From up here I see how cracked and broken the earth is. She fits together like a puzzle—pieces placed tenderly by the Hand That Knows. We soar through islands of cotton candy clouds and I feel gravity pull on me.
How in the world did I get here?
When we land, I see. This is what holds the earth together—what keeps the brokenness from cracking wide open.
Love.
We arrived in San Antonio yesterday afternoon, my friends. Fredrick and I embraced flesh that we have only known over miles and miles of cyber.
God has a plan.
We were safely tucked in to the lodge last night—tired feet and humming minds. And I slept…oh, my, how I slept.
This morning I got up early—the rest of the house quiet—and I slipped outside. The sky is white before sunrise and I sit quiet, listen. Words will not come, but I am held, and tears do.
Last night Jeffrey cried himself to sleep and Teddy gave a rare variation in prayer for his traveling mamma. Now I sit, waiting for my flight...butterflies churning. What I travel to is worth this anxiety--friends, fellowship,knowledge,and quiet communion. Friends, I'm traveling south. I hope to update your from the road, God-willing. Meanwhile, pray traveling mercies for me--and for my friends who will be meeting me?
You bless me with your thoughts and prayers. I'll be sending some down from above the clouds for you also.
that deep voice—unlike any--tells
life’s hard luck poetry to us through
the car speakers. I close my eyes and
let sun pass over and through me as we
drive through shadow and dappled
country road. the trees sway too. we
really believe he meets Sunday morning
with a beer for breakfast and one for
dessert and we wonder at the impossibility
of it. but now I remember my father,
eyes glazed over, leaning on the arm
of his best friend, singing those lines
with gusty passion. and when he puts
on his “cleanest dirty shirt”, we titter
at the way the words butt up against
each other, like our parents in the front—
mom in her clean and dad with the
dirty. but even four kids in the
backseat of a station wagon know
where he should be on Sunday
morning. the hardness of the
sidewalk and the distance of the
church bell quiets our hungry
mouths. today, I feel it. I couldn’t
know then. my child-eyes were
too wide for the unseen. but now,
I know. I know the lonely of
Sunday morning coming down.
I wrote this poem for Glynn Young's Random Acts of Poetry prompt: What Poem Do You Come From? ...select a poem you first read in high school or college that had an impact on you, that you remember or that you enjoyed, and write a poem about it. This one is a memory from a little earlier in my childhood, but I think it fits.
There was no Shakespeare at our house. No Dickenson, Yeats, or Browning. Not even Mother Goose. Our poetry came through the 8-track--what played on the radio when we drove to visit the relatives. Flatt and Scruggs, Merle Haggard, Waylon Jennings. These were the poets of my youth. But the Man in Black was in a class all by himself. This particular song was so unusual in its contemplative nature--it captured us. Written by Kris Kristofferson and released in 1970, it made even a young girl melancholy.
It was a terribly awful Sunday and I cried on and off all afternoon and into the evening when Jeffrey asked me if I would come up early to tuck him in so we could snuggle for a while.
You never snuggle with me anymore.
So I put aside the hurt I felt and climbed the stairs to enter into soft boy-skin and a tangle of legs and arms. We snuggled.
Do you want to say the prayer tonight?
I asked it because I hoped he did, because thinking about God made me cry again, and my heart felt tender still from the fresh wounding.
Okay, he said. And he did. And this is how he started:
Dear God, he said. Thank you for all the blessings and even for the bad things because we know they’re here for a reason. Thank you for today…umm…we all had a pretty good day of it. (Really?) Yeah, pretty good.
And he went on, asking for blessings, giving thanks, praying from his heart. I was silenced by his beginning, but it gave me hope so I asked,
What do you want more than anything in the world?
He didn’t even hesitate.
God.
I looked at his white face shine in the dark.
Are you just saying that because you know I want you to?
He giggled.
No. Then he reached both his hands to the ceiling as if he could reach heaven. Because, without God, what are we?
