hid colorful delights.
These amazing brightly colored sweet things had a brown center. I didn’t know at the time that the center was called chocolate. I couldn’t read the letter on the brightly colored shell—I wasn’t even three yet. I found these things stuck in the sofa that was sitting on the pile of trash waiting for removal. Day after day, I rushed outside to play as quickly as possible in the morning. While Mom looked after my baby sister, I explored that old couch searching for remaining mystery treats in the crevasses and eating them with relish.
Mom didn’t have a sweet tooth. To her, children ate fruit—not candy or cookies. She never bought candy. When she bought cookies they were vanilla wafers or graham crackers. Mom didn’t like chocolate, so they were never chocolate.
When the trash heap—including the sofa—was scooped up and taken away, I was inconsolable and Mom couldn’t understand why. “But why should you be upset about them taking away that old couch?” she scolded. “I told you to stay away from that rubbish heap and to quit playing on broken furniture.”
Memories are strange critters. Often, an image of that old brown couch with its hidden candy stash creeps into my mind and I can even smell that garbage pile smell of rotten oranges. Without realizing it, that memory must have been partly responsible for the main character in my first book, “Bridge to Nowhere.” Texas Miz Mike plays a secret M&M game where she separates Mike and Marty M&Ms out of the bowl she keeps on her office desk, and in idle moments—she marches them down the church aisle to get married.
“Bridge to Nowhere” now has 36 ratings and an average of 4.3. One of its first reviewers enjoyed the book so much that she sent a box of chocolate—including M&Ms—to me at Christmas.
The success of Bridge to Nowhere galvanized my writing. I now have 46 published titles, one at the editor’s waiting for final approval, and another that is nearly finished. And to think that hidden mystery candy in the crevasses of an old sofa may have ignited the process.
There is another reason the memory of those stashed M&Ms tickles my memory. The sofa was on a trash heap. It was old, dirty, and smelly. Yet I dug the candy out of it and ate it because I didn’t know any better. I didn’t know about germs. I didn’t know that what I was doing could hurt me. The candy was delicious, so I ate it.
Whenever I see another person doing something wrong or foolish—I remember the candy I ate because I didn’t know any better. Sometimes folks don’t want to follow after sin or foolishness—they just don’t know any better, and what they are doing is delicious. They don’t need judgment. They need grace. They need love and a good example. At some point and time in our lives we have all been untaught.
“The excellence of knowledge is that wisdom gives life to those who have it.” Ecclesiastes 7:12.
When I was a kid in school, the ultimate insult was to call someone a “bird brain.” Thankfully, I made it through school before the “F” word hit. I was in junior high school before I ever heard it. I went home and asked my mother what it meant.
Birds are admirable. When my son Luke and I lived in the Great Basin Desert in Nevada, we rescued a baby raven. Luke named it “Rap.” Rap followed Luke and our dog when Luke rode his bicycle or 4-wheeler. Rap chased strangers away from our house. We lived on an alfalfa farm. Rap flew into the barn everyday at noon and walked up and down the long table accepting offerings from farm workers who met to eat their lunches. When Luke’s stepfather worked on the truck, Rap brought him tools—but we soon learned that if he wasn’t watched—Rap would fly off with any tool he fancied. Also in the desert, Luke and I watched ravens drop rocks on marauders to protect their nests.
Striated herons in Asia catch fish by floating bait to lure them close enough to strike. The woodpecker finch from the Galapagos Island extracts insect larvae from tree crevices with a thorn. Egyptian vultures use stones to crack large eggs. Here in Dunoon, Scotland, seagulls drop shells down onto pavement to crack them open so they can extract the residents. Breakfast served.
Jesus said not even a sparrow drops to the ground without God knowing and caring. In Jesus’ day, birds were used as currency.
Old miners on the edge of the desert in Unionville, Nevada, keep magpies as pets and teach them to talk. My grandmother had a parrot who watched TV. The first thing he ever said—mimicking a commercial that was popular at the time—was, “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.” After that—he was unstoppable. When anything upset him, he would say “poor Popeye,” in a pathetic sounding voice. In the mornings he would call Grandmother and say, “Maybelle, coffee, toast. Popeye wants breakfast.”
All these things are indeed admirable—but none is the reason I admire birds and their intelligence so much. What I most love about birds is their understanding of and deep dependence on God’s will in their lives. Especially in nesting. At the right time each spring, birds nest. Gales can be alive with 80 mph winds, late snowfall can blanket the land, trees can remain bare-branched, flowers heads can linger under the soil—yet the birds nest. They make no excuse for hardship, inclement weather, or turbulence. God’s wisdom tells them it is time to nest…so they nest…regardless of adversity.
