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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Crown Jewels

I never related to the jazz song from “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” which Carol Channing made famous, “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend.” I don’t like diamonds.

To me, diamonds are bland. They lack the color, fire, and passion of other stones. I don’t wear jewelry at all, but if I did—I would not wear diamonds. That being said, my life is full of diamonds that flash with fire and passion.

All the crown jewels of the Kingdom greet my feet.

On every walk with Savannah, on every drive around the neighborhood, I discover new diamonds. This spring more than ever before in my life I’ve been aware of the beauty God spreads around us like a lovely tapestry. The intricate design and care in each flower bloom. The artistry in each petal and stem. Diamonds of all colors, sizes, and shapes.

Diamonds that belong to everyone regardless of wealth or poverty.

“God has made everything beautiful in its time.” Ecclesiastes 3:11.

Not all diamonds are rocks.

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Why Did I Never Know?

Why did I never know that the traditional red berries of Christmas began as tiny white flowers? I didn’t know that until a few days ago when I found a holly bush in full bloom.

Moreover, there are things in this world I will never know. When I hear musical folks use terms like “singing flat,” or being in the “wrong key,” I don’t understand what those words mean. I can’t carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it—or so I’ve been told. Not that I understand what that means either. To me, singing is simple and uncomplicated. You raise or lower your voice with the words of a song. Who cares how high or low or what sphere of the universe it reaches to touch a key—which is invisible anyway.

And directions. Especially directions like “north,” “south,” “east,” and “west.” We were taught in school that north is straight ahead of us. South is behind us. East is to the right, and west is to the left. Simple. I got that question right on a test at school. But in the real world? North is always in front of me no matter what direction I’m facing, so if someone tells me to go north three blocks, turn west at the next traffic light and then take the east underpass below the bridge and go south for three miles…someone better send a search party out for me because I will be missing for days.

Those are two examples of things I don’t know and should. I don’t know how to set a formal table correctly either. That’s okay. I have no need to know that. I do know how to put a plank across stacks of concrete blocks and use that for a makeshift table. I’ve done that before. And without knowing which direction the ends of the plank are facing or what key or chord the song on the radio are.

Thankfully, I know the most important thing of all in life. “Be still and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10

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I Can Smell Possums

I can smell opossums.

This lifted me to high standing with childhood friends Billy and Bobby. One of their chores was to traipse through the woods and set traps to catch possums for dinner. I would tag along and tell them where to place the traps. After they caught the critters, I would get money from home, buy the possums from their dad, and then release them in our woods. This made everyone happy—especially the opossums.

Being alert to strong smells comes in handy for more than setting possum traps. Recently, I received a Facebook friendship request which I almost accepted—because the person was reportedly from Bandera, Texas—Cowboy Capital of the World, and home of my heart.

Something about the request emitted a foul odor, but I couldn’t figure out what.

When I get a FB request I always check to see: that the person has posted personal information like place of residence, education, etc.; that at least some of the posts are recent; that the posts do not include profanity or other objectionable content, and that the profile picture is not followed by pictures reportedly of the person who made the request—but pictures that do not match the profile picture and are “flirty,” or self-aggrandizing. This FB request passed all those checks—but I smelled possum.

Finally I found the critter hiding in the woods. The person was a Wicca. A hidden post endorsed witchcraft. At first I was insulted. A Wicca in Bandera, home of my heart? That couldn’t be true! However, good and bad can be found everywhere, and Bandera—as wonderful as it is—is not perfect…because people live there…and people are not perfect.

I am not perfect. I am saved. I will be going to heaven when I leave this earth. But I am not perfect. If people on FB or other media deleted everyone who was not perfect—I would be one of the first deleted.

The ability to smell possums is a valuable skill. Everyone can develop it. We just need to allow God’s Holy Spirit to live in our hearts and work through us.

“Discretion will preserve you; understanding will keep you, to deliver you from the way of evil.” Proverbs 2:11.Amazon.com: Stephanie Parker McKean: books, biography, latest update

And That’s Love

The following review for my newest book is one of the best I’ve ever received on any of my books because of this: “When I read a cozy I like to try to figure out whodunit before the amateur sleuth or the law does. I was so, so WRONG this time. McKean had me fooled. (Palm to forehead when I look back at it!)”

As a writer of cozy mysteries, I endeavor to surprise the reader, but “All the Colors of Murder” does more than surprise. It also showcases love. The protagonist has never known love. Enter a man who accepts her even when she rejects him, even when she is rude to him, even when she mocks his beliefs, even when she engages in activities that he does not espouse. And that’s love.

All my cozy mysteries contain love stories, but “All the Colors of Murder” embodies the best description of love ever written within the lives and actions of the main characters. That description is found in the Bible. “Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself; is not puffed up; does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.” 1 Corinthians 13: 1-8. And that’s love.

The matchless example of love was set by Jesus. “This is My commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends. You are My friends if you do whatever I command you.” John 15:12. And that’s love.

MaCoy and Hayden’s love story doesn’t reach the pinnacle of the love Jesus showed the world by dying for it, but my prayer is that it will engage the readers’ hearts in hope and expectation and encourage them to believe in a love that never fails.

All the Colors of Murder – Kindle edition by McKean, Stephanie Parker. Romance Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.