The giveaway for Matched
by Ally Condie ended last night. The winner has been chosen and notified via email.Mel U from The Reading Life is the winner!
Congratulations!!!
Friday, February 25, 2011
Matched by Ally Condie International Giveaway Results
The giveaway for Matched
by Ally Condie ended last night. The winner has been chosen and notified via email.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
A Widow's Story by Joyce Carol Oates
The book's synopsis from the publisher's website:
as an ARC, which means its editing and proofreading isn't finalized and ready for publication, and still there were very few errors, if any at all, and the whole book was in a better shape than many books served to us after being corrected and edited by others. I realize I may sound as a snob in this regard and I don't really care. It's important to me to know that someone who calls him/herself a writer knows the basic rules of grammar at least and has enough respect for the language to learn and check what they don't know. Joyce Carol Oates is a writer who exudes such respect and it's a pleasure to read what she writes. Shelf Awareness published a great interview with Oates's longtime friend and editor, Daniel Halpern. He states a lot more clearly what I mean about Joyce's writing.
Style, grammar and vocabulary aside, A Widow's Story is a very, very personal book that speaks much to Joyce's courage as she bares her heart and soul to us, readers. And yet, it's not a self-centered and egotistic person we meet on the pages of this memoir. Instead, it is Ray Smith, Joyce's late husband, that is at the forefront and that we learn of through the lenses of his wife's love, devotion and despair of losing him. Ms. Oates does reveal, unwittingly maybe, a lot about herself however. Here, she is Joyce Smith, the woman, the wife and the friend. Not, Joyce Carol Oates, the author. She is fragile, emotional, thinks of suicide even, but in the end she is most importantly a strong female who does persevere despite the biggest loss of her life. It's heartbreaking but beautiful at the same time, to see her struggle, her teetering on the verge of self-destruction and the victory of her will to live anyway. We, the readers know this will is there from the very beginning but Joyce had to discover it slowly, step by step, oftentimes with the help of amazing friends.
I'm convinced I haven't written nearly enough about this memoir but I hope it's enough to encourage you to read it, especially if you want to read a memoir but you don't want a conceited, boastful paean authors of some memoirs write to themselves. A Widow's Story is anything but that. Do see for yourself.
What a great experience reading this memoir was! Many aspects made this book worth being read by all but probably the most important is the quality of writing. To me it almost seemed like a refresher course in what English written language should really be and what many contemporary writers seem to forget. I'm talking about basic rules of grammar, construction of sentences and even meaning of words. I read A Widow's Story"My husband died, my life collapsed."
On a February morning in 2008, Joyce Carol Oates droveher ailing husband, Raymond Smith, to the emergency room of the Princeton Medical Center where he was diagnosed with pneumonia. Both Joyce and Ray expected him to be released in a day or two. But in less than a week, even as Joyce was preparing for his discharge, Ray died from a virulent hospital-acquired infection, and Joyce was suddenly faced—totally unprepared—with the stunning reality of widowhood.
A Widow's Story illuminates one woman's struggle to comprehend a life without the partnership that had sustained and defined her for nearly half a century. As never before, Joyce Carol Oates shares the derangement of denial, the anguish of loss, the disorientation of the survivor amid a nightmare of "death-duties," and the solace of friendship. She writes unflinchingly of the experience of grief—the almost unbearable suspense of the hospital vigil, the treacherous "pools" of memory that surround us, the vocabulary of illness, the absurdities of commercialized forms of mourning. Here is a frank acknowledgment of the widow's desperation—only gradually yielding to the recognition that "this is my life now."
as an ARC, which means its editing and proofreading isn't finalized and ready for publication, and still there were very few errors, if any at all, and the whole book was in a better shape than many books served to us after being corrected and edited by others. I realize I may sound as a snob in this regard and I don't really care. It's important to me to know that someone who calls him/herself a writer knows the basic rules of grammar at least and has enough respect for the language to learn and check what they don't know. Joyce Carol Oates is a writer who exudes such respect and it's a pleasure to read what she writes. Shelf Awareness published a great interview with Oates's longtime friend and editor, Daniel Halpern. He states a lot more clearly what I mean about Joyce's writing.Style, grammar and vocabulary aside, A Widow's Story is a very, very personal book that speaks much to Joyce's courage as she bares her heart and soul to us, readers. And yet, it's not a self-centered and egotistic person we meet on the pages of this memoir. Instead, it is Ray Smith, Joyce's late husband, that is at the forefront and that we learn of through the lenses of his wife's love, devotion and despair of losing him. Ms. Oates does reveal, unwittingly maybe, a lot about herself however. Here, she is Joyce Smith, the woman, the wife and the friend. Not, Joyce Carol Oates, the author. She is fragile, emotional, thinks of suicide even, but in the end she is most importantly a strong female who does persevere despite the biggest loss of her life. It's heartbreaking but beautiful at the same time, to see her struggle, her teetering on the verge of self-destruction and the victory of her will to live anyway. We, the readers know this will is there from the very beginning but Joyce had to discover it slowly, step by step, oftentimes with the help of amazing friends.
I'm convinced I haven't written nearly enough about this memoir but I hope it's enough to encourage you to read it, especially if you want to read a memoir but you don't want a conceited, boastful paean authors of some memoirs write to themselves. A Widow's Story is anything but that. Do see for yourself.
*******
I have received an ARC of A Widow's Story from Ecco, via Shelf Awareness.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Understand My Sorrow - Link Your Reviews
I know I've taken my sweet-butt time on this and I apologize to all who are into this project. The place to link your reviews on all books you think might be pertinent to this challenge and mental illness is finally here. I have already linked up a couple of the posts whose links were left for me in the comments of the original Understand My Sorrow Challenge post.
A permanent link to this post is on the right side bar, so you can either come and look for inspiration on what books to read or link your reviews.
It will be helpful if you can fit the title of the book as well as the mental illness it deals with. You'll know what I mean when you look at the links I already added.
Thank you again for joining.
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Click here to enter your link and view this Linky Tools list...
Friday, February 18, 2011
2-in-1: Red Hook Road by Ayelet Waldman & The Outer Banks House by Diann Ducharme
1. Red Hook Road
by Ayelet Waldman
The book's synopsis from the author's website:
It may all sound boring to some of you, but believe me, Ms. Waldman made sure the novel was anything but. Somehow (I'm sure her talent had something to do with it), Red Hook Road turned out to be fascinating, without a boring passage in there. And even though it's heartbreaking, it's also a story that gives hope which I always appreciate, as there can never be too much hope. (Psst...don't tell, but I think I might even prefer Ms. Waldman's style to her husband's, Michael Chabon).
2. The Outer Banks House
by Diann Ducharme
The book's synopsis from the author's website:
On the bright side, I enjoyed the characters of Abigail and Ben and their budding romance. It didn't feel fake or forced to me. Abigail was a very likable girl who despite her upbringing managed to still know right from wrong and stand up for what she believed was right. I always admire that in characters. I'd like to read more of this couple and where life leads them and how they find their place in this post-Civil War world where nothing seems certain, especially in the South.
by Ayelet WaldmanThe book's synopsis from the author's website:
Red Hook Road is a wonderful novel. Exactly the type of contemporary American fiction that I appreciate the most. The writing is like a song, flows easily and beautifully, despite the many descriptive passages. There is a lot of them, mostly as insight to people's thoughts in the wake of a terrible tragedy that forces all those affected to be more introspective. Although it's not really mentioned, the closest family of the couple got a 'wake-up' call on how short and unexpected life really is. In face of that fact, how each of them tries to go on is very engaging, especially for someone with a little bit of voyeuristic nature like me.Set on the coast of Maine over the course of four summers, Red Hoo
k Road tells the story of two families, the Tetherlys and the Copakens, and of the ways in which their lives are unraveled and stitched together by misfortune, by good intentions and failure, and by love and calamity.
A marriage collapses under the strain of a daughter’s death; two bereaved siblings find comfort in one another; and an adopted young girl breathes new life into her family with her prodigious talent for the violin. As she writes with obvious affection for these unforgettable characters, Ayelet Waldman skillfully interweaves life’s finer pleasures—music and literature—with the more mundane joys of living.
It may all sound boring to some of you, but believe me, Ms. Waldman made sure the novel was anything but. Somehow (I'm sure her talent had something to do with it), Red Hook Road turned out to be fascinating, without a boring passage in there. And even though it's heartbreaking, it's also a story that gives hope which I always appreciate, as there can never be too much hope. (Psst...don't tell, but I think I might even prefer Ms. Waldman's style to her husband's, Michael Chabon).
2. The Outer Banks House
by Diann DucharmeThe book's synopsis from the author's website:
This was my first book set in the post-Civil War time and even though it sparked my interest to read more, as it sounds like a difficult but fascinating time in American history, The Outer Banks House didn't really 'start the fire' for me. It is an ambitious subject, or many subjects, Diann took on in this book, including the Ku Klux Klan, the fate of freed slaves, even the change in status for plantation owners, who now have to deal with no free workforce and inevitable loss of money, prestige, so on and so forth. It's plenty of issues to write about and the book is only 300 pages. In my opinion it's not long enough and as a result some of these things felt superficial or slightly neglected.In 1868, on the barren shores of post-war Outer Banks North Carolina, the disconnected Sinclair family moves for the summer to one of the first cottages on the ocean side of the resort village of Nags Head. In the simple and isolated Outer Banks house, they see their deepest desires manifested in dramatic ways.
Nolan Sinclair, the once wealthy and powerful planter from Edenton, North Carolina, is fearful of losing his plantation in the Reconstruction aftermath of the Civil War. In a desperate act of assertion, he moves his family and servants to the unusual house on the sand. There, on the porch of the cottage, his 17-year-old daughter, beautiful, book-smart and boxed-in Abigail, is encouraged to teach her father’s fishing guide, good-natured, ambitious and penniless 19-year-old Benjamin Whimble, how to read and write. The two come to understand, and then to love each other, despite the demands of their parents, the pursuit of prim and proper medical student Hector Newman, and Ben’s longtime relationship with sour-tongued net-mender, Eliza Dickens.
