Achilles, the greatest of the Greek warriors in mythology and the hero of the Trojan War was defeated by a weakness in his heel. The term “Achilles heel” is used even today to refer to an otherwise strong person’s weakness.
Scots can be thankful that midges have an Achilles heel. Midges are small, nearly invisible flying insects that bite and irritate people and animals. Irritate relentlessly. They fall in blinding clouds making life a misery. It is impossible to have a friendly blether (chat) with friends and neighbors on summer walks—because if one stands still—the horrible biting creatures descend. They get everywhere—even under woolly hats and up sleeves.
Thankfully, midges have am Achilles heel. They can be outdistanced if one walks quickly enough. They fly slowly. This gave me the idea of marketing midges. Just think: if midges can be caught, stored in boxes, and exported to other countries to stop political unrest—everyone wins. Open up the boxes, release the midges and the midge-miserable dissenters flee. This won’t restrict freedom of speech, but it will disperse fractious crowds. Meanwhile, capturing and shipping midges will build a new industry giving Scotland a venue for employment. It will boost the Scottish economy.
God looked down on His creation and proclaimed everything He made was good. Therefore, I think that scorpions, fire ants, and midges must have been introduced by God’s enemy. Satan must have emptied out some of the ugly, hurtful creatures from hell on earth in defiance after God threw him out of heaven for his treachery and rebellion. But whatever the devil does to make our lives miserable on a daily basis—God can take the worst and turn it around to use for our good.
Marketing midges could bring peace to protests by sending protestors fleeing from their obdurate stands to get away from the tiny tormentors.
If God’s promise from the Bible is true—and I know it is—“All things work together for good to those who love the Lord,” why shouldn’t the scourge of Scottish midges be turned into something profitable and good?
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 friends of ours from Texas came to visit us here in Scotland they rented a B&B that they were somehow able to find. We, on the other hand, got lost.
Ironic that friends who had never been to Scotland before found the idyllic guest house, and we—with our six-year background of living in Dunoon—got lost. Our poor little car survived the experience of falling into such deep potholes in the road that it bottomed out and stalled. We survived the experience of being lost on a winding, wooded wilderness dirt road in the dark. And—out of that experience was born Christian cozy mystery-romance-suspense book number 43, “Lost for Murder,” which has found its way to 32 ratings and a 4.5 rating.
Often in my life, circumstances that seemed difficult or impossible have actually been God’s hidden blessings. When son Luke was four, we were walking around Carson City, Nevada, and an ugly black dog started following Luke. When we went into a restaurant to eat and came back out again, the dog followed Luke. When we started to drive away—the dog ran down the street after the truck. My impulse was to gun the engine and outrun the irritating critter, but Luke became hysterical. “Mom, stop! A car will hit him.”
We stopped and took him with us. I put up posters and ran an ad in the paper to let his owner know we had the dog. I penned the ad something like: Found: ugly short long-bodied male black dog with white star on chest and bat ears…Call…
No response. Carson was one of the stupidest dogs ever. He couldn’t learn anything. He got loose one day, ran down the street, tackled a Doberman, and came home dragging a back leg. The vet set the broken bone, but it didn’t heal and subsequently, the vet removed it. When we were driving home from the vet with our three-legged dog, Luke suddenly burst into tears. “Mom, we have to get another dog. There isn’t much left of Carson.”
About a year later, I moved to Great Falls, Montana. The area had such a depressed economy that even college professors who went to our church and taught in Luke’s Christian school worked two to three jobs to support their family. As a single parent—I had three jobs, one of them an all-nighter in a restaurant. It was nearly impossible to rent a place that allowed dogs. But one duplex owner looked at our three-legged dog and said, “Well, I guess I’ll make an exception for that one—no one else would want it.”
I didn’t want Carson either, but I couldn’t get rid of him. Praise the Lord for that. I had to leave Luke alone at night while I waitressed. I couldn’t afford a babysitter. The people on the other side of the duplex opened the connecting door when I left for work in case anything bad happened—but they wouldn’t watch Luke. Carson accepted the role of babysitter. Even though he was a small, totally worthless dog who wouldn’t have attacked any danger—except a Doberman (or buffalo—he chased a herd of buffalo once causing a stampede and sending tourists fleeing for the safety of their cars)—he made Luke feel safe enough to stay alone.
