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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I’m thankful for my elementary school education. I had excellent English teachers and since all I ever wanted to do since I was a kid is to write books—that was the most important thing for me. However, I also learned things that proved detrimental.
I was taught in school that Pluto was the ninth planet. One of our class projects was to draw the nine planets in their orbits, but in 2006, Pluto lost its status as a planet and was re-labeled “dwarf planet.” Learning that Pluto was a planet when it isn’t hasn’t hurt me. I don’t care. It’s too far away to have an impact on my life.
Being taught in school that snakes don’t come out at night might have harmed me—because they do—especially in the desert, and I used to run through the woods and fields carelessly at night with confidence that venomous snakes were tucked into their beds.
What has negatively impacted me in life is the teaching of my ninth-grade gym teacher. She taught us to “walk like Indians” toe first with one foot in front of the other and bragged about how silently we could walk like that. Her style of walking is great for balance beams and narrow ledges, but detrimental for every day walking as I have learned through painful falls resulting in broken bones.
Due probably to the back, hip, and knee surgeries I’ve had—or perhaps a childhood injury—I’ve developed something called “drop foot.” I’ve included the condition of drop foot in the book I’m working on now. My natural gait is to step forward toe-first as I walk. Frequently, however, one of my feet (and it can be either one) suddenly dips down and digs into the pavement. I’ve had some painful falls as a result.
So now at age 73, I am learning to walk again. It’s tough. My muscles rebel at the physical strain of putting my feet down heel first instead of toe first. I’ve walked toe-first for 60 years.
For the first 23 years of my life I was taught that God is not real. I was taught that God doesn’t exist. I even wrote an essay supporting that fact when I was in my first year of college. The professor gave me an A+ on the paper. I was wrong and he was wrong.
Some folks believe that the key to improving the world is found in education and learning. Falsehoods can be both taught and learned.
The answer is found in the mystery of God, “both of the Father and of Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge.” Colossians 2:3.
A person can learn to walk through their life again at any age as long as they reach out and touch the mystery of God.
Often I hear folks say, “Oh, to be twenty again.” “If only I could go back and live my life again—I’d do it differently. I’d get it right this time.”
I don’t want to go back.
For the first time in my almost 74 years of life—I like myself. For the first time in almost 74 years I even like my fly-away baby-fine hair that is immune to attempts to style or “fix” it. For the first time in nearly 74 years of life I can look into a mirror and not be disappointed by the reflected image.
Because now I know—now I understand the truth of Psalm 139:14, “I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”
It’s been a long hard road. For those of us who were sexually abused as children it is difficult to navigate the self-blame and self-loathing because we feel somehow guilty for what happened to us. Especially me since the perpetrator who had no medical training performed two backwoods abortions on me to hide his crime and I nearly bled to death both times. I survived. The babies didn’t. Abortion is murder.
I took my one and only writing course when I was 23. It only lasted a few weeks, but I never forgot the teacher’s advice on the first day: write about what you know. Hard advice for me at twenty-three—I didn’t know anything. I had only been a Christian for a few days, but that was long enough to know that I should pray about things so I asked God to give me something to write about.
God answers prayer. Now I know.
I know what it’s like to live with an alcoholic, abusive spouse. I know what it’s like to live with a drug-addicted spouse and attempt to help him. I know what it’s like to go through divorce when you don’t believe in divorce and don’t want it. I know what it’s like to be a single mom and work two and three jobs to support myself and my child. I know what it’s like to help a new spouse battle cancer, to take care of him until he died, and then speak at his memorial service.
I know what it’s like to bury my child.
I know what it’s like to undergo back surgery, knee replacement, and a hip replacement, and to spend three months in the hospital after the hip replacement became infected. I wrote and published three books while I was in the hospital.
Now I know. Now I have things to write about. My life experiences are sprinkled through my 48 published books, some sprinkled more liberally than others. The book I’m working on right now draws from the painful chapter of childhood sex abuse.
Go back to another time and a younger age? I don’t want to go back. I’ve lived through it once. Once is enough.
I’m ready to go forward to heaven where there is no sin, sadness, illness, sorrow, pain, or parting.
Don’t feel sorry for me. I’ve loved my life. I wouldn’t exchange even one day of it for someone else’s. Even the hardest places and the most disappointing moments have been spun into the greatest blessings by the hand of the God who spun the stars into the universe and spins the earth upon nothing.
I’ve lived in and visited states all over the U.S. and lived in two different countries. I’ve lived in Bandera, Texas, home of my heart—and cowboy capital of the world. I’ve spent years working on several different newspapers as a staff writer. I’ve cuddled wild animals; a fox, raccoon, jaguarondi, African lion, raven, snakes, skunk, possums, dogs, cats, horses. I’ve been bitten on my stomach by an African lion.
I’m ready for the unending chapter in my life—heaven. The Bible describes it as having streets of gold, but all I want in heaven is a rock wall with flowers growing over it and animals coming to visit me. And to be with my son Luke again.
I’ve lived in the desert with Luke, who taught me to see—really see—the wind. I’ve danced through tumbleweed circuses and followed porcupines and coyotes to see where they were going. I’ve panned for gold, wet-washed for gold, metal detected for gold. With Luke’s help I’ve rescued possums and ravens and had remarkable dogs.
I’ve had a blast. And it’s given me something to write about. Now I’m a caregiver for my husband who is dying of cancer. I’ve got silver strands mixed into the brown of my hair. I’ve got puffy circles under my eyes from fatigue. I frequently pull muscles moving Alan about since he can’t weight-bear and must be pulled up and moved with equipment. But the joy of the Lord is my strength and nothing can steal my joy.