He silences me again with his words, but I’m still skeptical.
Okay then, what would be second?
No hesitation, God.
Really?
He giggles again.
Yes.
Then he stops and see the wheels turning.
Well, he said. After God there is something else.
What is it?
Air.
So I gulp it in big mouthfuls and discover that I am still breathing and I look at this wonder-boy and kiss him goodnight and when I go to bed I say a prayer of my own.
Dear God, Thank you for all the bad stuff. I want you—I need you like air. Amen.
I awaken at 3:41 a.m. and listen for his breath. For a panicked moment, I hear nothing and I wonder if he could die of a broken heart right here in our bed. Could his heart break wide open from being pushed down and trampled on for four years? For four years he has gotten back up every time—until yesterday. God’s people keep poking him in his soft places until finally, he looks at them through bloody eyes.
I don’t want to do this anymore, he said to me yesterday.
And can I blame him? Watching him hurt this way is like dying slowly and I want to hold him close to me in the dark. But he is a grown man, who wants to find his own way. And God has warned me before about interfering between the two of them. Besides, he is sleeping—even though I can’t--so I just watch the clock and think. I think how I prayed for 12 years for him to find Christ. How I longed for him to sit beside me in the pew. But God placed him up front leading worship. I think how I prayed for him to lead our family. And instead he led an entire congregation through a dark time. I cry quietly and I think about these things until the clock says 6:00 and it’s time to get up.
Later, I am running and thinking about getting through to these people—how can I make them understand? How do I tell the message that Jesus cares more about helping our fellow man than about the coffee stains on the sanctuary carpet? How do I say it and make it mean something and make it stick? How to gently say that he cares more about bonding together for God’s kingdom than about the janitorial cleaning schedule? I am pondering how to make this message meaningful--more concrete--when I remember his words.
We just give them Jesus.
His name is Mike Robison and at that time he was the associate director of the Presbyterian Frontier Fellowship (PFF). He came to our church three or four years ago to talk about what God is doing through PFF in Central Asia.
Mr. Robison explained the typical MO of a missionary in Central Asia. They move into a community, take up residence there, and start working a job that supports the community’s needs. They might be a teacher, or a computer programmer, or an engineer. Point is, they become a part of the community before engaging in spreading the gospel.
The way he described it sounded like a clandestine spy operation…the agent infiltrates the community, gains their trust, establishes relationships, and THEN he very carefully begins feeling out the possibility of a church plant.
The regions Mr. Robison talked about (Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan) are approximately 99% Muslim and are generally recognized as having substantially corrupt governments. It is dangerous to be a Christian there. People die for it.
As soon a house church is established, the missionary leaves the area. Mission accomplished.
You don’t stay and oversee the church? An elderly lady sitting next me asked.
We just give them Jesus, was his reply. We don’t tell them how to worship, what it should look like, or any of our American traditions. We just give them Jesus.
The elderly lady looked uncomfortable. This was at the height of our Traditional verses Contemporary Worship conflict in our church. I knew what she was thinking.
But some types of worship are wrong.
And four years later, here we are. And I’m still trying to figure out why our message has failed with some. The Central Asian missionaries make their message concrete by establishing an entire life around it. They are the substance of the gospel. Their body is the concrete…the way they help, they way they love, the actions they perform every day. As I run, I think about Ann and her trip to Guatemala. I think about Dan in Haiti. How to be real like this to my church family here?
Have I not delivered Jesus this way to my brothers and sisters? Lord knows I have tried. Another thing I remember Mike Robison say: The most difficult missionary field today is the United States.
Are our hearts so hardened by excess that we can no longer hear the voice of God?
Some messages stick better than others, Heath and Heath tell us. And we are all just broken people that make up the church. It’s when our brokenness rubs up against each other and we hurt one another that our ears close to the messages the other carries. Nothing sticks when emotions are raw this way. We are both rubber. We bounce around and into and over and away from one another. Our words are never received.
