For all NBA fans

So it's Memorial Day already. Spring is quickly becoming summer (read: too hot for comfort in Oklahoma). We've had several severe thunderstorms in keeping with the season.

And speaking of thunder, the OKC Thunder are playing in the Western Conference finals. The excitement in town reminds of the buzz when the Avalanche won the Stanley Cup during their first year in Denver--and several years later, when at last John Elway and the Broncos won the Super Bowl (on their fifth attempt? something like that.) Madness, euphoria--watercooler talk gone mad. Everyone in the city is talking about it.

I love sports. I think given the incentive, I would have enjoyed them as a child. However, the only sport my mother had interest in was boxing. She listened to fights on the radio with her father; maybe they heard the now-famous bout between Max Schmeling and Joe Louis.

But I remember following the Red Sox during the Yaz years. . . and I had to attend all forty high school football games as part of the marching band (in four years we only won or tied ten of those games).

In college our soccer team competed in the national tournament for Christian colleges. We were good.

But my keen interest in professional sports developed in my years as a single mother. Two events stand out in my mind:

Watching Jimmy Connors rise to the quarter-finals of the US Open--a man not much older than I was, defying the odds. I stayed up until midnight, watching him play, and then fell asleep, exhausted.

Denver was the first (the only!) four-sport city I lived in. I made it to hockey, baseball, and basketball games (both my kids got to see the Broncos. I didn't. Boo hoo)

I remember the Rockies' first year, when they played in the old Coors Field. I watched EY's (Eric Young) home runs to begin and end the season, and the "Big Cat"'s (Andres Gallaraga) pursuit of the batting title. We sat on aluminum bleechers, that thundered under thousands of stomping feet. The fence was so low, I felt like I could reach out and touch the legends of the game--stars like David Justice and Steve Avery of the World Series Champion Atlanta Braves.

I was in Denver for two Stanley Cup wins by the Colorado Avalanche, two Superbowl wins by the Denver Broncos, and one World Series appearance by the Colorado Rockies. And I loved it.

This year the Denver Nuggets played the OKC Thunder in the first round of the NBA playoffs.

I was rooting for the Thunder.

I guess I really have become an Oklahoman.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY? YES!

Today is the fourth mother's day since Jolene' death. And year by year, it's been a horrible day. Three years ago, Mom and I were reeling from our loss. Two years ago was my first day alone, since Mom had moved to Oklahoma. And one year ago, Mom's death was fresh on my heart.

Let's just say they were brutal. And I was prepared for a quiet, but not agonizing, holiday. Jaran's focus must be on his wife, the mother of his children. I wouldn't have it any other way.

But Friday night he called with an invitation to dinner last night. The simple joys of sitting with my son, his beautiful, sweet wife, and the two grandchildren of my body . . . what more could I want?

Jordan called me "Grandma" for the first time this week--and it felt almost as special as hearing Jaran call me "mama" for the first time all those years ago.

The joys of motherhood and grandmotherhood:

• Listening to Jordan squeal as we play a game of Peek a Boo.


• Applauding for her "concert" of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."


• Accepting her gift of macaroni and cheese spooned from her plate onto mine.


• Having her cry "Happy to you!" when I opened my gift


• Holding Isaiah and making him laugh


• Watching Isaiah stare at me, a smile fixed on his face, while Shelley feeds him dinner.


• Listening to my son make one of his silly jokes.


• Accepting hugs and kisses from Jordan.


• Hearing Shelley say "sometimes when Jordan laughs she looks so much like Jolene. . ."


• Enjoying music with my granddaughter--she must be my flesh and blood if she loves music (Shelley says Isaiah is the same way)

Last night, and today, I feel joy, peace, happiness, and none of the wrenching sense of loss of the last three years. I miss Mom and Jolene. But for today, I am thankful for what I have.

I thank God for today's sunshine.

THE HERMIT OF OKLAHOMA CITY

That's the way I've been feeling lately. I have few social obligations and when health keeps me housebound, I feel cut off and wonder if I'm battling demon depression.

But I don't want to dwell on that so I decided to look at a famous recluse/writer: Emily Dickinson. And the little I've done blows me away. So I thought I would use her words to describe some of my recent experiences.

Glee! The storm is over!
For me, that's the latest "storm" of edits which I completed on Lone Star Trail. I don't want to complain so let's just say they were thorough ... exhaustive ... and I was glad to turn them in on Friday.

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.
I am judging in the Carol contest again this year ... so far a couple of books have had that effect on me.

They say that God is everywhere, and yet we always think of Him as somewhat of a recluse.
A couple of weeks ago I wrote about spiritual drought--I appreciated everyone's feedback. Things are a little better.

Forever is composed of nows.
Jolene used to say the best advice I gave her was "seize the day." I woke her up at midnight on Millenium Eve--how few people in all of history have experienced it! Dickinson captured the same thought, in words of poetry.

And thinking of Jolene, and Mom, how about--Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.

Old age comes on suddenly, and not gradually as is thought.
I am aged before my years. I find myself turning into my mother. This week I had a ramp installed at the house so I no longer have to fear the stairs.

And for a final thought ... as beautiful a statement of purpose as I have ever read ... consider the poet's words: If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain

Happy May Day.

HE IS RISEN!

Our church service this morning was everything I could have wished for.

Our pastor led us in the ancient tradition of calling "He is risen!" and responding "He is risen indeed!" Nothing like hearing that cry echo across the sanctuary.

We sang my favorite Easter hymn, Christ the Lord is Risen Today (written by Charles Wesley the same person who wrote my favorite Christmas hymn, Hark! The Herald Angels Sing, and one of my favorite hymns, And Can It Be?)

