It’s Grace

It’s that time of year again when fatigued leaves abandon their career of decking lofty trees with green and let go to dance in the street and scuttle down the sidewalks in front of rushing feet.

It’s that time of the year when faded flowers beseech the sky for one more day of light and color before falling into forgotten glory.

It’s that time of year again when fingers of wind grow strong and cold and clouds batter the sun.

It’s that time of the year when nature sings with a hoarse voice. The natural world is humbled, debased, and degraded as winter approaches to blanket and hide the landscape it sends into oblivion.

This world is temporal. Nothing humans can do will change the natural cycle of life that God created. “To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1

I met a friend today walking a dog that I hadn’t seen her with before. When we stopped to talk, the dog sat at her feet staring steadfastly into her face with a deep look of love. The dog’s previous owner had died. For weeks the dog had been left alone in an empty house with strangers popping in to give it food and water. Then my friend adopted the collie and gave it what it needed most—love. Grace. The eternal substance of life on earth and in heaven.

There was a time when I was a sexually abused child. There was a time when two abortions were forced on me to protect the identity of the abuser.

There was a time when I used profanity. There was a time when I was mean and ugly to my siblings.

There was a time when I drank alcohol. There was a time I hung out in beer halls, got drunk, and drove home.

There was a time when I could never have written even one book. I felt ugly, unwanted, stupid, and worthless. Then Jesus whispered the love song of grace into my heart and it began to beat again—for the first time. I was reborn as a new daughter in Christ.

Only grace can forgive. Only grace can write the language of love and acceptance that endures forever. Jesus’ love. Jesus’ grace.

“For love is as strong as death…Many waters cannot quench love, nor can the floods drown it.” Song of Solomon 8:6&7.

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The Search for Joy

Everyone is searching for joy.

Some folks search for joy in the bottom of a bottle or a glass. Some folks search for joy in the feeling of smoke clogging up their lungs. Some folks search for joy in getting tattoos, body piercings, or jewelry. Some search for joy in money, prestige, luxury homes, new cars, or travel to exotic places.

Joy is closer than that. Joy is simpler than that.

Joy is in the changing faces of clouds; the sweet song of a bird; the delicate color of flower petals. Joy is in the smile of a child; the tail wag of a dog on a walk; the contented purr of a kitten.

Joy is in sunlight tracing fire and color in the clouds; the reaches of a tree to the sky; the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.

Joy is in every nation, every language, every people in this wide wonderful world.

In God’s presence is fullness of joy. Psalm 16:11

The best thing about this joy…it is a free gift available to anyone who reaches out to take it.

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Old Shacks and Broken Dreams

I’m a sucker for abandoned buildings. I want to hug them. I want to whack down weeds, plant flowers, fix the roof, paint the exterior, refurbish the interior. I want to change them from abandoned and unwanted to cherished.

I can’t explain it. I don’t know why neglected, unwanted shacks exert such a strong pull on me.

When I was living under a bridge in the back of my pickup truck I viewed every abandoned structure I spotted as a potential home. Why did no one live there? Why couldn’t I live there? How much money would it cost to buy it? To rent it? I would stare at it longingly and imagine what color I would paint it. I would note what repairs it needed and calculate how much it would cost and which damage I could repair on my own. I was pretty good with a hammer and I loved colors and painting.

Since then, I’ve owned a home. I helped build our house in Texas, even climbing up a metal extension ladder to the roof with 80-pound bundles of shingles over my shoulder. I painted our home inside and out with a paintbrush. I collected truck loads of flat rocks and did the rockwork around it. I built semi-circular stone steps up to the porch.

And, yet…I am bemused by abandoned buildings.

Now, here in Scotland, I live in a small, comfy rental house—which I also painted with a paintbrush, scaling a metal ladder to cut a nice straight line around the top of the exterior walls.

Still…unwanted structures whisper to my heart.

When my young son Luke and I lived in the Nevada desert, we loved visiting ghost towns and wandering through the empty buildings imagining the people who used to live there and the dreams—now broken, shattered dreams—that motivated them.

Now Luke is in his forever home. I’ll be joining him soon. This earth is not our home. We are just sojourners passing through. Even the bodies we live in down here on earth will be abandoned. Our bodies are mere shells that will be left here when our spirits rise to be with Jesus in Heaven where we will get new bodies.

So why am I a sucker for abandoned buildings? It must be empathy or compassion toward the former residents who stepped out of broken dreams and left them behind. No one likes broken dreams. It’s a comfort to know that Jesus promised that He was leaving this earth to return to Heaven and make a place for us there so we could follow Him.

And, yet…I’m a sucker for old buildings and broken dreams.

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A Change to Embrace

If it ain’t broke—don’t fix it. I love that maxim. I hate change.