On the bright side, I enjoyed the characters of Abigail and Ben and their budding romance. It didn't feel fake or forced to me. Abigail was a very likable girl who despite her upbringing managed to still know right from wrong and stand up for what she believed was right. I always admire that in characters. I'd like to read more of this couple and where life leads them and how they find their place in this post-Civil War world where nothing seems certain, especially in the South.
Monday, February 14, 2011
FIRST Wild Card Tour:30-Day Marriage Makeover by Doug Weiss
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Siloam (February 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Anna Coelho Silva | Publicity Coordinator, Book Group | Strang Communications for sending me a review copy.***ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Douglas Weiss, PhD, is the executive director of Heart to Heart Counseling Center in Colorado Springs, Colorado. The author of Intimacy, The Seven Love Agreements, and Sex, Men, and God, he is a regular guest on national television (both secular and Christian) as well as radio.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Based on principles from his best-selling book Intimacy, Dr. Doug Weiss offers thirty daily teachings for married Christian couples that will help them discover what true intimacy looks like, learn how to overcome the five main roadblocks to intimacy, and help them fall in love all over again.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 256 pages
Publisher: Siloam (February 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 161638140X
ISBN-13: 978-1616381400
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything you ask
for, it will be done for you by my "ather in heaven. "or where
two or three come together in my name, there am ! with them.
—Matthew 18:19–20
Throughout my years of counseling, I have discovered that many marriages lack structures to encourage intimacy. We grow up believing that one day we will get married and live happily ever after. We enter marriage ill equipped for intimacy and are disappointed when our husband or wife doesn’t possess the secret code to intimacy either.
At first marriage is fun as you begin to learn about your spouse, go to work or school, get your first apartment, pick out furniture, go to church, and are physically intimate together without guilt. The sheer complexities of your new life together, along with the many new decisions you must make, can keep you talking and sharing regularly. Slowly and subtly it happens. No one really knows when or where it happens, but something changes within the relationship. You don’t seem to talk as much.
Decisions are not met with the same excitement as when you were first married; instead, they are delegated, then discussed. Purchases become fewer, and sex and life take on a routine. You don’t feel as close but seem just to be living together. What happened? Where did the passion for one another go? Americans believe that people are either passionate or they are not. But this kind of thinking is incorrect. Passion is a dividend of consistent investments made into a relationship. Let’s reflect back a minute to when you were dating. You were selling your spouse on the idea that being married to you was a great idea. Remember the passion you had for your future spouse? Of course you remember the passion, but what you may have forgotten is the foundation of that passion, the priority of the relationship. Do you remember how you “made” time to be together? You planned your days and weeks around each other’s work schedule, including your days off. Those of you who were attending school in another city away from your future spouse, as I was, had the phone bills to prove your passion and priority. In my case, those phone bills took a giant bite out of the little income I made just so I could tell her about my day. If you were a Christian at the time, do you remember how spiritual you were? You prayed together as often as you could and perhaps even read the Bible together. You desired to know God’s will, and you wanted God to help you stay pure and still express your love to one another. Do you remember the gratitude you had for the smallest things your spouse did for you? ,is was especially true for me when Lisa cooked for me. I was so grateful! I 5lled her life with a constant stream of praise. Do you remember when you thought she was so smart and attractive and had so much potential? You believed in her and regularly encouraged her.
Understand that passion is a result of setting priorities. Too many people attempt to get back the passion instead of getting back their priorities. Once you get the priorities back, the passion follows and grows
naturally. What priorities? I will discuss priorities shortly, but before I do, I want to share an analogy I often use in counseling sessions. Many couples come in for help with sprains or fractures in their relationships. I liken the repair of a marital relationship to 5xing a broken bone. When your bone is broken, you can continue to function in a limited way, but you look and act unusual. When you go to the doctor or emergency room. The first thing the doctor does is order an X-ray of the bone. Sure enough, he looks at the structure. Regardless of how it happened, the X-ray shows a damaged structure (your bone is broken). The doctor and nurse apply a structural treatment to your structural problem in the form of a cast. The cast is a structural treatment that allows the bone to heal. The cast itself is just plastic or plaster, and it has no healing properties. But when it is applied to a broken bone to hold the bone in place, surprise! Healing can and does happen. The same thing happens when you place the priorities back into your
marriage. No matter how sprained or broken a marriage is, healing can and does take place. I have seen genuine miracles of restoration in marriages when priorities were put back into the relationship. One of
the structures I apply is what I call “the three dailies.” I want to add a personal note of testimony. As I have stated before, I would never ask you to do something that Lisa and I have not done or are not doing presently in our relationship. Lisa and I have done two of the three dailies every day for years, with only a few exceptions. When I developed the third exercise, we actively applied it to our marriage routine also.
These three exercises help Lisa and I maintain our relationship priorities. They are part of our bedtime routine. Neither of us expects to go to sleep without our relational ritual of the three dailies. They are a major highlight of my day. I get to hear about my wife’s day, hear her heart, and she gets to hear about my day and heart as well. ,is relational structure has richly developed our skill for intimacy to such a level that it can weather the day-to-day challenges of children, writing, and media demands, together with all of our other commitments. When your marriage priorities are restored, your passion will be restored. Everyone who knows me is well aware of my passion for Lisa.
I love her and really like her as well. This passion is the fruit of disciplinethat is born out of a heart of love.
THE THREE DAILIES
1. Prayer
Prayer is an absolute necessity in your marriage. I am constantly amazed when couples tell me that the last time they really prayed together, not including praying over food or a good night prayer with children, was years ago. Sometimes they say, “We both pray, just not together.” Psalm 127:1 says, “Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain.” The Lord must be part of building your house. Prayer is an active way to include the Lord as part of the building plan of your marriage.
Matthew 18:19 says, “Again, I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything you ask for, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven.” As we’ve previously noted, this verse discusses the importance
of two or more agreeing in God’s name. It doesn’t say when one agrees—it says when two agree. Since Christ’s resurrection, He intercedes with and for His bride, which is the church. The Lord sees prayer as being extremely important. God’s pleasure is for us to commune with Him not just as individuals,
but as a couple as well. Prayer is one of the priorities that must be set in place by a couple desiring more intimacy. Remember, intimacy is three dimensional, involving spirit, soul, and body. As we grow together spiritually, our intimacy in the other two areas will grow as well. Prayer is just talking aloud to God with your spouse, similar to talking with a friend. Prayer doesn’t have to take long hours in any particular
position. It is the principle of connecting with God that is essential. As a couple, within your governing style in your marriage, process the decision of daily prayer. As a result of your decision as a couple, place a
check by which of the following statements you agree with.
* We have agreed to pray daily together to improve and maintain our intimacy for the next thirty days.
* We have agreed not to pray together daily for the next thirty days, knowing that it will negatively affect our intimacy. The structure of prayer taking place within your marriage is one essential part of the three daily exercises. This structure will also be a part of your thirty-day log at the end of each day. Hopefully you have agreed to daily prayer. I know better than most that each couple has many variables. Some of these differences include sleep preferences, work schedules, children’s school and extracurricular activities, church, and fellowshiping with family and friends.
Look at your schedules. When can you pray together? In the morning? At lunch? In the evening? Take the time to discuss this with your spouse, and see if you can agree on a time to pray together. In the space below, write your first and second options to pray together.
Option one is ________ a.m./p.m.
Option two is ________ a.m./p.m.
In your thirty-day log, it’s important to track your progress regarding this exercise to maintain the consistency that ignites the passion and intimacy you both desire. Those who travel often ask how to maintain the thirty-day program while out of town. In this day of modern technology, it is a non issue for the creative person. You can use your calling card or mobile phone to pray with your spouse over the phone. This really demonstrates a commitment to maintaining your spiritual intimacy. Even if you’re in Hong Kong, you can e-mail a prayer to your wife and chat with her. Remember that the structure first brings healing, then passion. As you walk together spiritually, your intimacy over the next thirty days can
nourish.
I love walking in the garden of my life with Lisa and coming with her into the presence of our loving Father. I really believe this has been instrumental in developing the strength and intimacy of our marriage. couples come in for help with sprains or fractures in their relationships. I liken the repair of a marital relationship to fixing a broken bone. When your bone is broken, you can continue to function in a limited way, but you look and act unusual. Then you go to the doctor or emergency room.
The first thing the doctor does is order an X-ray of the bone. Sure enough, he looks at the structure. Regardless of how it happened, the X-ray shows a damaged structure (your bone is broken). The doctor and nurse apply a structural treatment to your structural problem in the form of a cast.
The cast is a structural treatment that allows the bone to heal. The cast itself is just plastic or plaster, and it has no healing properties. But when it is applied to a broken bone to hold the bone in place, surprise! Healing can and does happen.
The same thing happens when you place the priorities back into your marriage. No matter how sprained or broken a marriage is, healing can and does take place. I have seen genuine miracles of restoration in marriages when priorities were put back into the relationship. One of the structures I apply is what I call “the three dailies.”
I want to add a personal note of testimony. As I have stated before, I would never ask you to do something that Lisa and I have not done or are not doing presently in our relationship. Lisa and I have done two of
the three dailies every day for years, with only a few exceptions. When I developed the third exercise, we actively applied it to our marriage routine also.
These three exercises help Lisa and I maintain our relationship priorities. They are part of our bedtime routine. Neither of us expects to go to sleep without our relational ritual of the three dailies.
They are a major highlight of my day. I get to hear about my wife’s day, hear her heart, and she gets to hear about my day and heart as well. ,is relational structure has richly developed our skill for intimacy to such a
level that it can weather the day-to-day challenges of children, writing, and media demands, together with all of our other commitments.