I'm tired of thinking about it right now. Right now, I only find myself longing for that simple message the missionaries take to Central Asia.
It shouldn’t be so hard. So why this lump in my throat? I know the particular battle I have been facing. Have even named it. But when I write down those words— tie letters together in loopy lines—they loom large.
How does one find hope again?
I know all the right answers. I’ve used my concordance. The NIV has 174 verses containing the root hope.
I’ve been reading through. In turns, the verses buoy me then fill me with despair. I know what scripture says about hope. I know where my hope is. But lately…my heart doesn’t.
I need a heart change. And there’s no easy way to get that.
I write the prayer out and close my Bible study book. I pick up the other Book…pick up where I've left off. I’ve been reading through the Bible in a year, using one of those online plans that make sure you proceed through in a sensible order. These past weeks have found me in Isaiah.
My eyes follow the passage and then drop below to read the commentary. This has been my practice—listening first with my heart and then with my mind. This day my eyes bulge as I read the commentator notes:
Isaiah spoke by inspiration to people who had lost hope.
A whole book written for those who felt this soul-ache of hopelessness? Did they feel this heavy burden of tired? Sorrow so deep my finger can’t trace through to the beginning? Did they try and try in their own power to bring it back? And just grow even more tired?
This is how it feels to give up on hope.
My eyes are hungry for Isaiah now. What does he say to these hope-less people?
Do you not know? Have you not heard? Has it not been told you from the beginning? Have you not understood since the earth was founded? He sits enthroned above the circle of the earth, and its people are like grasshoppers. He stretches out the heavens like a canopy, and spreads them out like a tent to live in…
He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; but those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint. (Isaiah 40)
I ponder what these words mean. Savor their strength. Grasp for it…search for a small kindling of hope.
I read on.
Chapter 44:
I will pour water on the thirsty land, and streams on the dry ground; I will pour out my Spirit on your offspring, and my blessing on your descendants. They will spring up like grass in a meadow, like poplar trees by flowing streams. One will say, “I belong to the Lord”; another will call himself by the name of Jacob; still another will write on his hand, “The Lord’s”, and will take the name Israel.
So I do it. I write it on my hand.
Then I fix breakfast for the boys, pack their lunches and take them to school. I run six miles and come home to walk Lucy Mae another. I take a shower and run to Charleston. I shop four hours for the perfect bookshelf that I never find. But I do find a suitcase I desperately need for an upcoming trip. I get caught in traffic on the way home. I vacuum the entire downstairs and mop the kitchen floor. I do three loads of laundry. I check over Jeffrey’s math homework and help him identify five news items each for local, regional, and world news.
At dinner, I remember.
And I look down at my hand.
The words are gone. They’ve slipped away. Somewhere between dirty mop water and a pile of clean underwear, I think. And I feel my heart sink.
Not because the words I have written on my hand have disappeared, but because I know that I must write them on my heart. And not giving them a thought all day…where IS my heart?
I only wish that if I wrote it over and over, like a naughty school child doing lines on the blackboard, that it would be true.
My hope is in the Lord. My hope is in the Lord. My hope is in the Lord…
I know that busy takes my eyes off of Him. I struggle. Life gets to me sometimes. I am praying forgiveness and hope this week, my friends. Will you please pray them too? And maybe for some of that strength that flies on wings like eagles?
Yes. That would be nice.
Thank you, sweet friends.
I am waiting.
Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; He rises to show you compassion. For the Lord is a God of justice. Blessed are all who wait for him! (Isaiah 30:18)
She is pregnant—heavy with fruit and we harvest late, letting nature have her choice before we do. Some of our pickings have already been tasted by crows or squirrels or another sneaky creature that sat high in her branches and nibbled delicately.These fall easily when the tree is shaken, but Jeffrey has to go after others.I toss the discards over the fence or balance them precariously on the posts-- remembering the deer that come to spy.