A change came to our house last week that I can embrace. It makes life easier. For the five years we’ve had Savannah she has had no easy access to the two-foot gravel path around our house. We have no yard. We have no grass. It’s impossible to use an umbrella to walk around our house because the umbrella hits the outer wall of our house on one side and the neighbor’s fence on the other side. Still, during gales and snow storms, that strip of gravel circumvents walks and gives Savannah a place to do her business.

Savannah had a long, wobbly, rotting wooden ramp on one side of the house that would not support a person’s weight. It finally got so bad that even Savannah couldn’t use it.  I improvised steps at the back of the house by stacking unopened bags of gravel up to the level of the deck. It gave Savannah a way down and back up, but the bags became slippery after a few years and it scared her when she slid on them. I could go up and down the gravel bags by holding the rail of the deck on one side and the neighbor’s fence on the other side. But the deck rotted and broke apart leaving me nothing to hang on to. I fell down the gravel steps a couple of weeks ago.

Our landlord—the Church of Scotland—hired a company to tear out the old rotten wood and replace the ramp on one side with steps and the back deck and gravel bags on the other side with a smart new smaller deck and steps. A beautiful job and one that makes life easier for both Savannah and me. Finally, a change I can embrace! Of course, my favorite maxim is “if it ain’t broke—don’t fix it”—but the ramp and back deck were both “broke.”

Sigh. I suppose I must admit that change is inevitable—and sometimes it is for the best. But I still don’t have a cell phone. And I will continue to use my 12-year-old laptop with Windows 2007 and a plug-in keyboard because I wore out the keyboard on the computer itself by writing 45 Christian cozy mystery-romance-suspense books on it. I still hand turn a crank to whip egg whites into meringue and to open cans. I still use a handheld cheese grater. I will continue cooking in my cast iron pans and pots—as long as I have the strength to lift and carry them. Why change what works?

The changes God makes are good: “Wisdom and might are His, and He changes the times and seasons; He removes kings and raises up kings.” Daniel 2:20.

But God Himself does not change. “For I am the LORD, I do not change.” Malachi 3:6.

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Never the Best

Before you begin to read this, please know that I am not throwing a pity party and I am not seeking accolades; merely writing about my epiphany at the grocery store today when the output at the cashier’s stand shriveled what was left in the bank account.

My entire life, I have never been the best at anything. As a child, I was physically strong, but my lack of coordination and clumsiness precluded me from sports. I did tryout for basketball. I failed to make the team. Perhaps because the one basket I made was on the wrong side of the court and counted for the opposing team.

During my entire school career (if you could call it a career), my grade point average and I sat in the middle of my class and never climbed. I was poor at spelling. It took me years to memorize how to spell “pilot.” I depended on my brilliant sister Leslie (writer Leslie P. Garcia) to spell words for me when I was writing. I was too mentally lazy to look them up in the dictionary; besides—in all fairness to myself—my spelling was so convoluted that I couldn’t find the words in the dictionary anyway because my attempts were too far-out. I mean, really…why should an “f” word like physician start with ph? And why should a word like psychiatrist that sounds like it starts with “s” begin with a “ph”?

Math? I was the ultimate disaster in math. It took a student tutor to make me understand that after 100, the numbers start all over again. Even now, figuring out how many months have passed confuses me because it depends on where you start counting. Numbers are used for arithmetic. Letters are used for writing. So why mix numbers and letters and call it a branch of math? Needless to say, I flunked algebra. Twice. When I was painting signs, I would mark the metal yardstick I used to measure lines because I didn’t know how to read the little marks in between in between the inches. Other folks are not the best with math, but I think I must be the most un-best of all.

Singing? I love singing, but we won’t go there. I can’t sing, yet I love to think that I can. It took a college music professor to convince me that for whatever reason—I actually can’t sing.

My joy is writing and I have 45 Christian mystery-romance books to my credit, yet I am not the best writer. Nor are my books bestsellers, although most of them have made the bestselling list briefly at some time. As for making money from writing…that hasn’t happened. Many authors have better sales than I do. Many make more money.

Finances? I have never been the best at finances. I’ve always struggled to make ends meet. Sometimes…they have never met.

I’ve done many things since childhood; painted signs, worked on newspapers, waitressed in restaurants, tamed wild animals, trained domestic animals, done landscaping and rockwork…but I’ve never been the best.

I’ve learned many things, traveled to many states in the U.S.—and now to Scotland—married and divorced, married and buried, married and become a care giver…but I’ve never been the best at any of these pursuits and I’ve never made the best decisions.

Having son Luke was almost the best decision in my life. Asking Jesus into my life and heart is the best decision anyone can ever make and it guarantees that I will be in heaven with Luke when it’s my time to travel to my final destination. So perhaps I have been the best at least once in my life. For some things, once is enough.