Sadly, some people quit nesting in the loving arms of Jesus as soon as trouble trips into their lives. They rehearse all the excuses: how can I believe in God when He let something bad happen to me? I’m living a good life. Why doesn’t God keep all these troubles away from me? I had more friends before I became a Christian. Following Jesus is too hard.
We live in a fallen world. That’s not God’s fault. He never planned for the world to be flawed. Sin entered into the world with Adam and Eve. Before sin entered, there was no death, no violence, no anger—the Garden of Eden was perfect. Animals and people were friends and God walked in the garden with His creation. But when sin slipped into the perfect world…blight replaced perfection.
Birds don’t argue politics. They don’t assume their way is the only way. They fly above contention and discord…and they keep on nesting.
Jesus said, “Do not worry…Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them Are you not of more value than they?” Matthew 6:26.
Jesus has the credentials to declare value. He lifted up His arms and died on the cross to deliver us from our sins, and He rose again on the third day to live forever. With us if we nest with Him.
When I was four and my sister Leslie was two, Mom went back to work and left us with a sadistic babysitter—not that she realized that at the time. Les and I cried and complained, but Mom thought we just missed her and wanted her to stay home with us—which of course we did.
I don’t remember the babysitter being as cruel to me as she was to Les. I didn’t understand then and still don’t understand now why she got her jollies out of torturing a helpless two-year-old. Mom gave us baths every night and then cuddled us and read stories to us before putting us to bed.
Horrible babysitter put Leslie in the bathtub every morning and washed her hair—digging her fingernails into Leslie’s scalp until she screamed and cried and then sticking her head under the running faucet until Leslie quit screaming because she was inhaling water and choking and couldn’t breathe. I remember beating on the babysitter’s arm and yelling at her to quit hurting my sister. She laughed at me. The abuse continued.
Additional abuse served up at lunch. She fixed three sandwiches and gulped two down herself. She divided the remaining sandwich between Les and me. Then she peeled an orange. She ate the good slices from the orange. She divided the peels with Les and me and demanded that we eat them even though we gagged on them and cried and begged her not to make us eat them. She wouldn’t allow us to get up from the table until we ate those bitter orange peels.
We told Mom. We told Dad. They didn’t listen to us. But…perhaps they did—because Dad fired horrible babysitter. Leslie and I were sitting at our little table crying over the orange peels at lunch one day when the door opened suddenly and Dad walked in—just in time to see horrible babysitter kick our Siamese cat across the room. He didn’t fire the sadistic babysitter for torturing his children—he fired her for kicking the cat.
Dad didn’t save us—the cat did.
Thus the problem with seeking help from people—even people in our family. Their help is sometimes flawed, because humans—no matter how loving or well-intentioned—are flawed.
“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” Psalm 46:1
“Give us help from trouble, for the help of man is useless.” Psalm 60:11
A news report showed up over here in Scotland. The headline: “Why Great White Sharks Won’t Enter the Gulf of Mexico.” Immediately after that—I learned that scientists are currently tracking five great white sharks in the Gulf of Mexico, and that great whites frequent Florida’s waters, especially in the winter.
Fortunately, I already knew not to trust the news media during the covid scare when those vulnerable to fear rushed to get vaccinated and are now suffering strokes, heart attacks, and brain injuries at an early age. The vaccine gave my husband Alan Parkinson’s Disease. He’s in the hospital now—again. I didn’t get the vaccine. I didn’t take the vaccine because I am immune to scare tactics, both because I read and believe the Bible which says, “do not fear,” and because I’m a Texan—and Texans tend to be immune to bullying tactics.
There is nothing new in pushing false information—even in schools. When I was in first grade in a Georgia school, we were given pages to color for “fun.” It wasn’t fun for me when the teacher made me color my picture over again because I had used the “wrong” colors. She told me sternly, “tree trunks are brown, the sky is blue, grass is green. She was pushing false information—teaching a lie.
Here in our part of Scotland, the sky is seldom blue. It is usually grey. As for tree trunks, oak and olive trees have grey bark. Madrona tree trunks are pink. Aspen trees have white bark. Young palm trees have green trunks. Rainbow eucalyptus trunks splash vividly with all the colors in a box of crayons—just like my first grade picture that the teacher made me recolor.
Not all reference books are accurate either. My parents bought me a book on herpetology when I was a kid. I read that book from cover to cover several times because of my interest in snakes. It stated that snakes do not come out at night. Therefore, when I got back to my birth state of Texas and heard Charley Pride singing, “The snakes crawl at night, that’s what they say, when the sun goes down. Oh, the snakes will play,” I made fun of that song. I told friends it was inaccurate because snakes don’t come out at night. Turns out my treasured snake guide was wrong; snakes are active both day and night, and I thank the Lord for protecting me all the times I bounded through wilderness after dark with no expectation of meeting a venomous snake. Some of the best photos of rattlesnakes on my Facebook feed are from Arizona—and were taken at night.