He is no stranger to the tree and she cups him gently--swaying leaves brushing cheek like a mamma. It was he who wished for her, longed for her until one day he said to me--the mamma who can’t resist planting love, I want an apple tree.
We found a dwarf variety and planted it on the side of the house. Just right for this suburban family.
He remembered the days when we would take our basket to the meadow and fill it with sweet rounds and plump pears and wildflowers along the way. Now the meadow is sold—fenced off-- the sweet woman who owned it retiring in a personal care home and her meticulous grasses grown wild and wily up around the trees.
I would never make it on the prairie, I tell Jeff, as I roll and peel and search for the perfect recipe.
He just kisses the back of my neck.
When it takes all day to make a couple pies, who can think about dinner?
We had apple pie for dinner. And I didn’t even care.
We walked across
the Ohio river
at night and
I was again a
ghost, haunting
memories as they
filled me up like
this river filling
its basin beneath
me. And when
he grabbed my
hand, I was a filmy
mist spread thin, under
foot and drifting on
air across this bridge
as the night sky
rolled out—a
scroll above us.
I am in the third grade and I have a loose tooth. I sit at my desk with my thumbnail under its base—wiggle, wiggle. I can’t keep my thumb from traveling there, the itch in my gums compels me to pull the thing. I pull out my thumb and my tongue finds it—pokes in the gap underneath, lifting the tooth up. The thing is barely hanging on. I should pull it. But I don’t have the courage so I just sit and rock it back and forth with my thumb.
Wiggle, wiggle.
That’s when Mr. Strong, our principal, walks in—a copy of The Telltale Lilac Bush in his hands. Our teacher, Mrs. Vandegrift, has a meeting and he is going to read to us until she returns. Ghost stories.
This Is a treat—we all love Mr. Strong, he is just plain fun. He sits in the front of the class and begins reading.
Third graders are all about the ghost stories. We lean forward as he gets to the scary part. I forget about my body.
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle…
He’s just getting to the good part—the part where the guys dig up the lilac bush…
Wiggle, wiggle…
He’s just getting to the good part when he pauses momentarily, looks up at us from under his brows and…
“Rahhhh!”
Mr. Strong slams the book closed and lunges at us like the ghost under the lilac bush. We all jump three feet high in our seats and I…I am holding my tooth.
And bleeding profusely from the mouth.
I’ll never forget that day, or the subsequent ones when Mr. Strong read to our class. He always kept us watching…waiting…
All because of his little surprises.
Visit us over at HighCallingBlogs.com to read more about how the element of surprise can help make your message more effective.
There are worse things than getting old, she said, as she let her eyes follow fallen starlight on the sea.
You're right, he said. There's getting old AND getting fat. Those two are not a good combination.
She just smiled like the moon because when she looked at him she saw the music his heart made. And she knew he would always be beautiful. Even if he grew old and fat.
Happy birthday to my sweetheart today. Let's grow old together, okay?
There he was again. That darn cat. And right underneath her birdfeeder too. The last of the bluebirds were just about to fledge. She felt a twinge of guilt but knew she couldn’t have it. The children had waited too long to see those baby bluebirds.
Kaitlyn had waited too long.
She grabbed the broom and ran out the back door.
Shoo! Shoo, you!
She waved the broom menacingly. He was gone in a flash, a streak of yellow through the neighbor’s fence and off to whereabouts unknown. But she knew he would be back. Just as he had been every morning for six weeks.
She stood for a moment, looking after him. He was a pretty cat.
Back inside, she trudged through the kitchen into the addition. To Kaitlyn’s room. At this rate she would never have the child ready for school on time.
She lingered in the doorway of her eldest child’s room, studying the beauty of the girl’s sleeping face. The dim morning light kissed her chubby cheeks and highlighted the blond hair cascading over her shoulders. It looks like a halo, she thought, and tried to stop her mind from going any further. But it was no use. The thought came before she could stop it: You can’t even tell from here, it whispered.