Sometimes lost becomes found.
A couple of years after our brief stint in Montana, I moved back to Lovelock, Nevada, during a blizzard to help friends of mine who owned a gold mine in the desert 40 miles from town. One day they sent me into town to pick up the mail. I parked in front of the post office and the gear shift fell through the floorboard and landed on the pavement. The truck wouldn’t move. A man from the church we attended came and fixed the truck. Some weeks later we were married. When Luke, Carson, and I moved into my new husband’s home, his large grey cat streaked down the hall and tackled Carson, sending him rolling across the floor. Four years later, Carson still would not venture any further in the house than the front room where the cat blitzed him. Two years after the cat died, Carson still refused to leave the front room.
We moved home to Bandera, Texas, Carson still in tow. When that stupid little dog died—it messed with my eyes and they watered for hours.
Many times in my life what I thought was loss and lost have actually been God’s hidden blessings. One reason my favorite Bible verse is: “All things work together for good for those who love the Lord.” Romans 8:28
People who hear about our family adventures—and misadventures—living with wild animals like an African lion, a fox, a raccoon, a jaguarondi, monkeys, along with domestic pets like cats, dogs, and horses—often ask me if I would consider writing an autobiography. My answer is always the same. No. There are things in my life that I don’t want anyone to know.
People who hear about the childhood sexual abuse I survived—in spite of nearly bleeding to death twice from abortions performed by a person armed with a knitting needle, no medical knowledge, and a determination to cover up that abuse—ask me to consider writing an autobiography. My answer is always the same. No. There are things in my life I won’t share unless sharing will help someone else. I won’t harm the living by opening up a horrendous chapter in my life for personal financial gain—even though a lot of celebrities make money selling their childhood horror stories.
And the only time I will admit to having failed math for all four years of high school is when I am encouraging a beginning writer who laments that he or she is “too stupid” to finish a book because they can’t do math.
Therefore, this blog is a departure from my usual, but only because I hope it will be an encouragement to other people. It’s about a tie-breaker, not in sports—but in life.
After husband Tom died of cancer, I got conned into a sort-of marriage with a guy named Nathan. I say “sort-of” because he spent nights in a hospital bed—not my bed. He was addicted to prescription pain pills. Our marriage was annulled after a year. He had hidden his drug use from me and never lived with me. The county judge who granted the annulment told me it was as if we had never been married—which was good—because we actually hadn’t been. Fortunately, we had separate bank accounts because he had somehow conned the bank and was overdrawn by $30,000. I never knew someone could swindle a bank out of so much money. We had gone into business together and I was stuck with a substantial business loss—substantial for someone with my salary—but it was only about $13,000…plus the loss of my Texas Hill Country house and land.
Enter someone new. We’ll call him John. I loved him like I had never loved anyone else. He was intelligent, well educated, and never used the word “ain’t.” He even proofread my second book for me and taught me something vital for writers, something I remember each time I write a new book: never introduce a character by name unless that character will significant. We had a great relationship full of laughter and fun and eating out at almost every meal, because we were usually on the road selling things out of the back of his truck. I saw more of Texas than I had ever imagined I would see in my lifetime. We traveled to Oklahoma and Louisiana, and once—all the way to the east coast and Florida. Between trips, I learned how to cut and put down floor tile from helping him retile one of his rental houses. I helped him paint his rental houses and do the yard work they needed. Between trips, he and I would sit on the lawn of his house pulling weeds together and talking about everything—including marriage. He would inherit money when his father died and we talked about building a little house that would look like a tree from the outside. He drew up the plans for it. I was going to do the concrete work to transform the metal structure into a tree. We even went to Disney World in Florida to see one of the trees they had created.
Then the tie-breaker. One day we could not find another weed anywhere in his yard that needed uprooting. “We should set the wedding date,” he announced. “But before we do—we should share our secrets.”