When your marriage priorities are restored, your passion will be restored. Everyone who knows me is well aware of my passion for Lisa.
I love her and really like her as well. ,is passion is the fruit of discipline that is born out of a heart of love.
THE THREE DAILIES
1. Prayer
Prayer is an absolute necessity in your marriage. I am constantly amazed when couples tell me that the last time they really prayed together, not including praying over food or a good night prayer with children, was years ago. Sometimes they say, “We both pray, just not together.”
Psalm 127:1 says, “Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain.” The Lord must be part of building your house. Prayer is an active way to include the Lord as part of the building plan of your
marriage.
Matthew 18:19 says, “Again, I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything you ask for, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven.” As we’ve previously noted, this verse discusses the importance
of two or more agreeing in God’s name. It doesn’t say when one agrees— it says when two agree.
Since Christ’s resurrection, He intercedes with and for His bride, which is the church. The Lord sees prayer as being extremely important. God’s pleasure is for us to commune with Him not just as individuals,
but as a couple as well.
Prayer is one of the priorities that must be set in place by a couple desiring more intimacy. Remember, intimacy is three dimensional, involving spirit, soul, and body. As we grow together spiritually, our
intimacy in the other two areas will grow as well.
Prayer is just talking aloud to God with your spouse, similar to talking with a friend. Prayer doesn’t have to take long hours in any particular position. It is the principle of connecting with God that is essential.
As a couple, within your governing style in your marriage, process the decision of daily prayer. As a result of your decision as a couple, place a check by which of the following statements you agree with.
We have agreed to pray daily together to improve and maintain our intimacy for the next thirty days.
We have agreed not to pray together daily for the next thirty days, knowing that it will negatively affect our intimacy.
The structure of prayer taking place within your marriage is one essential part of the three daily exercises. This structure will also be a part of your thirty-day log at the end of each day.
Hopefully you have agreed to daily prayer. I know better than most that each couple has many variables. Some of these differences include sleep preferences, work schedules, children’s school and extracurricular
activities, church, and fellowshiping with family and friends.
Look at your schedules. When can you pray together? In the morning? At lunch? In the evening? Take the time to discuss this with your spouse, and see if you can agree on a time to pray together. In the space below, write your first and second options to pray together.
Option one is ________ a.m./p.m.
Option two is ________ a.m./p.m.
In your thirty-day log, it’s important to track your progress regarding this exercise to maintain the consistency that ignites the passion and intimacy you both desire.
Those who travel often ask how to maintain the thirty-day program while out of town. In this day of modern technology, it is a non issue for the creative person. You can use your calling card or mobile phone to pray with your spouse over the phone. This really demonstrates a commitment to maintaining your spiritual intimacy. Even if you’re in Hong Kong, you can e-mail a prayer to your wife and chat with her.
Remember that the structure first brings healing, then passion. As you walk together spiritually, your intimacy over the next thirty days can nourish.
I love walking in the garden of my life with Lisa and coming with her into the presence of our loving Father. I really believe this has been instrumental in developing the strength and intimacy of our marriage.
for, it will be done for you by my "ather in heaven. "or where
two or three come together in my name, there am ! with them.
—Matthew 18:19–20
Throughout my years of counseling, I have discovered that many marriages lack structures to encourage intimacy. We grow up believing that one day we will get married and live happily ever after. We enter marriage ill equipped for intimacy and are disappointed when our husband or wife doesn’t possess the secret code to intimacy either.
At first marriage is fun as you begin to learn about your spouse, go to work or school, get your first apartment, pick out furniture, go to church, and are physically intimate together without guilt. The sheer complexities of your new life together, along with the many new decisions you must make, can keep you talking and sharing regularly. Slowly and subtly it happens. No one really knows when or where it happens, but something changes within the relationship. You don’t seem to talk as much.
Decisions are not met with the same excitement as when you were first married; instead, they are delegated, then discussed. Purchases become fewer, and sex and life take on a routine. You don’t feel as close but seem just to be living together. What happened? Where did the passion for one another go? Americans believe that people are either passionate or they are not. But this kind of thinking is incorrect. Passion is a dividend of consistent investments made into a relationship. Let’s reflect back a minute to when you were dating. You were selling your spouse on the idea that being married to you was a great idea. Remember the passion you had for your future spouse? Of course you remember the passion, but what you may have forgotten is the foundation of that passion, the priority of the relationship. Do you remember how you “made” time to be together? You planned your days and weeks around each other’s work schedule, including your days off. Those of you who were attending school in another city away from your future spouse, as I was, had the phone bills to prove your passion and priority. In my case, those phone bills took a giant bite out of the little income I made just so I could tell her about my day. If you were a Christian at the time, do you remember how spiritual you were? You prayed together as often as you could and perhaps even read the Bible together. You desired to know God’s will, and you wanted God to help you stay pure and still express your love to one another. Do you remember the gratitude you had for the smallest things your spouse did for you? ,is was especially true for me when Lisa cooked for me. I was so grateful! I 5lled her life with a constant stream of praise. Do you remember when you thought she was so smart and attractive and had so much potential? You believed in her and regularly encouraged her.
Understand that passion is a result of setting priorities. Too many people attempt to get back the passion instead of getting back their priorities. Once you get the priorities back, the passion follows and grows
naturally. What priorities? I will discuss priorities shortly, but before I do, I want to share an analogy I often use in counseling sessions. Many couples come in for help with sprains or fractures in their relationships. I liken the repair of a marital relationship to 5xing a broken bone. When your bone is broken, you can continue to function in a limited way, but you look and act unusual. When you go to the doctor or emergency room. The first thing the doctor does is order an X-ray of the bone. Sure enough, he looks at the structure. Regardless of how it happened, the X-ray shows a damaged structure (your bone is broken). The doctor and nurse apply a structural treatment to your structural problem in the form of a cast. The cast is a structural treatment that allows the bone to heal. The cast itself is just plastic or plaster, and it has no healing properties. But when it is applied to a broken bone to hold the bone in place, surprise! Healing can and does happen. The same thing happens when you place the priorities back into your
marriage. No matter how sprained or broken a marriage is, healing can and does take place. I have seen genuine miracles of restoration in marriages when priorities were put back into the relationship. One of
the structures I apply is what I call “the three dailies.” I want to add a personal note of testimony. As I have stated before, I would never ask you to do something that Lisa and I have not done or are not doing presently in our relationship. Lisa and I have done two of the three dailies every day for years, with only a few exceptions. When I developed the third exercise, we actively applied it to our marriage routine also.
These three exercises help Lisa and I maintain our relationship priorities. They are part of our bedtime routine. Neither of us expects to go to sleep without our relational ritual of the three dailies. They are a major highlight of my day. I get to hear about my wife’s day, hear her heart, and she gets to hear about my day and heart as well. ,is relational structure has richly developed our skill for intimacy to such a level that it can weather the day-to-day challenges of children, writing, and media demands, together with all of our other commitments. When your marriage priorities are restored, your passion will be restored. Everyone who knows me is well aware of my passion for Lisa.
I love her and really like her as well. This passion is the fruit of disciplinethat is born out of a heart of love.
THE THREE DAILIES
1. Prayer
Prayer is an absolute necessity in your marriage. I am constantly amazed when couples tell me that the last time they really prayed together, not including praying over food or a good night prayer with children, was years ago. Sometimes they say, “We both pray, just not together.” Psalm 127:1 says, “Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain.” The Lord must be part of building your house. Prayer is an active way to include the Lord as part of the building plan of your marriage.
Matthew 18:19 says, “Again, I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything you ask for, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven.” As we’ve previously noted, this verse discusses the importance
of two or more agreeing in God’s name. It doesn’t say when one agrees—it says when two agree. Since Christ’s resurrection, He intercedes with and for His bride, which is the church. The Lord sees prayer as being extremely important. God’s pleasure is for us to commune with Him not just as individuals,
but as a couple as well. Prayer is one of the priorities that must be set in place by a couple desiring more intimacy. Remember, intimacy is three dimensional, involving spirit, soul, and body. As we grow together spiritually, our intimacy in the other two areas will grow as well. Prayer is just talking aloud to God with your spouse, similar to talking with a friend. Prayer doesn’t have to take long hours in any particular
position. It is the principle of connecting with God that is essential. As a couple, within your governing style in your marriage, process the decision of daily prayer. As a result of your decision as a couple, place a
check by which of the following statements you agree with.
* We have agreed to pray daily together to improve and maintain our intimacy for the next thirty days.
* We have agreed not to pray together daily for the next thirty days, knowing that it will negatively affect our intimacy. The structure of prayer taking place within your marriage is one essential part of the three daily exercises. This structure will also be a part of your thirty-day log at the end of each day. Hopefully you have agreed to daily prayer. I know better than most that each couple has many variables. Some of these differences include sleep preferences, work schedules, children’s school and extracurricular activities, church, and fellowshiping with family and friends.
Look at your schedules. When can you pray together? In the morning? At lunch? In the evening? Take the time to discuss this with your spouse, and see if you can agree on a time to pray together. In the space below, write your first and second options to pray together.
Option one is ________ a.m./p.m.
Option two is ________ a.m./p.m.
In your thirty-day log, it’s important to track your progress regarding this exercise to maintain the consistency that ignites the passion and intimacy you both desire. Those who travel often ask how to maintain the thirty-day program while out of town. In this day of modern technology, it is a non issue for the creative person. You can use your calling card or mobile phone to pray with your spouse over the phone. This really demonstrates a commitment to maintaining your spiritual intimacy. Even if you’re in Hong Kong, you can e-mail a prayer to your wife and chat with her. Remember that the structure first brings healing, then passion. As you walk together spiritually, your intimacy over the next thirty days can
nourish.
I love walking in the garden of my life with Lisa and coming with her into the presence of our loving Father. I really believe this has been instrumental in developing the strength and intimacy of our marriage. couples come in for help with sprains or fractures in their relationships. I liken the repair of a marital relationship to fixing a broken bone. When your bone is broken, you can continue to function in a limited way, but you look and act unusual. Then you go to the doctor or emergency room.
