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
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.
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 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.
Because pushing my husband in a wheelchair and pulling him around the house in his potty chair since he can’t walk has increased the size of my knuckles, I can no longer wear my wedding ring. My husband lost so much weight over the five months he spent in the hospital that his wedding ring was too large—and he lost it. So neither of us wear our wedding rings—but the missing wedding rings do not mean that we are not still married. The rings were merely a symbol of our marriage. A label.
Changing labels does not change reality.
William Shakespeare perhaps said it best in 1595 when he wrote ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Changing the name of the flower does not change the rose.
Geologists often abandon BC—Before Christ, and AD—After Christ’s Death, for BP—Before the Present. Astrologists often replace BC and AD with CE for Common Era and BCE for Before Common Era. These new labels do not negate the fact that we celebrate Christmas as the time that Jesus Christ, God’s own Son, came to earth to live as a man and experience everything we experience so He could understand our trials and temptations and deliver us from them, and so that we could see our God in human flesh. It does not negate the fact that more than 2,000 years ago, Jesus Christ died on a cross and was sealed away in a tomb that could not hold Him. He is Risen. Christians have no grave to visit and reverence. We have an empty tomb.
Labels are tricky things. Easy to change—but impossible to change.
God’s immutability: “It is impossible for God to lie. This hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and steadfast.”
Don’t let human applied labels and criticism wear you down. You are fearfully and wonderfully made and God loves you and has a plan and purpose for you.
He was an alcoholic. One could find him nearly any time day or night stumbling out of a bar and thumbing a ride home. One of his best friends had just lost his life in a drunk driving encounter with a tree. Eddie was only 21.
My personal dislike of this disgusting waste of humanity was his treatment of his girlfriend. He was so indifferent to her and her feelings that I saw him reach across the front seat of his car and slip his hand under a girl’s skirt while his girlfriend was in the backseat. I despised him.
Then just like the Bible story of Paul on the road to Damascus when Jesus smote him with temporary blindness and told him to quit persecuting Christians—Jesus zapped him. When he quit traveling the bar route, his friends laughed at him. “He’ll be back.” “He’ll fall off the wagon.” “It won’t stick. He’s one of us.”
But it stuck. Instead of circulating around the bars, he circulated around his friends’ houses asking to borrow pans and utensils. He set up a rickety wooden counter on a vacant gravel lot in town and smoked meat in a 55-gallon barrel. He borrowed the barrel. Someone bought the beef brisket for him. He started selling barbecue.
People mocked him. “It’s just a passing thing.” “He’ll never make it. He’s too lazy.” “Have you ever seen such a mess?” “He’ll be out of business within a week.”
He stayed in business. The barbecue was outstanding. The rickety wooden counter became a handsome sturdy counter. The 55-gallon barrel became a professional barbecue pit. A building grew up around the counter on the empty lot, then expanded. He married a woman a few years older than he was. She had a son. It was a church wedding.
His wedding caused new speculation among the old friends he had left behind. “It will never last. She has a kid. He doesn’t even like kids.” “He’ll get tired of all that church muckety-muck.” “Him? He’ll never be faithful to a wife.”
But he stuck with church. He stuck with his wife. He watched their son graduate from high school. When his wife became ill with a rare blood condition he sold his business and moved to Kerrville so she would be close to the hospital.
And he stuck with Jesus. Always, he stuck with Jesus.
I’ve lost track of Donald Busbee over the years. But the business he built on a gravel lot in Bandera, Texas, stands as a testimony—not to Donald—but to his Jesus. He wouldn’t want it any other way.
Since my first book was published in 2012, I have attempted to write a weekly blog. I have not always succeeded in that goal. There are weeks that go blog-less.
When a friend sent me a picture she took of me – probably 57 years ago – I realized that I could write the shortest blog ever. I didn’t recognize myself in the picture she shared. In fact, the face rather scared me. It was taken before Jesus came into my heart and my life. Looking at that picture, I could understand why I had so few friends in school. I looked grim.
When placed beside a recent picture of me – a picture after Jesus came into my heart and life – the contrast is astounding.
As with everything in life that is important, the explanation is found in the Bible. “If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation, old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new.” 2 Corinthians 5:17.
I’ve heard atheists say of Christians, “They are so weak that they need a crutch.”
As someone who has spent most of the past five years on crutches—I laugh. There is nothing easy about moving one’s body weight on a couple of sticks. It takes strength, determination, and grit.
My first experience motivating everywhere with crutches was prior to back surgery. Next it was a two-year wait for a knee replacement. Now it is recovery from hip replacement surgery. One of my nurses laughed at me for having my name written on my crutches. She didn’t understand that they were the dependable tools that enabled me to get up, get down, and move around putting one foot in front of another. They were my lifeline to freedom of movement.
Still, after my recent hip replacement surgery, I am looking forward to a crutch-free 2022. I think my sticks have earned a rest!
I’ve been asked what I’m going to do with my crutches when I no longer need them. I think I will keep them as a reminder to cultivate an attitude of gratitude. Jesus has done so much for me. Yes, He is my Crutch. He is my Weight Bearer. Because He lives, I am not afraid to die. When a person does not fear death—there is nothing left to fear.
Because Jesus lives, I am unmoved by the fear-mongering over the pandemic. With Jesus bearing the weight, I can walk through life unafraid, leaning on Him when I need to lean, and letting Him pick me up and carry me when I am weary. Because Jesus is my Crutch—One whom I will keep not only through 2022, but through the rest of my life—I have peace and joy that passes all understanding.
Stephanie Parker McKean 