I told him about the childhood sexual abuse I had endured. “As a writer, I may need to disclose it at some time. I won’t write about it or talk about it unless I know it will help someone. Will that bother you?”
“Somewhat,” he admitted, “but not enough that I don’t want to marry you. Now for my secret…about once a month…I smoke pot.”
I screamed at him. I don’t remember the words—but it was something like, “How can you be so stupid?” And I left.
Leaving John after his confession was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, but it was non-negotiable. Some things are. First, it was illegal. Second, after my experience with drug-addicted Nathan and the financial ruin his drug use had inflicted on me before I escaped—there was no way I would put myself in risk of going through that again. It’s not that pot smokers are bad people or always do bad things—it’s that the money spent for the purchase of any illegal drug finances a tool from satan’s toolbox and makes a financial investment in the misery, wickedness, illness, and death that drug use causes. It’s the bigger picture.
After I left, I regretted the decision at times because I missed John so much. Jesus strengthened me and kept me going. The Bible fueled me with wisdom. For example, Proverbs 5:14, “Do not walk in the way of evil. Avoid it, do not travel on it.” And, “whoever commits sin is a slave of sin.” Jesus in John 8:34.
Not exchanging good for evil is non-negotiable—regardless of the cost. And it comes with blessings attached. The Bible promises “all things work together for good to those who love the Lord. I am now married to a husband who loves Jesus as much as I do. I am now living in a country I never expected to see. I have now written 44 books with a new one scheduled for publication within days. All I have ever wanted to do since I was a child is write books.
Sometimes the cost of reaching for a dream is pain and loss, but enduring that pain and loss leads to great reward and joy.
We are thrilled that some friends of ours are coming to visit us here in Dunoon, Scotland. Some things may confuse them, so I decided to dedicate my blog this week to my confusion as an American first arriving in Scotland.
Light switches are on the outside of bathrooms. This might not seem a biggie—and folks who have lived in the UK all their lives will probably say, “Well, duh,” but trust me—this is a biggie when you are desperate to get to the toilet and it is buried in a bathroom as dark as a cave and you can barely see the toilet even with the door open…and you can’t find the light switch because in your country—it lives inside the bathroom with the light.
Perhaps it’s my age, but bathrooms pay a predominate role in my everyday existence. So a few more things about Scottish bathrooms. Most of the sinks have separate hot and cold water faucets, so the temperature of the water can’t be adjusted like most U.S. sinks which have one lever that adjusts the temperature. Public restrooms in northern Scotland are scarce making long distance traveling a nightmare.
Bathroom stalls go from the floor to ceiling, so there is no way to climb out over the top, or crawl out under the bottom if the door gets jammed. Furthermore, the metal hardware on the doors has often been painted over so thickly that locks stick—so I never lock a bathroom I don’t know.
WC means public bathroom. Usually it also means very old which translates into weird plumbing like water tanks up on the wall with pull chains—and stall doors that once closed may be difficult to open.
Other confusing things. Gaelic writing shares road signs with English writing which crams so much lettering on sign faces that it is virtually impossible to read them. There are missing or faded road signs everywhere—cities, villages, the country—which make navigating difficult. And roundabouts—those dreaded roundabouts. With the impossibility of sifting through the Gaelic quickly enough to read the English and figure out where to turn…I have roundabouted the roundabouts repeatedly—much to the confusion of other drivers who already know where they want to go.
Restaurants serve small portions and don’t give free refills on beverages. And if a person orders lasagna, for example—that’s what they get—lasagna. Just lasagna. No breadsticks or salad—everything except the main course is an added order and an added charge. And what is served with macaroni and cheese? “Chips” which Americans know as fries. Starch on top of starch. My mother wouldn’t believe me if I told her that. She insisted every meal must have meat, starch, and veggie. We seldom had desserts.
Speaking of meals, in Scotland, “tea” means hot tea and it also means the evening meal. So it’s confusing if someone invites you to tea. You don’t know if you’re going to be eating or drinking. Also, all desserts are “puddings,” and yet, there is no actual dessert that is pudding.