The first thing the doctor does is order an X-ray of the bone. Sure enough, he looks at the structure. Regardless of how it happened, the X-ray shows a damaged structure (your bone is broken). The doctor and nurse apply a structural treatment to your structural problem in the form of a cast.
The cast is a structural treatment that allows the bone to heal. The cast itself is just plastic or plaster, and it has no healing properties. But when it is applied to a broken bone to hold the bone in place, surprise! Healing can and does happen.
The same thing happens when you place the priorities back into your marriage. No matter how sprained or broken a marriage is, healing can and does take place. I have seen genuine miracles of restoration in marriages when priorities were put back into the relationship. One of the structures I apply is what I call “the three dailies.”
I want to add a personal note of testimony. As I have stated before, I would never ask you to do something that Lisa and I have not done or are not doing presently in our relationship. Lisa and I have done two of
the three dailies every day for years, with only a few exceptions. When I developed the third exercise, we actively applied it to our marriage routine also.
These three exercises help Lisa and I maintain our relationship priorities. They are part of our bedtime routine. Neither of us expects to go to sleep without our relational ritual of the three dailies.
They are a major highlight of my day. I get to hear about my wife’s day, hear her heart, and she gets to hear about my day and heart as well. ,is relational structure has richly developed our skill for intimacy to such a
level that it can weather the day-to-day challenges of children, writing, and media demands, together with all of our other commitments.
When your marriage priorities are restored, your passion will be restored. Everyone who knows me is well aware of my passion for Lisa.
I love her and really like her as well. ,is passion is the fruit of discipline that is born out of a heart of love.
THE THREE DAILIES
1. Prayer
Prayer is an absolute necessity in your marriage. I am constantly amazed when couples tell me that the last time they really prayed together, not including praying over food or a good night prayer with children, was years ago. Sometimes they say, “We both pray, just not together.”
Psalm 127:1 says, “Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain.” The Lord must be part of building your house. Prayer is an active way to include the Lord as part of the building plan of your
marriage.
Matthew 18:19 says, “Again, I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything you ask for, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven.” As we’ve previously noted, this verse discusses the importance
of two or more agreeing in God’s name. It doesn’t say when one agrees— it says when two agree.
Since Christ’s resurrection, He intercedes with and for His bride, which is the church. The Lord sees prayer as being extremely important. God’s pleasure is for us to commune with Him not just as individuals,
but as a couple as well.
Prayer is one of the priorities that must be set in place by a couple desiring more intimacy. Remember, intimacy is three dimensional, involving spirit, soul, and body. As we grow together spiritually, our
intimacy in the other two areas will grow as well.
Prayer is just talking aloud to God with your spouse, similar to talking with a friend. Prayer doesn’t have to take long hours in any particular position. It is the principle of connecting with God that is essential.
As a couple, within your governing style in your marriage, process the decision of daily prayer. As a result of your decision as a couple, place a check by which of the following statements you agree with.
We have agreed to pray daily together to improve and maintain our intimacy for the next thirty days.
We have agreed not to pray together daily for the next thirty days, knowing that it will negatively affect our intimacy.
The structure of prayer taking place within your marriage is one essential part of the three daily exercises. This structure will also be a part of your thirty-day log at the end of each day.
Hopefully you have agreed to daily prayer. I know better than most that each couple has many variables. Some of these differences include sleep preferences, work schedules, children’s school and extracurricular
activities, church, and fellowshiping with family and friends.
Look at your schedules. When can you pray together? In the morning? At lunch? In the evening? Take the time to discuss this with your spouse, and see if you can agree on a time to pray together. In the space below, write your first and second options to pray together.
Option one is ________ a.m./p.m.
Option two is ________ a.m./p.m.
In your thirty-day log, it’s important to track your progress regarding this exercise to maintain the consistency that ignites the passion and intimacy you both desire.
Those who travel often ask how to maintain the thirty-day program while out of town. In this day of modern technology, it is a non issue for the creative person. You can use your calling card or mobile phone to pray with your spouse over the phone. This really demonstrates a commitment to maintaining your spiritual intimacy. Even if you’re in Hong Kong, you can e-mail a prayer to your wife and chat with her.
Remember that the structure first brings healing, then passion. As you walk together spiritually, your intimacy over the next thirty days can nourish.
I love walking in the garden of my life with Lisa and coming with her into the presence of our loving Father. I really believe this has been instrumental in developing the strength and intimacy of our marriage.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Black Hills by Dan Simmons Audio Book Giveaway Results
The giveaway for Black Hills
by Dan Simmons ended last night. The winner has been chosen and notified via email.Susan is a winner.
Congratulations!!!
(international) by Ally Condie giveaways.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Matched by Ally Condie International Giveaway!!!
I am giving away an ARC of Matched by Ally Condie. Here's the synopsis from the book's website :
Giveaway 411:
1. Please leave a comment with your email or a way to contact me (if you have an email in your profile, no need to leave it here).
2. This giveaway is open internationally!!!
3. Deadline for entries is February 23rd, 2011. The winner will be announced on February 24th, 2011.
An extra entry:
Become a follower of my blog for one extra entry. Please leave a separate comment if you do. If you already are a follower, please also leave a separate comment letting me know.
by Ally Condie. Here's the synopsis from the book's website :And below is the photo of an actual copy one of you will win. I am posting it because since it is an ARC, it looks nothing like the finished product and I don't want any of my readers ending up disappointed when they open the package. This could also ruin your reading experience before you even open the book and I certainly don't want that.
Cassia has always trusted their choices. It’s hardly any price to pay for a long life, the perfect job, the ideal mate. So when her best friend appears on the Matching screen, Cassia knows with complete certainty that he is the one… until she sees another face flash for an instant before the screen fades to black. Now Cassia is faced with impossible choices: between Xander and Ky, between the only life she’s known and a path no one else has ever dared follow — between perfection and passion.
Giveaway 411:
1. Please leave a comment with your email or a way to contact me (if you have an email in your profile, no need to leave it here).
2. This giveaway is open internationally!!!
3. Deadline for entries is February 23rd, 2011. The winner will be announced on February 24th, 2011.
An extra entry:
Become a follower of my blog for one extra entry. Please leave a separate comment if you do. If you already are a follower, please also leave a separate comment letting me know.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
January Reads
1. Where Are the Cocoa Puffs by Karen Winters Schwartz – mental illness, contemporary fiction
2. The Book of Tomorrow by Cecelia Ahern – YA fiction, Irish author
3. The Weird Sisters by Eleanor Brown – contemporary American fiction
4. Queen Hereafter by Susan Fraser King – historical fiction, Scotland
5. The Dressmaker by Posie Graeme-Evans – historical fiction, Victorian England
6. The Anatomy of Ghosts by Andrew Taylor – historical fiction, suspense, literary thriller, England
7. Matched by Ally Condie – YA, dystopian, sci-fi
8. Hailey’s War
by Jodi Compton – thriller9. My Reading Life by Pat Conroy – memoir
10. To Defy a King
by Elizabeth Chadwick – historical fiction, England
To Defy a King
, My Reading Life
and The Weird Sisters
were definitely the very best books of the month. They all couldn't be more different as far as the subject matter goes but it was a pure pleasure to read them. The whole month of January was a good one as far as quality of the reads goes. There really isn't one book that I would call a disappointment and all I could say, I hope this streak of good luck keeps up for this month.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey Giveaway Results
The giveaway for The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating
by Elisabeth Tova Bailey ended last night. The winner has been chosen and notified via email.Becca from Complete and Utter Poppycock is a winner.
Congratulations!!!
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Anatomy of Ghosts by Andrew Taylor Giveaway!
I am giving away one ARC of The Anatomy of Ghosts by Andrew Taylor. It's just been released a couple of weeks ago and it's not a bad literary thriller. A lot of people even say, it's great. Below's the synopsis, so you can judge for yourself.
Giveaway 411:
1. Please leave a comment with your email or a way to contact me (if you have an email in your profile, no need to leave it here).
2. Due to the shipping costs, this one is open to the U.S. and Canada residents only.
3. Deadline for entries is February 17th, 2011. The winner will be announced on February 18th, 2011.
An extra entry:
Become a follower of my blog for one extra entry. Please leave a separate comment if you do. If you already are a follower, please also leave a separate comment letting me know.
1786, Jerusalem College, Cambridge
They say Jerusalem is haunted by Mrs Whichcote's ghost.Frank Oldershaw claims he saw her in the garden, where she drowned. Now he's under the care of a physician.
Desperate to salvage her son's reputation and restore him to health, Lady Anne Oldershaw employs her own agent - John Holdsworth, author of The Anatomy of Ghosts, a controversial attack on the existence of ghostly phenomena. But his arrival in Cambridge disrupts the uneasy status quo. He glimpses a world of privilege and abuse, where the sinister Holy Ghost Club governs life at Jerusalem more effectively than the Master, Dr Carbury, ever could.
But Holdsworth's powers of reason and his knowledge of natural philosophy have other challenges. He dreams of his dead wife, Maria, who roams the borders of death. Now there's Elinor, the very-much-alive Master's wife, to haunt him in life. And at the heart of it all is the mystery of what really happened to Sylvia Whichcote in the claustrophobic confines of Jerusalem.
Why was Sylvia found lying dead in the Long Pond just before a February dawn? And how did she die? Indeed, why was she at Jerusalem, living or dead, in the first place?
Giveaway 411:
1. Please leave a comment with your email or a way to contact me (if you have an email in your profile, no need to leave it here).