“Earnestly desire the best gifts.” I Corinthians 12:31. Jesus is the best gift ever—and He is for all eternity.

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The Colors of Memory

The color of one of my memories from the ninth grade was watching the door to our classroom to see what color Gemma’s hair would be this time. She was a natural blonde with beautiful long, wavy hair. I couldn’t imagine anyone having prettier, more desirable hair—but apparently—Gemma could.

Gemma’s first change was to brown, which amazed me. Brown? Plain brown? My hair was plain brown. Why would anyone who was born with gorgeous blonde hair want to change it to plain brown? Gemma’s next change was to red. I approved of red. I had always dreamed of having red hair myself. Then it was black. With her fair coloring and light blue eyes—black hair looked terrible on her. The next change was powder-puff blue. That was a lovely color on Gemma. It nearly matched her eyes and it was stunning. This was back in the 1960s, before changing hair color constantly and adding tattoos, etc. was commonplace. I envied Gemma at the time, but looking back, I wonder what insecurity in her life caused her to run from one color and hairstyle to another so desperately.

Another colorful memory was watching our classroom door for Latrelle’s entrance to see what she was wearing. She never wore the same outfit twice. All her skirts, dresses, and matching jackets were lovely and expensive. At the time, I envied Latrelle and her endless closet. I had a mere three outfits to wear all week. Looking back, I wonder if her parents showered her with money rather than love.

I was born in Texas, but I grew up in the rolling hills and piney woods of Georgia. Most people in our rural area were desperately poor. One old lady I used to visit on my bicycle was thrilled to have a sweet potato for her Christmas dinner. One sweet potato.

An old man at the end of our road ate a tin of sardines every day. One tin.

A family I used to sneak through the woods to visit because I had been forbidden to befriend them ate cakes of flour and water cooked on an open fire at every meal. The children were thrilled when their father made enough money to purchase a small bag of sugar to add to the flour and water mixture.

A girl about my age met me one day when I was riding my bicycle. She crossed the road in front of me holding a double handful of powdered laundry detergent. She was thrilled that she had enough soap to wash her clothes and her hair.

A girl in my class named Kathy lived in a chicken coop with her family. Kids made fun of her because she smelled bad. Her parents couldn’t afford to buy a bra for her. That was before the bra-burning craze hit. Kids made fun of Kathy for not wearing a bra.

The colors of memory. They find their way into the pages of my books. How could they not?

God engraves us on the palms of His hands and carries us with Him. My childhood memories are carried in my heart and spill out into my books, one memory at a time, one character at a time.

Fiction is seldom all fiction.

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The Right to Be Wrong

My grandmother didn’t believe in the moon landing. As far as I know, she believed that entire historic event was staged all the way up to her death. Her non-belief in the moon landing didn’t hurt anyone else. It was unimportant. Yet, our family ridiculed her for it.

My younger brothers weren’t involved in the ridicule, but the older children in our family were…because my atheist father set the example. That was unforgiveable. She was his mother.

For some reason—probably to earn the accolades of a father who didn’t respect anyone because he thought he was a god and could make the rules—we laughed at Grandmother’s foible. The great tragedy of this was that while Grandmother’s wrong belief didn’t hurt anyone else or any of us, my father’s ridicule of his own mother set a terrible and soul-damaging example. And it demanded that we make an impossible choice that no child should ever be forced to make; to earn my father’s affection, or choose the unconditional love of a grandmother who poured out her life for us—cooking for us, making our favorite desserts, taking care of us when our parents were gone.

My grandmother taught me to make her chicken gravy, much to the enjoyment of those I have fed over the years. And as-light-as-air yeast rolls. And from-scratch hot chocolate that my sisters still beg me to make all these years later.

My grandmother had very little money of her own, but she spent what little she had to pick out unique and perfect presents for us on Christmas and our birthdays. As a young teen nearly immobilized by the agony of having thick dark hair covering my legs and my mother’s refusal to allow me to shave—Grandmother understood my anguish in spite of our age and generational differences. She bought me the most lovely and perfect birthday gift that anyone has ever given me…an electric razor. I have never forgotten the love and thoughtfulness behind her gift—and to this day, nothing else has surpassed it. Not because of the expense…but because she understood.

In a perfect world, I could say, “Well, others might have ridiculed my grandmother for her beliefs, but I didn’t. Unfortunately, this is not a perfect world and I was not a perfect child. Instead of listening to my grandmother talk about God and Jesus—I strived to win my father’s approval by espousing my father’s atheism and his abuse and derision of my faith-filled grandmother.