Cooking is equally confusing. Forget cups, ounces, teaspoons, and tablespoons as units of measure. Things here are grams, kilograms, and liters. And you don’t set your oven on 350F, a normal cooking temperature for many things in the U.S., because everything is centigrade. I have to look up weights, measures, and temperatures on the computer every time I use my American cookbook.
After ten years in Scotland I finally found dill pickles. They aren’t really dill pickles and they’re called gherkins.
But this is where God has planted me, so this is where I need to bloom. The scenery is stunning. The people are friendly and fabulous. And isn’t that what’s most important anywhere?
Here in Dunoon, Scotland, a lot of things are “across the water,” which means in Glasgow and the heavily populated areas between the two ferry landings and Glasgow. I don’t drive across the water.
There are several reasons I don’t drive across the water. Coming from the U.S., cars are driven on the wrong side of the road for me here in the UK, and I find roundabouts confusing and somewhat heart-stopping. Then there is my directional challenge, which I include in my soon-to-be-released new cozy mystery, “Signed to Death.” When my sisters and I were in school, we all learned that straight ahead is north, behind is south, east is right, and west is left. What this means for all three of us is that no matter where we go or in what direction we travel—we always face north.
We had to go across the water for a doctor’s appointment this week and instead of going to the main hospital building, we were sent to an adjoining building some distance away. There is no bus service from that building, nor were we able to reach a taxi company, so we asked the nurse for directions on how to get up to the main hospital building so we could catch a bus. I was on crutches. The nurse told us to go to the end of the corridor and take a little jog to the right, and go to the end of that corridor and through the double doors, and through a long glass corridor, and through some more double doors, and then turn right to the elevator. She said to push “3” on the elevator.
We never found the long glass corridor, but we did find the elevator. We got in. The doors shut. There was no “3” on the elevator. We tried to get out again. We couldn’t find a button that would open the doors. We tried every button on the panel—and finally—the doors opened and we skedaddled! We saw an outside path through the double doors next to the elevator. The path looked like it headed toward the main hospital building, so we went outside and followed it. It dead-ended behind the building. We went back to the double doors. They wouldn’t open from outside. So we took the outside steps, me clomping along on my crutches. We finally made it up to the taxi rank. The driver must have thought we were bonkers. We laughed all the way to the ferry.
I get lost, but God doesn’t. He keeps track of everything and everyone. Jesus said to God the Father, “Of those whom You gave Me I have lost none.” What a comfort to know that however hopelessly lost I am—God never gets lost—and He will never lose me.
I love Scottish poet and novelist Robert Louis Stevenson’s poems.
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet
Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
As a child I couldn’t understand why parents would make their children go to bed so early that the sky would still be clear and blue, because where we lived it was always dark by bedtime. Epiphany. Living in Scotland one discovers that in the summer it stays light until 11 p.m. A reminder that not everyone experiences the same things in life. Not everyone likes the same food, the same style of dress, the same vocations, or the same anything else. We are all individuals and we are all shaped by our past experiences—even one so seemingly insignificant as the length of day and night where we live.
When we meet others whose ways seem strange to us—we should remember that because of our different backgrounds, our ways likely seem strange to them. Living in a different country than the country of one’s birth presents perception challenges even when the same language is spoken.
For all of y’all from Texas and the South U.S., tea over here is hot—not a sweetened icy beverage that you drink sitting on your porch while you’re visiting with family and friends. Houses over here don’t have porches. “Hot dogs” come in jars—not from the cold meat section of a grocery store. There are no dill pickles, Nestle’s chocolate chips, blue cheese dressing, fried okra, fried green tomatoes, or chicken fried steaks—and God bless your pea-picking heart if you’re a woman with size 11 feet—because women’s shoes only go up to size 9.