That’s why I can look at myself in the mirror and like what I see. I can see myself through God’s eyes. He loves me. He loves you also. So when you look into a mirror, like what you see and repeat, “I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” Psalm 139:14
No one in the world can be you. God created you for a plan and a purpose that only you can fulfill. You are a poor imitation of anyone else. You are a true you.
I never have understood tattoos, and I especially don’t get “body jewelry.” God created our bodies. He calls them His holy temples and urges us not to do anything to hurt or destroy them. We are beautiful the way God created us without added adornment.
While I don’t understand the tattoo and body piercing craze, nor do I judge folks who engage in it. Shucks. I would be a poor judge of something like that—I don’t even wear makeup.
However, my spirit rebels against nose rings. With “modern” “liberated” women fighting for their rights and equality and refusing to be usurped by men—why, oh, why would they wear a piece of jewelry that men have used over the centuries to keep them submissive and that ranchers use to control and manage livestock? Every time I see a woman with a nose ring—it troubles me. Why would a woman value herself so little that she accepts branding that demeans her? That she would choose to follow fashion trends rather than God?
“Do you not know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and you are not your own? For you were bought at a price; therefore glorify God in your body and in your spirit, which are God’s.” 1 Corinthians 6:18, 19.
Today I watched what seemed to be an old, tired fly climbing on a fence and I wondered—do flies know when they are about to die?
There is nothing wrong with wondering about things. When an apple dropped on Sir Isaac’s head he wondered—and discovered the law of gravity.
When Thomas Edison saw lightning strike the ground he wondered—and discovered electricity.
When Sir Alexander Fleming noticed colonies of staphylococcus bacteria in his Petri dishes avoiding mold in 1928, he wondered—and discovered penicillin.
When a Swiss engineer returned from a hike in the Alps in 1941, and wondered about the burdock burrs sticking to his clothes—he invented Velcro.
When Percy Spencer was working on a radar-related project in 1946, and noticed a chocolate bar in his pocked melted more quickly than expected—he wondered and invented the microwave.
Wondering can be beneficial…but wondering if flies know when they are about to die? Who wonders about something as inane as that? My son Luke would understand if he was still here with me. He taught me to see the wind.
Christina Rossetti, who was born in 1830, wrote the poem, Who has seen the wind?
Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.
I read this poem to Luke when he was a child. I read scientific facts and explanations to him as to why it was impossible to see the wind. But Luke continued to insist that he could see the wind. And one day when we were out in the desert Luke taught me to see the wind. He was right. So the son of my heart would understand his mother wondering if flies know when they are about to die.
Not even Luke, however, would be able to tell me how my wondering about flies would benefit life on this earth.
So, while I don’t know if flies know when they are about to die, I do know that our Lord God is a Mighty God who does wonders. “You shall praise the name of the LORD your God who has dealt wondrously with you…I am the LORD your God and there is no other.” Joel 2:27.
The clerk says confidently, “I’ll be back in two seconds.” Fifteen minutes later, as the minute hand on your watch advances and the clerk doesn’t, ‘tis a puzzlement. Did the clerk drop from heaven and is, therefore, operating on heaven’s time line?
“Do not forget this one thing, that with the Lord one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.” 2 Peter 3:8.
‘Twas a puzzlement about my father who boasted about his 140 IQ, but did stupid things. Like letting his children throw chicken bones to wild alligators even knowing that gators can run at speeds of 35 mph…and children can’t. There were seven of us. Perhaps that explains it. We were dispensable.
Like engaging his 14-year-old daughter—me—to burn down the house for the insurance money when he got into deep financial mire from spending his money on boats that would never touch water; a sports car he couldn’t afford to fill with gas, and a plane that didn’t fly, while his children went to school with worn-out shoes held together with rubber bands, and hand-me-down clothes with holes in them. Perhaps he looked into the future with that 140 IQ and foresaw today’s fashions.
And the lion. Bringing an African lion home as a house pet. True, it was only 150 pounds when it first came—not much heavier than our Great Dane dogs, but Ebenezer quickly grew to 450 pounds and tore apart his expanded metal cage to escape—repeatedly. When Ebenezer escaped, only my oldest brother Gregory (the first one of us to leave this earth for Jesus’ arms) and our local veterinarian could recapture him and get him back into his cage before he brought down one of the horses or terrified neighbors.
And the horses. No one could tell my father anything—because he already knew everything. His 140 IQ, as he reminded everyone. Even as a twelve-year-old, my sister Leslie Garcia had probably read every book that had ever been written about horses. She knew our poor horses lacked proper nutrition and veterinary care, but when she tried to tell our father and he thought she was arguing with him—he jerked her out of bed, shoved her down on the floor and kicked her until she bled.
‘Twas a puzzlement at the time—but I understand now. My father was an atheist. He forbid us to read a Bible or Christian books, to go to Vacation Bible School at the nearby Baptist Church, or to go to any church anywhere. We were also forbidden to sing hymns or Christian songs.
The 140 IQ that my father was so proud of was wasted because there was no wisdom to back it up. “The fear of the LORD is the beginning of wisdom.” Psalm 111:10.
My father did not fear God. He did not believe in God. He wanted to be God. He thought his 140 IQ—an intelligence that God gave him—qualified him as God. “The fool has said in his heart, there is no God.” They are corrupt. They have done abominable works. There is none who does good. Psalm 14:1
There is hope for all of us—even those of us with what the world considers lower IQs. “If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask of God, who gives to all liberally and without reproach, and it will be given to him. James 1:5.
However…I still haven’t figured out about that vanishing clerk who was coming back in “two seconds.”
Stephanie Parker McKean 