Jesus has forgiven me for my blighted past, but He can’t take away the regret and shame I feel when I remember mocking Grandmother for not believing in the moon landing. Her non-belief in that event never hurt anyone. The ugly example my father set poisoned an entire family.

Guard your words. God gave all of us the gift of choice. Give others the right to their choices even when you think they are wrong. Gift others with the right to be wrong.

Jesus said, “I have given you an example that you should do as I have done to you.” John 13:15. Jesus built people up. He never destroyed them with His actions or words.

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Bend the Bottle

Our rough collie Savannah drinks a lot of water. She goes almost everywhere we do, so I keep a bottle of water in the car for her. Today when I left to walk her and get some groceries, I didn’t realize the bottle was empty. Usually that’s no problem. Here in Dunoon, Scotland, it rains almost every day, or every night, or at least part of every day. She loves to drink out of rain puddles, and rain puddles are plentiful. However, today—since it had been dry for two days in a row, there were no rain puddles.

I took the bottle we keep in the car into the store with me and went into the bathroom to fill it. The bathroom sink was tiny and the bottle would not fit into the sink. I couldn’t get the top under the facet—so I bent the bottle in half so it would fit. It didn’t hold much water with that bend in it, but it mostly fit into the sink so I was able to slowly unbend it, fill it, and bend it in another place until I finally got it nearly full.

When things in life seem impossible—bend the bottle.

“And whatever things you ask in prayer, believing, you will receive.” Matthew 21:22

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Leaving Something Behind

None of us will get out of this life without walking through the shadow of death. Shadows, thankfully, are not real. They have no power to hurt us.

When that shadow looms before us we have a choice to trust God or to fear. Some people go to unrealistic lengths to outrun the shadow or escape it—but the shadow advances.

Most people want to leave something behind before passing through the shadow of death. Something that will memorialize the fact that they once lived and walked and loved on planet earth.

My father wrote four books in his lifetime—anti-Christian, anti-God novels. I love writing. All I ever wanted to do since childhood is to write books. Once I became a Christian I wanted to write at least four books to counterbalance his atheistic diatribes. I write Christian mystery-romance-suspense books. I’ve written 45.

My father’s books never sold well and are now out of print. My books are all available and continue to sell—albeit slowly. Writing for me has been a lifetime of detours and delays…because no matter how good you are at it or how many books you write—writing books does not make money unless you are well known…and I like to eat.

My dream, my mission, my goal has been to write books. But writing books is not the only way to leave something behind on this side of the curtain of death. Scottish school children at St. Mun’s Catholic School here in Dunoon designed artwork for a metal fence along one side of their school; life along the River Clyde. It’s brilliant. It highlights the aftermath of WWII, ship building, friendship with the US, the US Naval Base that came to Dunoon in the 1960s, and wildlife along and in the river. A metal sculpture artist cut out the designs and welded them to the fence. For some sixty years that lovely fence has celebrated life in Dunoon. It continues on this side of the shadow of death in spite of the creators, artists, and dreamers who have passed through the veil to the other side.

Life here is temporary. Only God is eternal. We can all leave something behind on this side of the shadow of death even if it’s merely the memory of our smile.

“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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To Save Time

At 4 p.m. on Saturday, I decided to order a delivery for dinner—to save time. My time cooking and cleaning up afterwards.

It was easy to rationalize the need to save time; I had just finished my newest book and deserved a small celebration. Finishing the book took a massive effort and push since I am the solitary care-giver for my husband who is terminally ill and can no longer walk. And since finishing the book, I had given the house a good clean because Alan’s brother was coming to spend a week with us and a childhood friend of theirs was also dropping in for a visit.

I picked up my brother-in-law from the ferry at 4 p.m., and suggested collecting fish and chips on the way home…to save time.

Ian didn’t want fish and chips, so once we got home, we scanned the menu of an Indian restaurant and wrote down three orders. I even included an extra one for our collie, Savannah. Then I began calling to place the order. No one answered the phone. It went straight to a recording again and again. So, to save time, I got into the car and drove back into town to place the order in person. The restaurant was closed. It was now approaching six o’clock.

Still on a mission to save time, it was back home to find the menu for the Chinese restaurant and search it. Since it was Saturday, all the restaurants were busy, but my call finally went through and I placed the orders.

By 7:20 p.m., I had to admit my failure to save time. We still hadn’t eaten. We were still waiting for the order. The food finally came and we fell on it like a pack of hungry wolves. To be fair, we did remember to pray first.

The problem with eating so late was that I was late walking Savannah and by the time I got out with her—the midges were out. And hungry. I soon had a circle of stings and itches circling my head from under the brim of my woolly hat to under my hair at the base of my skull.

To save time, I had wasted three hours. Tomorrow…I will cook.

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

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