The light switch for the bathroom is outside the bathroom, not inside, and there no plug outlets in the bathroom for hairdryers, etc. Refrigerators are small. Ours, which is about the average size of the ones here would fit inside a U.S. fridge and only take up half the room. When it gets above 21 Celsius (70 degrees F) here folks say they are “broiling,” and when you explain that summer in Texas means days of 100-plus F temps (37C)—they don’t believe it.
However, it is the similarly in people, not the differences that matter. God created us all and He loves us all. He has no favorite person and no favorite country. And no matter what time it gets dark in our corner of the world—God is as close as our next heartbeat.
“The angel of the LORD encamps all around those who fear Him.” Psalm 34:7
It’s easy for me to thank God for everything He has given me—but things He has withheld from me?
When husband Alan retired after 35 years in the ministry he was offered a Church of Scotland rental house at a reduced rate. The first house we looked at was in Grantown-on-Spey—and we loved it. We told the property manager that we would take it…only to be informed that neighbors who had seen us looking at it had decided to purchase it.
God withheld living in Grantown-on-Spey from us and we never knew why until a few days ago when we made a six-hour trip there to visit friends. The area is beautiful, but after two days—we were becoming claustrophobic. Tall fir-tree-clad mountains held Grantown-on-Spey like the sides of a bowl. No, make that a mug. They were tall. Even worse—it was cold. We were miserable. The day we left, blowing snow covered everything. It was already an inch thick before we left. As we got closer to Dunoon, the snow ended. The temperature climbed—as much as it ever climbs in Scotland!
God has withheld other things from me. Singing. My sisters and I memorized songs from every musical and sang them loudly and joyously—to the horror of our parents who could sing on key and in tune. I still have no idea what keys have to do with singing. They unlock doors. As for singing—that’s easy. You just follow the voices and go up and down when they do. In my childhood mind, I sounded just like Julie Andrews, even the accent. But here in Scotland, folks don’t think I sound like Julie Andrews. They ask, “What part of the States are you from?” As for singing, people in different churches I’ve attended say, “Don’t worry if you can’t sing. The Bible says to make a joyful noise to the Lord.” Still, I’m never invited to lead praise or join the choir.
When I changed my major to drama at LaGrange College in Georgia, I wanted desperately to sing. Julie Andrews, right? I wanted the leading female role in the summer musicals we staged at Calloway Gardens. Instead of being awarded even a minor role or a place in the choir, however, I wound up painting backdrops for the productions. They trusted me with a paintbrush, but not with those illusive keys in the sky that I can’t see or hear.
What a blessing that God withheld singing from me. If I could sing, I wouldn’t write. I love singing so much that I would chase the will-o’-the-wisp of fame and fortune and knock down those doors that are locked by that key that I’ll never fathom. Instead, I have 31 published books and another one in progress.
And, instead, I’m a Christian. None of my drama department buddies were Christians. Since I thought I was an atheist back then, I fit right in. I would have continued a lifetime of travel on crowded, busy roads, too rushed and too frantic to hear God’s still small voice.
In Revelation 1:18 Jesus says, “I am He who lives, and was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore. Amen. And I have the keys of Hades and of Death.”
Because Jesus lives, I can face tomorrow. Because He lives, all fear is gone. And because He lives—I am glad He withheld singing from me and allowed me to exchange those mystery keys for the keys to Heaven.
Because of bone-on-bone arthritis in my left knee I’ve been on crutches since June. Given that my waiting time for a knee replacement is still 11 months, we took to a ferry, three trains, and a taxi to get to York, England, to a private clinic for help. The first up side of crutches was at the second train station when I was in a waiting line for the women’s restroom. The line stretched down the hall. A station employee motioned me out of that impossibly long, slow-moving line—straight into the handicapped restroom. The up side of down.
Some folks say that since I’m an author I should write an autobiography. It would read like a bad comedy routine. In rainy, 30-degree weather, I wore a long skirt with a pair of shorts under it. My legs were bare. And cold. The idea was if something went wrong and I didn’t have time to change before my appointment, I could slip off the skirt and the doctor could examine my knee.