The choir lifted the Lord high with a medley of Crown Him King of Kings/Crown Him with Many Crowns (and I didn't play too many incorrect notes as I accompanied them.)

It even rained, a good, hard, drenching rain, something we have needed badly. (Of course the rain caused my hip to give out and has given me agony all day but it doesn't change the blessing of the moisture.)

Our pastor challenged us--Where is Jesus' body? He gave the obvious answer, and yet it was one I hadn't thought of. It is here. We are His body.

Just as three years ago, Jolene's death was still fresh and immediate in my heart on Easter Sunday, today, one of our church families mourned a beloved father--and rejoiced in the victory of Jesus' resurrection.

And I thought of my beloved ones--Mom, Gramma, Jolene, friends and family--already in heaven. Casting their crowns at Jesus' feet. Singing a hallelujah chorus to the risen Lamb. My beloved Jolene, who couldn't carry a tune here on earth, singing perfect praises in heaven. For she loved to sing, and she loved to praise the Lord.

The more of those I love go on ahead, the more I look forward to joining their number.

But for now, I pray that I will be faithful to the part He has given me in His body. That through my stumbling, all-too-often-inconsistent attempts, people will see His love and He will be glorified.

DRY SPELL

I am going through a dry spell. Well, not professionally. I received two contracts last week. I have enough work to keep me VERY busy for the next 15 months. And not the dry spell that's keeping my lawn from getting significantly green in spite of its being April in Oklahoma. No, a dry spell of the soul. Every now and then I play at devotions. I have this picture of what devotions should be: Bible reading, meditation, prayer. A Year With Aslan, no matter how much truth can be found in the Narnia chronicles, doesn't once quote scripture. Is that devotional material? I tried reading through the Bible. I think I've finished February. All too often I shrug it off. And I know, I know, I'm suffering because of it. How can I expect to write meaningful fiction that will touch people's lives when I'm starving my spirit? Does anyone else out there struggle with this issue? (I assume I'm not alone.) How do you keep your devotional life fresh? What keeps you coming back (besides a sense of duty)?

THE FOUR BOOKS I'M WRITING

A glimpse into the life of a full-time, professional writer. Give credit for the idea "the four books I'm writing" to Janice Hanna Thompson. She says that every writer is working on four books at once:

1. The book under development.


2. The book being written.


3. The book being edited


4. The book being marketed.

The problem for writers is that we tend to only schedule book #2--the book being written.

I wailed and carried on but managed to submit one Heartsong and one novella on February 1st and my first book for Moody, Lone Star Trail, on March 18th. I took a deep breath, took a week off from serious writing, and dived back into A Ranger's Trail (second book for Moody). Of course, one of the consequences of submitting a manuscript is that you get it back . . . for edits, sometimes more than once. For marketing. For cover art and copy. For galley proofs.

So in addition to starting A Ranger's Trail, since the first of April (hey, maybe this is my April fools' joke) I've had the following added to my to-do list.

• Develop marketing material for Texas Trails for Moody (done, except for the stuff that has to be mailed)


• Write additional material for Lone Star Trail at editor's request (done)


• Answer questions from a different editor on Lone Star Trails (done)


• Look at the changes made to Lone Star Trails and think about how I need to shape A Ranger's Trail (ongoing)


• Proof the galley for Plainsong (in process)


• Approve the cover art for Plainsong (done)


• Complete a cover art sheet for a book still not officially contracted (in process)


• Write two blog posts for the Heartsong authors blog to coincide with the release of Love's Raid next month (in process)


• Complete a proposal requested by an editor (in process)


• Write 7 devotions already contracted.


• Expecting edits for this year's Christmas novella, First Christmas in Christmas at Barncastle Inn. (expected)


• NEWS. Go over contracts for two more--count them, yes, two--books. I'll announce more later when the contracts are finalized. (in process)

Is it any wonder I've fallen a little behind on my writing goals?

Would I have it any other way?

Nah. Of course not.

Up and Down and All Around

It's been an emotional week. And that is a good thing. Why do I say that?

One of the first things a survivor of abuse learns is you don't feel what you feel. You don't know what you know. If I never felt low lows, I also never knew high highs either. My emotions swung through a limited range, hovering around a mild depression. The paucity of emotional connection brought my chosen career in music to an abrupt halt.

Since I have addressed most of the issues surrounding my childhood, once again I can feel enormous elation. The sale of my first book! The birth of a grandchild! The successful performance of a Christmas program!

I also feel deep grief. When the news announced that Liz Taylor died at age 79, I googled her birthdate: February 27, 1932. She was 15 days younger than my mother. I had never thought of Liz and Mom as contemporaries, but they were. And somehow the icon Taylor's death brought up grief for Mom all over again.

How about fear and confusion? I felt those in abundance, when my editor raised unexpected questions about the manuscript for Lone Star Trail.

Add physical trauma to the emotional roller coaster of the week, and I could say it's been. . .interesting. I fell down head to toe last Sunday. No broken bones but a hipful of bruised ligaments left me in pain, nearly immobile, and easily tired.

The beauty for me as a Christian is that in pain or at ease, whether in the deepest depths or dwelling on high, God is faithful. He walks with me through everything, and His grace sustains me.

Praise the Lord.

By the way. . .in spite of the changes my editor requested, she also said, "The department head is very excited about it. Historical romance is a departure for Moody and I feel that we have the best possible writing for our foray into the genre." In fact, she says they are all "abuzz" about it. Their excitement tells me all is well.