2. Due to the shipping costs, this one is open to the U.S. and Canada residents only.
3. Deadline for entries is February 17th, 2011. The winner will be announced on February 18th, 2011.
An extra entry:
Become a follower of my blog for one extra entry. Please leave a separate comment if you do. If you already are a follower, please also leave a separate comment letting me know.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
FIRST Wild Card Tour:Words by Ginny Yttrup
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
B&H Books (February 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Julie Gwinn, Trade Book Marketing, B&H Publishing Group for sending me a review copy.***ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ginny L. Yttrup is an accomplished freelance writer, speaker, and life coach who also ministers to women wounded by sexual trauma. Her blogs include Fiction Creator, My Daily Light, and Crossings Life Coaching. She has two grown sons and lives in California. Words is her first novel.Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
“I collect words. I keep them in a box in my mind. Whenever I wanted, I’d open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box. But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can’t take them.”
Ten-year old Kaylee Wren doesn’t speak. Not since her drug-addled mother walked away, leaving her in a remote cabin nestled in the towering redwoods-in the care of a man who is as dangerous as he is evil. With silence her only refuge, Kaylee collects words she might never speak from the only memento her mother left behind: a dictionary.
Sierra Dawn is thirty-four, an artist, and alone. She has allowed the shame of her past to silence her present hopes and chooses to bury her pain by trying to control her circumstances. But on the twelfth anniversary of her daughter’s death, Sierra’s control begins to crumble as the God of her childhood woos her back to Himself.
Brought together by Divine design, Kaylee and Sierra will discover together the healing mercy of the Word—Jesus Christ.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: B&H Books (February 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1433671700
ISBN-13: 978-1433671708
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
“In the beginning was the Word.”
John 1:1
“All those things for which we have no words are lost. The mind—the culture—has two little tools, grammar and lexicon: a decorated sand bucket and a matching shovel. With these we bluster about the continents and do all the world’s work. With these we try to save our very lives.”
Annie Dillard
Chapter One
Kaylee
I collect words.
I keep them in a box in my mind. I’d like to keep them in a real box, something pretty, maybe a shoe box covered with flowered wrapping paper. I’d write my words on scraps of paper and then put them in the box. Whenever I wanted, I’d open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box.
But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can’t take them.
The dictionary is heavy on my lap. I’m on page 1,908. I’m reading through the Ss. When I finish the Zs, I’ll start all over again.
Su-per-flu-ous.
I like that word. It means something extra, something special, something you don’t need. It’s super. But you don’t need super. You just need good enough.
How does it sound when someone says it?
I didn’t really think about how words sound until I stopped talking. I didn’t mean to stop talking, it just sort of happened.
My mom left.
I got scared.
And the words got stuck.
Now I just read the words and then listen for them on the little radio in the kitchen, the only superfluous thing we have.
As I read, my hair falls across my eyes. I push it out of the way, but it falls back. I push it out of the way again, but this time my fingers catch in a tangle. I work for a minute trying to separate the hairs and smooth them down.
When my mom was here, she combed my hair most mornings. Our hair is the same. “Stick straight and dark as soot.” That’s what she used to say.
It hurt when she pulled the comb through my hair. “Kaylee, stop squirming,” she’d tell me. “It’ll pull more if you move.”
Sometimes I’d cry when the comb caught in a knot and she’d get impatient and tell me to stop whining.
Maybe that’s why she left. Maybe she got tired of my whining.
That’s what he says. He tells me she didn’t love me anymore—that she wanted out. But I don’t believe him. I think something happened to her, an accident or something.
She probably has amnesia. I read that word in the dictionary.
That’s when you hit your head so hard on something that you pass out and have to go to the hospital and when you wake up, you don’t remember anything. Not even your name.
Not even that you have a daughter.
I think that’s what happened to my mom. When she remembers, she’ll come back and get me.
So I just wait. I won’t leave. If I leave, she won’t know where to find me.
And when she comes back, I’ll be good. I won’t whine anymore.
I was nine when she left. Now, I’m ten. I’ll be eleven the day after Christmas. I always know it’s near my birthday when they start playing all the bell songs on the radio. I like Silver Bells. I like to think about the city sidewalks and all the people dressed in holiday style. But Jingle Bells is my favorite. Dashing through the snow on a one-horse open sleigh sounds fun.
It’s not near my birthday yet. It’s still warm outside.
As the sun sets, the cabin gets dark inside, too dark to read. He didn’t pay the electric bill, again. I hope he pays it before Christmas or I won’t hear the songs on the radio.
Before I put the dictionary away, I turn to the front page and run my fingers across the writing scribbled there. “Lee and Katherine Wren. Congratulations.
Lee and Katherine are my parents. Were my parents. Are my parents. I’m not sure.
My mom told me that the dictionary was a gift from her Aunt Adele. Mom thought it was kind of a funny wedding gift, but she liked it and kept it even after Lee left. We used it a lot. Sometimes when I’d ask her a question about what something was or what something meant, she’d say, “Go get the dictionary Kaylee, we’ll look it up.” Then she’d show me how to find the word, and we’d read the definition. Most of the time she’d make me sound out the words and read them to her. Only sometimes did she read them to me. But most of the time when I asked her a question, she told me to be quiet. She liked it best when I was quiet.
I miss my mom. But the dictionary makes me feel like part of her is still here. While she’s gone, the dictionary is mine. I have to take care of it. So just like I always do before I put the book away, I ask a silent favor: Please don’t let him notice it. Please don’t let him take it.
I put the dictionary back under the board that makes up a crooked shelf. The splintered wood pricks the tip of one finger as I lift the board and shove the dictionary under. The shelf is supported on one end by two cinderblocks and by one cinderblock and three books on the other end.
I remember the day she set up the shelf. I followed her out the front door and down the steps, and then watched her kneel in the dirt and pull out three concrete blocks she’d found under the steps. She dusted dirt and cobwebs from the cracks and then carried each block inside. She stacked two blocks one on top of the other at one end of the room and then spaced the last block at the other end of the room, under the window.
“Kaylee, hand me a few books from that box. Get big ones.”
I reached into the box and pulled out the biggest book—the dictionary. Then I handed her the other two books. She stacked them on top of the block and then laid a board across the books and blocks.
Even at seven, I knew what she was doing. We’d move in with a boyfriend and Mom would get us “settled” which meant she’d move in our things—our clothes, books, and a few toys for me. She’d rearrange the apartment, or house—or this time, the cabin—and make it “homey.”
After she made the shelf, she lined up our books. Then she placed a vase of wildflowers we’d collected that morning on the end of the shelf. She stood back and looked at what she’d done. Her smile told me she liked it.
The cabin was small, but of all the places we’d lived, I could tell this was her favorite. And this boyfriend seemed nice enough at first, so I hoped maybe we’d stay this time.
We did stay. Or at least I stayed. So now I’m the one arranging the shelf and I’m careful to put it back just as it was. Our books are gone. In their place I return two beer bottles, one with a sharp edge of broken glass, to their dust-free circles on the shelf. I pick up the long-empty bag of Frito Lay corn chips and, before leaning the bag against the broken bottle, I hold it open close to my face and breathe in. The smell of corn and salt make my stomach growl.
Once I’m sure everything looks just as it was on the shelf, I crawl to my mattress in the corner of the room and sit, Indian-style, with my back against the wall and watch the shadows. Light shines between the boards across the broken front window; shadows of leaves and branches move across the walls, ceiling, and door. Above my head I hear a rat or squirrel on the roof. Its movement scatters pine needles and something—a pinecone, I imagine—rolls from the top of the roof, over my head, and then drops into the bed of fallen needles around the front steps.
This is the longest part of the day—when it’s too dark to read.
When I read…
I forget.
That’s how it works.
Once the sun goes down, I don’t leave the cabin. I’m afraid he’ll come back after work and find me gone. He’s told me not to leave because he’d find me and I’d be sorry.
I believe him. believe --verb 1. to take as true, real, etc. 2. to have confidence in a statement or promise of (another person).
My legs go numb under my body and my eyes feel heavy, but I don’t sleep. Sleep isn’t safe. Instead, I close my eyes for just a minute and see flames against the backs of my eyelids. They burn everything my mom and I brought to the cabin.
I remember the hissing and popping as the nighttime drizzle hit the bonfire. And I remember his laughter.
“She’s gone for good, Kaylee. She ain’t comin back.” He cackled like an old witch as he threw more gasoline on the flames.
The smoke filled my nose and stung my lungs as I watched Lamby, the stuffed animal I’d slept with since I was a baby, burn along with most of our clothes and books.
The only exceptions were the three books he hadn’t noticed holding up the shelf. My tears couldn’t put out the fire, and I finally stopped crying. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and stepped away from the blaze. I squared my shoulders and stood as tall as I could. Something changed in me that night. I couldn’t be little anymore. I had to be grown up.
I open my eyes and reach my hand under the corner of the mattress. My fingers dig into the hole in the canvas, feeling for the music box that had been inside Lamby. I’d found it in the ashes the morning after the fire. I tug it free, then wind the key and hold it up to my ear. As the music plays, I remember the words of the song that Grammy taught me just before she died. Jesus loves me, this I know…
The song makes me feel sad.
I don’t think Jesus loves me anymore.
Eventually, I must fall asleep, because I wake up startled—mouth dry, palms damp, and my heart pounding.
I hear the noise that woke me, the crunching of leaves and pine needles. I listen. Are his steps steady, even? No. Two steps. Pause. A dragging sound. Pause. A thud as he stumbles. Pause. Will he get up? Or has he passed out? Please let him be out. A metal taste fills my mouth as I hear him struggle to get back on his feet.
“Kay—leeee?” He slurs. “You up? Lemme in.”
He bangs his fist on the front door, which hasn’t locked or even shut tight since the night he aimed his .22 at the doorknob and blew it to pieces.
The door gives way under the pressure of his fist. As it swings open, he pounds again but misses and falls into the cabin. He goes straight down and hits the floor, head first. A gurgling sound comes from his throat, and I smell the vomit before I see it pooled around his face.
I hope he’ll drown in it.
But he won’t die tonight.