Alan and I get lost everywhere we go. We always leave early to give us time to get lost and found. This time, we didn’t get lost—the clinic did. We got to York, dropped our backpacks off at the motel, then called a taxi for the clinic. I had the address. I had the postal code. I had the phone number. The cab driver couldn’t find it. He was amazing. Because I was on crutches, he ran into every open business on the street I had as an address and asked if the clinic was there. No one had heard of it. He entered the post code into his cab and we wound up in a dark alley, a dead end with old brick buildings on either side. The buildings had no doors, no windows. So this amazing taxi driver started calling. He called the number, it went to voice mail…over again and again. Then he tried the second number, the one the first number gave for “immediate help.” There was an answer—a woman in Edinburgh whose job was answering after-hour calls for the clinic and taking messages. She had no listing for the York clinic.
At this point, Alan and I did what the Bible says to do, we thanked God. We explained to the taxi driver what we were doing and why. God’s Word says, “In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus.” And it says, “All things work together for good to those who love the Lord.”
Perhaps the timing for treatment was wrong. Perhaps the treatment was wrong. For whatever reason, God stopped the appointment. So we are thanking Him.
Months ago our washing machine went on a rampage and dried all our clothes without washing them first. We thought we had rounded up all the dried, unwashed clothes and put them through another wash. Wrong. I pulled out the jeans I had packed in the bottom of the backpack and nearly fainted from the sour smell. There was nothing I could do except wear the jeans and hope the smell dissipated. We had a train to catch and the only alternative to stinky jeans was to wear the skirt again and get cold. I hate being cold.
We got to the first train station on time, but we couldn’t get to our platform. Because of my crutches, we took the elevator—again and again. Up, down, up, down, up, down. The elevator wasn’t labeled. We couldn’t find our platform. I finally ran down—clomped down—a worker. No, he said, the way to the platform wasn’t marked, but just follow this long tunnel down and it would get to the lift that would take us to the platform. So we did. We made it to the platform in time to catch the train, only to learn that the train we needed was on the other side and had been posted wrong on the electronic sign. There was no time to look for another lift. I clomped up two flights of stairs and across the walkway and we made it to the right platform.
It should have been smooth sailing after this—only it wasn’t. We didn’t have time to stop for lunch and still make all our connections to get Savannah out of the kennel before it closed. So…we skipped lunch until 7 p.m. Like I said…don’t look for an autobiography in the future. It would read like a bad comedy.
Merry Christmas, all of y’all! Happy Birthday, Jesus! Never forget that He is the reason for the season—and all things work to the good of those who love Him. So keep that smile!
Yesterday was a wild day, mostly spent on two different buses or at the bus station in between buses as we traveled from Dunoon to Glasgow, from Glasgow to Edinburgh, and then made the return journey.
First the purple, a deep vibrant purple more intense than a lavender field. A woman at the bus station was wearing it. She was tall and it reached from her neck down to her purple boots, so there was a lot of it. And her hair was purple—except where dark roots nudged through the head bouquet. The purple woman has absolutely nothing to do with this blog, except that some things once seen can’t be unseen and when I close my eyes, the inside of my eyelids are swathed in purple.
Then the revolving glass door. I ran into it. Twice. The first time I almost panicked because the people in the other two sections of the glass door had a way out, but I was in the middle of a glass tunnel with no escape route. That just reaffirmed what I already knew: I am not and will never be a “city” person. I belong in the country with birds, wildlife, trees, grass, wildflowers—even purple ones.
Finally, we arrived at our destination, after a short ride scrunched into the backseat of a car so tightly that no one could even fasten their seatbelt. And we met Savannah. We picked up the tiny merle rough collie puppy and told her we would be her new parents soon and that her name was Savannah. When we left, I called, “Savannah,” and out of the mix of swirling, climbing collie puppies, she was the only one who looked up. She looked up at us and watched us until we were out of sight. Some things are worth waiting for, worth an all-day bus ride, worth getting trapped inside revolving glass doors, worth purple on the inside of the eyelids. Savannah is one of those things.
“Those who wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not grow weary, they shall walk and not faint.” Isaiah 40:31
Stephanie Parker McKean 