Safeguarding us from false information is the Bible. Critics like to claim that it is “full of contradictions.” It isn’t. People who make that claim have never read it for themselves and allowed their hearts and spirits to be amazed and abashed by how this Book—the Word of God that was written nearly 3,000 years ago—is still true and applicable today. Consider the prophet Isaiah. He accurately predicted the birth and death of Jesus in 700 BC. When Christopher Columbus read in Isaiah that “God sits above the circle of the earth,” it gave him courage to sail across the ocean and discover new worlds in an age when most believed the earth was flat and ships would fall off if they sailed too far.
There is simply no way to demonize the message of love and grace that came into the world with Jesus and pins the Bible together: love others and put them first. Forgive others and be forgiven. Believe in Jesus and gain everlasting life. That is a report that the news media can ignore and attempt to silence—but can never overcome, because love is stronger than hate, and lies are but for a moment. Truth is everlasting.
By the time I was three-years-old I knew I had been born in Texas, and was fiercely proud of my birth state. By the time I was four, I was insufferable. I regularly reminded my younger sister and baby brother that I was born in Texas—and they weren’t. We were living in California at the time. I bragged to my friends that Texas was the biggest state and that everything in Texas was bigger.
I was eight years old when Alaska was admitted to the United States on January 3, 1959. I was devastated when I learned that Alaska was bigger than Texas. We lived in Georgia by this time and when anyone mentioned Alaska to me, I would reply, “When Alaska melts, Texas will be the biggest state again.” I’m still waiting for Alaska to melt.
There is nothing wrong with folks being proud of their birthplace. Love and pride for your country is good and right. However, not everyone can be born in Texas.
God’s love for all of us is inclusive. We don’t need to be born in a certain place or in certain circumstances to get to heaven. Heaven is wide open for everyone who believes that Jesus Christ is the Son of God and the Savior of the world.
Isn’t it wonderful that we don’t have to do a certain number of pushups to get to heaven? Or win marathons? Or be beautiful or handsome? Or be a certain age? Or have a certain amount of money? Or have wealthy or famous parents? Or be famous ourselves? Or be vegan? Or have a star on the sidewalk in Hollywood?
All we need to do is say, “Jesus, I believe.”
If you confess with your mouth the Lord Jesus and believe in your heart that God has raised Him from the dead, you will be saved. Romans 10:8
The idea of “going for your dreams” has been one of my life’s mantras; have a dream; dream a dream; reach for your dream. If you can dream it, you can do it.
When I was in elementary school we used the SRA reading program. I loved it. You went to a color-coded box, picked out a story at your reading level, read the story and answered the questions. Then if there was enough time, you could repeat the process. The stories were fascinating. One of my favorite was about the Loch Ness Monster. I was absorbed by that story. My dream was to go to Scotland and search for the Loch Ness Monster.
I live in Scotland now. I have been to Loch Ness and looked for the monster. Several times. I have incorporated those experiences, and the legend itself, into several of my books.
I haven’t spotted Nessie yet, but I fulfilled my dream of looking for her—even on a tour boat once. But about that dream…the reality of it saddens me. I miss my Texas, USA, home. I miss my family. Most of all, I miss Texas heat and dry and scrumptious Southern cooking.
For those who don’t know, Scotland is cold. Always cold. Even in “summer,” temperatures rarely get above 70F, and if they do—people in Scotland hate it. They say they are “broiling.”
Here in Dunoon, Scotland, it rains an average of 185 days a year. Last year it was more. It rained for days on end. Here we are two months into the new year—and it is still raining. It is still dark. It is still cold. The sun has only shown itself about three times in this new year—and all three times—it was bitterly cold even with the sun.
Many people have dreams. Some lament, “I don’t think my dream will ever come true.” Leave it in God’s hands. Perhaps the reality of the dream is not as quintessential as the dream itself.
I’m not bashing Scotland, nor am I expressing misery over my life, or over chasing dreams. I would zealously guard both the life I have now, and my dreams from others offering to exchange with me or wanting to rob me of them. I have written and published 46 Christian cozy mystery-romance-suspense books while living here in Scotland. All I have ever wanted to do since I was a child is write books. I am living my dream. I have taken brilliant photos—brilliant not because I took them, but because of the subject matter. Scotland is a beautiful country from coast to coast. But it is cold, it is wet, the sky is grey.
Dreams are marvelous. Never give up on your dreams, but make sure they line up with God’s plan for your life. “For in the multitude of dreams and many words there is also vanity. But fear God.” Ecclesiastes 5:7.
Stephanie Parker McKean 