Instead, he heaves himself onto his back and reaches for the split on his forehead where, even in the dark, I can see the blood trickling into his left eye. Then his hand slides down past his ear and drops to the floor. At the sound of his snoring, I exhale. I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Waiting…waiting…waiting.
Chapter Two
Sierra
Cocooned in crocheted warmth, I slip my hands from beneath the afghan and reach for my journal—a notebook filled with snippets of feelings and phrases. I jot a line: Like shards of glass slivering my soul. I set pen and journal aside and warm my hands around my ritual mug of Earl Gray, considering the phrase. I like the cadence of the alliteration. I see shining slivers piercing an ambiguous soul. I see a canvas layered in hues of red, russet, and black.
A memory calls my name, but I turn away. There will be time for memories later.
I close my eyes against the flame of color igniting the morning sky and allow my body the luxury of relaxing. I breathe deep intentional breaths, exhaling slowly, allowing mind and body to find a like rhythm. With each breath I let go, one by one, the anxieties of the past week.
Prints—signed and numbered. Five hundred in all.
Contract negotiations with two new galleries. Done.
Showing in Carmel last night. Successful.
Mortgage paid. On time for once.
Van Gogh neutered. What did the vet say? “He’s lost his manhood—be gentle with him. He’ll need a few days to recoup.” Good grief.
A whimper interrupts my reverie. The afghan unfurls as I get up and pad across the deck back into the bungalow. Van presses his nose through the cross-hatch door of his crate—his woeful expression speaking volumes. I open the cage and the spry mutt I met at the shelter a few days before staggers toward the deck, tail between his legs. I translate his body language as utter humiliation and feel guilty for my responsible choice.
“Sorry pal, it’s the only way I could spring you from the shelter. They made me do it.” His ears perk and then droop. His salt and pepper coat bristles against my hand, while his ears are cashmere soft. He sighs and drifts back to sleep while I wonder at the wisdom of adopting an animal that’s already getting under my skin. I consider packing him up and taking him back before it’s too late. Instead, I brace myself and concede “Okay, I’ll love you—but just a little.” He twitches in response.
The distant throttle of fishing boats leaving the harbor and the bickering of gulls overhead break the morning silence followed by the ringing of the phone. I smile and reach for the phone lying under my journal.
“Hi, Margaret.” No need to answer with a questioning “Hello?” There’s only one person I know who dares calling at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday.
Laughter sings through the phone line. “Shannon, when are you going to stop calling me Margaret?”
I dubbed her that after the indomitable Margaret Thatcher, prime minister of her homeland. Her unwavering British accent, even after nearly half a century in the United States, and her strength under pressure inspired the nickname. It fits.
“Well, as I’ve told you, I’ll stop calling you Margaret when you stop calling me Shannon. Need I remind you that I haven’t been Shannon in over a decade?”
“Oh, right. Let’s see, what is your name now? Sahara Dust? Sequoia Dew?”
I play along. “Does Sierra Dawn ring a bell?”
“Right, Sierra Dawn, beautiful name. But you’ll always be Shannon Diane to me.”
The smile in her voice chases the shadows from my heart. “Okay, Mother. I mean Margaret.” I pull my knees to my chest and reach for the afghan as I settle back in the weathered Adirondack for our conversation.
“Sierra, I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Of course not. What is it you say, ‘You can take the girl out of the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the girl.’”
“That’s my girl. Your daddy’s been out in the fields since 6:00 but he let me sleep. I just got up and thought I’d share a cup of tea with you.”
I do a quick pacific/central time conversion and realize with some alarm that it’s 9:00 a.m. in Texas.
“You slept until 9:00? You never sleep that late. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, darling, I’m simply getting old. I had to get up three times during the night and by this morning I just wanted to sleep. So I indulged.”
“Well, good for you. I’m glad you called. You know my favorite Saturday mornings are spent with you and Earl.”
“I’m not drinking Earl.”
A startling confession. “You’re not? What are you drinking?”
“Sierra, I’m drinking Lemon Zinger!” Her declaration is followed by a giggle that sounds anything but old.
I stretch my long legs and cross them at the ankles and lean my head against the back of the chair. I feel as though my mother, with gentle skill, has distracted me while she’s worked to remove a few of those slivers imbedded in my soul. But unless I stop brushing up against my splintered history, the slivers will return—or so she tells me.
Just before we hang up, she says, “Shannon—” there’s such tenderness in her voice that I let the slip pass— “are you going to the cemetery today?”
Her question tears open the wound, exposing the underlying infection. I imagine her practicality won’t allow her to leave the wound festering any longer; instead she lances my heart.
I lean forward. “Yes, Mother. You know I will.” My tone is tight, closed. But I can’t seem to help it.
“Darling, it’s time to let go—it’s been twelve years. It’s time to grasp grace and move on.”
The fringe of the afghan I’ve played with as we’ve talked is now twisted tight around my index finger, cutting off the circulation. “What are you saying? That I should just forget—just let go and walk away— never think about it again? You know I can’t do that.”
“Not forget, Sierra— forgive. It’s time.”
“Mother, you know I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Yes, I know. But you need to at least think about it. Think about the truth. Ask yourself what’s true.”
I sigh at my mother’s oft repeated words and grunt my consent before I hang up— or “ring off” as she would say.
I left Texas at eighteen and headed to California, sure that was where I’d “find myself.” On the day I left, my daddy stood at the driver’s door of my overstuffed used station wagon gazing at the hundreds of acres of soil he’d readied for planting in the fall and gave me what I think of now as my own “Great Commission.” In the vernacular of the Bible Belt, my daddy, a farmer with the soul of a poet, sent me out into the world with a purpose.
“Honey, do you know why I farm?”
At eighteen I’d never considered the “why” of what my parents did. “No, Daddy. Why?”
“Farming’s not something that can be done alone. I till the ground, plant the seeds, and irrigate. But it’s the rising and setting of the sun and the changing of the seasons that cause the grain to grow. Farming is a partnership with the Creator. Each year when I reap the harvest, I marvel at a Creator who allows me the honor of co-creating with him.”
He’d stopped staring at the fields and instead looked straight at me. “Look for what the Creator wants you to do, Shannon. He wants to share his creativity with you. He wants to partner with you. You find what he wants you to do.”
With that, he planted a kiss on my forehead and shut the door of my car. With my daddy’s commission tucked in my heart, I left in search of my life. My older brother, Jeff, was already in California completing his final year in the agricultural school at Cal-Poly in San Luis Obispo. Tired of dorm life, Jeff and two friends rented a house in town and told me I could rent a room from them for the year. I was thrilled.
Our neighbors and Mother and Daddy’s friends couldn’t understand why they’d let me “run off” to California. In their minds, California was a dark place where drugs and sex ruled. But Daddy assured them California was not the Sodom and Gomorrah they imagined. He should know. His roots were in California. He was born and raised there. Jeff and I grew up hearing about the Golden State and were determined we’d see it for ourselves one day. College in California seemed a logical choice to both of us.
As I headed west, I thought of my parents and what I’d learned from each of them through the years. Daddy taught me to see. Where others in our community saw grain, Daddy saw God. He always encouraged me in his quiet and simple way to look beyond the obvious. “Look beyond a person’s actions and see their heart. Look for what’s causing them to act the way they act, then you’ll understand them better.”
When I was about twelve, Mother and Daddy took us with them down to Galveston for a week. Daddy was there for an American Farm Bureau meeting. After the meeting, we stayed for a few rare days of vacation. I remember standing on the beach and looking out at the flat sea, Daddy pulled me close and pointed at the surf and asked, “What do you see?”
“The ocean?” I asked it more than stated.
“Yes, but there’s more. You’re seeing God’s power.”
I must have seemed unimpressed because Daddy laughed. “It’s there Shan, someday you’ll see it. But, I’ll admit it’s easier to see it in the crashing surf and jagged cliffs of the California coastline.”
I didn’t understand what he meant then—and I’m still not sure I fully understand—but back then my daddy’s description of the California coastline followed me as I was off to see it for myself.
My mother taught me to look for something else. “What’s the truth, Shannon?” she’d ask over and over, challenging me to choose what was right. She taught me to analyze a situation and then make a decision that represented the truth foundational to our family.
Most often the truth she spoke of was found in the big family Bible she’d brought with her from England. She’d lay the book out on the kitchen table and open it to the book of John in the New Testament and she’d read from the King James version: “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
“There’s freedom in the truth, Shannon. You remember that,” she’d say.
Again, I’m only now beginning to understand what she meant. But these were the lessons from home that I carried with me to California.
So why hadn’t I applied those lessons? Why I had I wandered so far from my parents’ truth?
Those are questions I’d ask myself many times over. I’d yet to find the answers.
John 1:1
“All those things for which we have no words are lost. The mind—the culture—has two little tools, grammar and lexicon: a decorated sand bucket and a matching shovel. With these we bluster about the continents and do all the world’s work. With these we try to save our very lives.”
Annie Dillard
Chapter One
Kaylee
I collect words.
I keep them in a box in my mind. I’d like to keep them in a real box, something pretty, maybe a shoe box covered with flowered wrapping paper. I’d write my words on scraps of paper and then put them in the box. Whenever I wanted, I’d open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box.
But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can’t take them.
The dictionary is heavy on my lap. I’m on page 1,908. I’m reading through the Ss. When I finish the Zs, I’ll start all over again.
Su-per-flu-ous.
I like that word. It means something extra, something special, something you don’t need. It’s super. But you don’t need super. You just need good enough.
How does it sound when someone says it?
I didn’t really think about how words sound until I stopped talking. I didn’t mean to stop talking, it just sort of happened.
My mom left.
I got scared.
And the words got stuck.
Now I just read the words and then listen for them on the little radio in the kitchen, the only superfluous thing we have.
As I read, my hair falls across my eyes. I push it out of the way, but it falls back. I push it out of the way again, but this time my fingers catch in a tangle. I work for a minute trying to separate the hairs and smooth them down.
When my mom was here, she combed my hair most mornings. Our hair is the same. “Stick straight and dark as soot.” That’s what she used to say.
It hurt when she pulled the comb through my hair. “Kaylee, stop squirming,” she’d tell me. “It’ll pull more if you move.”
Sometimes I’d cry when the comb caught in a knot and she’d get impatient and tell me to stop whining.
Maybe that’s why she left. Maybe she got tired of my whining.
That’s what he says. He tells me she didn’t love me anymore—that she wanted out. But I don’t believe him. I think something happened to her, an accident or something.
She probably has amnesia. I read that word in the dictionary.
That’s when you hit your head so hard on something that you pass out and have to go to the hospital and when you wake up, you don’t remember anything. Not even your name.
Not even that you have a daughter.
I think that’s what happened to my mom. When she remembers, she’ll come back and get me.
So I just wait. I won’t leave. If I leave, she won’t know where to find me.
And when she comes back, I’ll be good. I won’t whine anymore.
I was nine when she left. Now, I’m ten. I’ll be eleven the day after Christmas. I always know it’s near my birthday when they start playing all the bell songs on the radio. I like Silver Bells. I like to think about the city sidewalks and all the people dressed in holiday style. But Jingle Bells is my favorite. Dashing through the snow on a one-horse open sleigh sounds fun.
It’s not near my birthday yet. It’s still warm outside.
As the sun sets, the cabin gets dark inside, too dark to read. He didn’t pay the electric bill, again. I hope he pays it before Christmas or I won’t hear the songs on the radio.
Before I put the dictionary away, I turn to the front page and run my fingers across the writing scribbled there. “Lee and Katherine Wren. Congratulations.
Lee and Katherine are my parents. Were my parents. Are my parents. I’m not sure.
My mom told me that the dictionary was a gift from her Aunt Adele. Mom thought it was kind of a funny wedding gift, but she liked it and kept it even after Lee left. We used it a lot. Sometimes when I’d ask her a question about what something was or what something meant, she’d say, “Go get the dictionary Kaylee, we’ll look it up.” Then she’d show me how to find the word, and we’d read the definition. Most of the time she’d make me sound out the words and read them to her. Only sometimes did she read them to me. But most of the time when I asked her a question, she told me to be quiet. She liked it best when I was quiet.
I miss my mom. But the dictionary makes me feel like part of her is still here. While she’s gone, the dictionary is mine. I have to take care of it. So just like I always do before I put the book away, I ask a silent favor: Please don’t let him notice it. Please don’t let him take it.
I put the dictionary back under the board that makes up a crooked shelf. The splintered wood pricks the tip of one finger as I lift the board and shove the dictionary under. The shelf is supported on one end by two cinderblocks and by one cinderblock and three books on the other end.
I remember the day she set up the shelf. I followed her out the front door and down the steps, and then watched her kneel in the dirt and pull out three concrete blocks she’d found under the steps. She dusted dirt and cobwebs from the cracks and then carried each block inside. She stacked two blocks one on top of the other at one end of the room and then spaced the last block at the other end of the room, under the window.
“Kaylee, hand me a few books from that box. Get big ones.”
I reached into the box and pulled out the biggest book—the dictionary. Then I handed her the other two books. She stacked them on top of the block and then laid a board across the books and blocks.
Even at seven, I knew what she was doing. We’d move in with a boyfriend and Mom would get us “settled” which meant she’d move in our things—our clothes, books, and a few toys for me. She’d rearrange the apartment, or house—or this time, the cabin—and make it “homey.”
After she made the shelf, she lined up our books. Then she placed a vase of wildflowers we’d collected that morning on the end of the shelf. She stood back and looked at what she’d done. Her smile told me she liked it.
The cabin was small, but of all the places we’d lived, I could tell this was her favorite. And this boyfriend seemed nice enough at first, so I hoped maybe we’d stay this time.
We did stay. Or at least I stayed. So now I’m the one arranging the shelf and I’m careful to put it back just as it was. Our books are gone. In their place I return two beer bottles, one with a sharp edge of broken glass, to their dust-free circles on the shelf. I pick up the long-empty bag of Frito Lay corn chips and, before leaning the bag against the broken bottle, I hold it open close to my face and breathe in. The smell of corn and salt make my stomach growl.
Once I’m sure everything looks just as it was on the shelf, I crawl to my mattress in the corner of the room and sit, Indian-style, with my back against the wall and watch the shadows. Light shines between the boards across the broken front window; shadows of leaves and branches move across the walls, ceiling, and door. Above my head I hear a rat or squirrel on the roof. Its movement scatters pine needles and something—a pinecone, I imagine—rolls from the top of the roof, over my head, and then drops into the bed of fallen needles around the front steps.
This is the longest part of the day—when it’s too dark to read.
When I read…
I forget.
That’s how it works.
Once the sun goes down, I don’t leave the cabin. I’m afraid he’ll come back after work and find me gone. He’s told me not to leave because he’d find me and I’d be sorry.
I believe him. believe --verb 1. to take as true, real, etc. 2. to have confidence in a statement or promise of (another person).
My legs go numb under my body and my eyes feel heavy, but I don’t sleep. Sleep isn’t safe. Instead, I close my eyes for just a minute and see flames against the backs of my eyelids. They burn everything my mom and I brought to the cabin.
I remember the hissing and popping as the nighttime drizzle hit the bonfire. And I remember his laughter.
“She’s gone for good, Kaylee. She ain’t comin back.” He cackled like an old witch as he threw more gasoline on the flames.
The smoke filled my nose and stung my lungs as I watched Lamby, the stuffed animal I’d slept with since I was a baby, burn along with most of our clothes and books.
The only exceptions were the three books he hadn’t noticed holding up the shelf. My tears couldn’t put out the fire, and I finally stopped crying. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and stepped away from the blaze. I squared my shoulders and stood as tall as I could. Something changed in me that night. I couldn’t be little anymore. I had to be grown up.
I open my eyes and reach my hand under the corner of the mattress. My fingers dig into the hole in the canvas, feeling for the music box that had been inside Lamby. I’d found it in the ashes the morning after the fire. I tug it free, then wind the key and hold it up to my ear. As the music plays, I remember the words of the song that Grammy taught me just before she died. Jesus loves me, this I know…
The song makes me feel sad.
I don’t think Jesus loves me anymore.
Eventually, I must fall asleep, because I wake up startled—mouth dry, palms damp, and my heart pounding.
I hear the noise that woke me, the crunching of leaves and pine needles. I listen. Are his steps steady, even? No. Two steps. Pause. A dragging sound. Pause. A thud as he stumbles. Pause. Will he get up? Or has he passed out? Please let him be out. A metal taste fills my mouth as I hear him struggle to get back on his feet.
“Kay—leeee?” He slurs. “You up? Lemme in.”
He bangs his fist on the front door, which hasn’t locked or even shut tight since the night he aimed his .22 at the doorknob and blew it to pieces.
The door gives way under the pressure of his fist. As it swings open, he pounds again but misses and falls into the cabin. He goes straight down and hits the floor, head first. A gurgling sound comes from his throat, and I smell the vomit before I see it pooled around his face.
I hope he’ll drown in it.
But he won’t die tonight.
Instead, he heaves himself onto his back and reaches for the split on his forehead where, even in the dark, I can see the blood trickling into his left eye. Then his hand slides down past his ear and drops to the floor. At the sound of his snoring, I exhale. I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Waiting…waiting…waiting.
Chapter Two
Sierra
Cocooned in crocheted warmth, I slip my hands from beneath the afghan and reach for my journal—a notebook filled with snippets of feelings and phrases. I jot a line: Like shards of glass slivering my soul. I set pen and journal aside and warm my hands around my ritual mug of Earl Gray, considering the phrase. I like the cadence of the alliteration. I see shining slivers piercing an ambiguous soul. I see a canvas layered in hues of red, russet, and black.
A memory calls my name, but I turn away. There will be time for memories later.
I close my eyes against the flame of color igniting the morning sky and allow my body the luxury of relaxing. I breathe deep intentional breaths, exhaling slowly, allowing mind and body to find a like rhythm. With each breath I let go, one by one, the anxieties of the past week.
Prints—signed and numbered. Five hundred in all.
Contract negotiations with two new galleries. Done.
Showing in Carmel last night. Successful.
Mortgage paid. On time for once.
Van Gogh neutered. What did the vet say? “He’s lost his manhood—be gentle with him. He’ll need a few days to recoup.” Good grief.
A whimper interrupts my reverie. The afghan unfurls as I get up and pad across the deck back into the bungalow. Van presses his nose through the cross-hatch door of his crate—his woeful expression speaking volumes. I open the cage and the spry mutt I met at the shelter a few days before staggers toward the deck, tail between his legs. I translate his body language as utter humiliation and feel guilty for my responsible choice.
“Sorry pal, it’s the only way I could spring you from the shelter. They made me do it.” His ears perk and then droop. His salt and pepper coat bristles against my hand, while his ears are cashmere soft. He sighs and drifts back to sleep while I wonder at the wisdom of adopting an animal that’s already getting under my skin. I consider packing him up and taking him back before it’s too late. Instead, I brace myself and concede “Okay, I’ll love you—but just a little.” He twitches in response.
The distant throttle of fishing boats leaving the harbor and the bickering of gulls overhead break the morning silence followed by the ringing of the phone. I smile and reach for the phone lying under my journal.
“Hi, Margaret.” No need to answer with a questioning “Hello?” There’s only one person I know who dares calling at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday.
Laughter sings through the phone line. “Shannon, when are you going to stop calling me Margaret?”
I dubbed her that after the indomitable Margaret Thatcher, prime minister of her homeland. Her unwavering British accent, even after nearly half a century in the United States, and her strength under pressure inspired the nickname. It fits.
“Well, as I’ve told you, I’ll stop calling you Margaret when you stop calling me Shannon. Need I remind you that I haven’t been Shannon in over a decade?”
“Oh, right. Let’s see, what is your name now? Sahara Dust? Sequoia Dew?”
I play along. “Does Sierra Dawn ring a bell?”
“Right, Sierra Dawn, beautiful name. But you’ll always be Shannon Diane to me.”
The smile in her voice chases the shadows from my heart. “Okay, Mother. I mean Margaret.” I pull my knees to my chest and reach for the afghan as I settle back in the weathered Adirondack for our conversation.
“Sierra, I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Of course not. What is it you say, ‘You can take the girl out of the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the girl.’”
“That’s my girl. Your daddy’s been out in the fields since 6:00 but he let me sleep. I just got up and thought I’d share a cup of tea with you.”
I do a quick pacific/central time conversion and realize with some alarm that it’s 9:00 a.m. in Texas.
“You slept until 9:00? You never sleep that late. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, darling, I’m simply getting old. I had to get up three times during the night and by this morning I just wanted to sleep. So I indulged.”
“Well, good for you. I’m glad you called. You know my favorite Saturday mornings are spent with you and Earl.”
“I’m not drinking Earl.”
A startling confession. “You’re not? What are you drinking?”
“Sierra, I’m drinking Lemon Zinger!” Her declaration is followed by a giggle that sounds anything but old.
I stretch my long legs and cross them at the ankles and lean my head against the back of the chair. I feel as though my mother, with gentle skill, has distracted me while she’s worked to remove a few of those slivers imbedded in my soul. But unless I stop brushing up against my splintered history, the slivers will return—or so she tells me.
Just before we hang up, she says, “Shannon—” there’s such tenderness in her voice that I let the slip pass— “are you going to the cemetery today?”
Her question tears open the wound, exposing the underlying infection. I imagine her practicality won’t allow her to leave the wound festering any longer; instead she lances my heart.
I lean forward. “Yes, Mother. You know I will.” My tone is tight, closed. But I can’t seem to help it.
“Darling, it’s time to let go—it’s been twelve years. It’s time to grasp grace and move on.”
The fringe of the afghan I’ve played with as we’ve talked is now twisted tight around my index finger, cutting off the circulation. “What are you saying? That I should just forget—just let go and walk away— never think about it again? You know I can’t do that.”
“Not forget, Sierra— forgive. It’s time.”
“Mother, you know I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Yes, I know. But you need to at least think about it. Think about the truth. Ask yourself what’s true.”
I sigh at my mother’s oft repeated words and grunt my consent before I hang up— or “ring off” as she would say.
I left Texas at eighteen and headed to California, sure that was where I’d “find myself.” On the day I left, my daddy stood at the driver’s door of my overstuffed used station wagon gazing at the hundreds of acres of soil he’d readied for planting in the fall and gave me what I think of now as my own “Great Commission.” In the vernacular of the Bible Belt, my daddy, a farmer with the soul of a poet, sent me out into the world with a purpose.
“Honey, do you know why I farm?”
At eighteen I’d never considered the “why” of what my parents did. “No, Daddy. Why?”
“Farming’s not something that can be done alone. I till the ground, plant the seeds, and irrigate. But it’s the rising and setting of the sun and the changing of the seasons that cause the grain to grow. Farming is a partnership with the Creator. Each year when I reap the harvest, I marvel at a Creator who allows me the honor of co-creating with him.”
He’d stopped staring at the fields and instead looked straight at me. “Look for what the Creator wants you to do, Shannon. He wants to share his creativity with you. He wants to partner with you. You find what he wants you to do.”
With that, he planted a kiss on my forehead and shut the door of my car. With my daddy’s commission tucked in my heart, I left in search of my life. My older brother, Jeff, was already in California completing his final year in the agricultural school at Cal-Poly in San Luis Obispo. Tired of dorm life, Jeff and two friends rented a house in town and told me I could rent a room from them for the year. I was thrilled.
Our neighbors and Mother and Daddy’s friends couldn’t understand why they’d let me “run off” to California. In their minds, California was a dark place where drugs and sex ruled. But Daddy assured them California was not the Sodom and Gomorrah they imagined. He should know. His roots were in California. He was born and raised there. Jeff and I grew up hearing about the Golden State and were determined we’d see it for ourselves one day. College in California seemed a logical choice to both of us.
As I headed west, I thought of my parents and what I’d learned from each of them through the years. Daddy taught me to see. Where others in our community saw grain, Daddy saw God. He always encouraged me in his quiet and simple way to look beyond the obvious. “Look beyond a person’s actions and see their heart. Look for what’s causing them to act the way they act, then you’ll understand them better.”
When I was about twelve, Mother and Daddy took us with them down to Galveston for a week. Daddy was there for an American Farm Bureau meeting. After the meeting, we stayed for a few rare days of vacation. I remember standing on the beach and looking out at the flat sea, Daddy pulled me close and pointed at the surf and asked, “What do you see?”
“The ocean?” I asked it more than stated.
“Yes, but there’s more. You’re seeing God’s power.”
I must have seemed unimpressed because Daddy laughed. “It’s there Shan, someday you’ll see it. But, I’ll admit it’s easier to see it in the crashing surf and jagged cliffs of the California coastline.”
I didn’t understand what he meant then—and I’m still not sure I fully understand—but back then my daddy’s description of the California coastline followed me as I was off to see it for myself.
My mother taught me to look for something else. “What’s the truth, Shannon?” she’d ask over and over, challenging me to choose what was right. She taught me to analyze a situation and then make a decision that represented the truth foundational to our family.
Most often the truth she spoke of was found in the big family Bible she’d brought with her from England. She’d lay the book out on the kitchen table and open it to the book of John in the New Testament and she’d read from the King James version: “And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”
“There’s freedom in the truth, Shannon. You remember that,” she’d say.
Again, I’m only now beginning to understand what she meant. But these were the lessons from home that I carried with me to California.
So why hadn’t I applied those lessons? Why I had I wandered so far from my parents’ truth?
Those are questions I’d ask myself many times over. I’d yet to find the answers.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
My Reading Life by Pat Conroy
The book's synopsis from the author's website:
I have been waiting for this book my whole life and I knew I found what I was looking for after reading the first chapter.I know that you're not supposed to be forming opinions on books until you actually read the last page, but in reality it's not always so. In reality you sometimes stumble upon books that capture your attention and your heart with the first sentence and you don't have to worry whether the rest of it will hold. And that's what happened to me and My Reading Life.
This book is about Pat Conroy's life, but because reading is life (which becomes quite obvious in the first chapter) for Mr. Conroy, the book is inevitably about reading. However, as simple as it sounds, My Reading Life is filled with difficult moments from the author's life and the way he writes about them will bring a tear or two to your eyes. Chapter after chapter is a testimony of Conroy's love for either a specific person or a book. His mother is probably the one I admired the most. She is the one who instilled the love of reading in Pat and his siblings and maybe even made a writer out of him. (She did what I am unfortunately failing to accomplish with my daughter she will not pick up a book unless absolutely forced to). Oh, and the love for books is just overwhelming. If ever you need encouragement to read Gone with the Wind
, War and Peace
or anything by Thomas Wolfe, just reach for Conroy's memoir and read what he has to say. There's no way you'll come away not wanting to at least give them a try. You'll probably even want to read those books again if you previously hadn't liked them.
My Reading Life is not a long book (I haven't read any others by Mr. Conroy, but I know they are rather big) but it is just right in size and scope. It encompasses the author's struggles with life itself, a difficult and hurtful relationship with his father, but also the very many good things that happened to him on his 'reading and writing' journey. The second best thing (to reading about another's love of books, of course) is how funny the book turned out to be. There were places where I actually laughed out loud at the comedy of a particular situation. Conroy's stay in Paris was particularly funny. This book really is a gem and if ever you are stuck in a reading rut, just read this memoir. You don't even have to read it from beginning to end, pick any part, any chapter or any page and I guarantee you will feel the love of reading sparking right back.
I have been waiting for this book my whole life and I knew I found what I was looking for after reading the first chapter.I know that you're not supposed to be forming opinions on books until you actually read the last page, but in reality it's not always so. In reality you sometimes stumble upon books that capture your attention and your heart with the first sentence and you don't have to worry whether the rest of it will hold. And that's what happened to me and My Reading Life
.This book is about Pat Conroy's life, but because reading is life (which becomes quite obvious in the first chapter) for Mr. Conroy, the book is inevitably about reading. However, as simple as it sounds, My Reading Life is filled with difficult moments from the author's life and the way he writes about them will bring a tear or two to your eyes. Chapter after chapter is a testimony of Conroy's love for either a specific person or a book. His mother is probably the one I admired the most. She is the one who instilled the love of reading in Pat and his siblings and maybe even made a writer out of him. (She did what I am unfortunately failing to accomplish with my daughter she will not pick up a book unless absolutely forced to). Oh, and the love for books is just overwhelming. If ever you need encouragement to read Gone with the Wind
, War and Peace or anything by Thomas Wolfe, just reach for Conroy's memoir and read what he has to say. There's no way you'll come away not wanting to at least give them a try. You'll probably even want to read those books again if you previously hadn't liked them.My Reading Life is not a long book (I haven't read any others by Mr. Conroy, but I know they are rather big) but it is just right in size and scope. It encompasses the author's struggles with life itself, a difficult and hurtful relationship with his father, but also the very many good things that happened to him on his 'reading and writing' journey. The second best thing (to reading about another's love of books, of course) is how funny the book turned out to be. There were places where I actually laughed out loud at the comedy of a particular situation. Conroy's stay in Paris was particularly funny. This book really is a gem and if ever you are stuck in a reading rut, just read this memoir. You don't even have to read it from beginning to end, pick any part, any chapter or any page and I guarantee you will feel the love of reading sparking right back.
*******
I received My Reading Life by Pat Conroy from the publisher via Shelf Awareness.
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