She shook Kaitlyn gently and planted a kiss on her forehead. The large eyes opened--blinked, but the covers remained motionless.
Time to get, sweetie, she said, as she leaned down and lifted the way the nurses had shown her.
When Kaitlyn was sitting in her arms she used her legs and hips to move the child’s lower extremities over the edge of the bed. She dropped her own legs onto the floor, squatted slightly with Kaitie still in her arms and shifted the girl’s weight cautiously off the bed into the wheelchair that sat ready and waiting.
She wheeled her daughter into the large bathroom. As she plaited the girl’s hair she chatted mindlessly about the coming school day.
Kaitlyn bobbed her head up and down excitedly.
After ten minutes she kissed her daughter on the top of the head and ran upstairs to get Joey started. Piggyback ride back down, bowl of rice crispies, and to Kaitie again. She’d let the baby sleep a little longer.
After wrestling her daughter into her clothes for the day, she grabbed the pop tarts and they headed out to the curb. She broke the sweet pastry into bite-sized pieces and fed them to the girl with one hand.
They had just finished the second pastry when the bus came around the turn and stopped in front of them with a low screech of brakes. The aide wheeled Kaitie’s chair onto the lift. As she rose up into the vehicle, the child smiled sweetly at her mother. Kiss blown into the air, caught with her eyes…those eyes that said everything.
She watched the bus drive up the street.
Away.
She turned and went back into the house. Joey was almost done eating when Caleb awakened. She sat with the two year old on her lap as his five year old brother talked baby talk to him with a full mouth.
Upstairs. Brush teeth. Pull the clothes on. Much easier this time. Only supervision is needed. She had some difficulty realizing his capabilities at first. Now she was so thankful for them.
Again, out on the curb, this time with attachment on hip. They both wave frantically to the small face in the window.
Life slows down now. On the floor with Caleb she feels young again. The tiredness leaves for a while. But when he sleeps she longs to as well. The laundry can wait. She cradles him in her arms…
Away…
******
She didn’t want to answer the telephone. But no one ever calls. So she knew.
Everything’s ok. She’s stabilized. Another Grand Mal seizure.
She placed the receiver down in its cradle. Brushed her hair and put on some mascara. Called her husband. Gently picked up the baby and tried to ensure his continued slumber. Drove like a bat out of hell to the Med Center.
Her insides were trembling as her daughter smiled sweetly up at her. She knew the day would come…
Away…
She squeezed Kaitie’s lifeless hand and tried not to cry. Caleb reached for his sister--unaware the girl would never embrace him.
Ki-tie, Kit-tie, he cried in his baby voice.
Daddy will come tonight. We’ll all be here. You’ll be home tomorrow.
****
Joey knew before she told him. Kaitie was always there to smile him off the bus.
Where Kit-tie? Caleb asked over and over.
She wanted to stay but knew it would be impossible. Caleb needed her still in the night. John stayed with their daughter instead. Katie loved having Daddy to herself. Even if it meant hospital food for dinner.
So hard, this being away from her child.
She cried herself to sleep that night, telling herself she should be used to this by now. But it never got any easier. And it felt so lonely in her bed without John there. When Caleb woke at two a.m. she let him fall asleep in his daddy’s spot just so it wouldn’t feel so cold.
****
They had cake after dinner to celebrate Katie’s homecoming. The girl smiled her happiness. They were all right there; there in that moment. This happens so rarely, she thought, and laughed at the cake on Kaitlyn’s nose.
After they tucked the kids in they made love. She had missed him. Though she was tired she felt the belonging. And it was right. It felt like it did in the beginning. So far away…
****
It seemed like they always needed milk. As she reached for the gallon she vaguely tried to calculate how many they had already consumed this week. This is number four, I think. Kaitie loves milk. And Joey loves the chocolate milk. Caleb doesn’t care.
On the way to the register she made a sudden turn. She put the cat food in her cart without even thinking about it.
**** Are you feeding that nuisance?
Jill looked accusingly at the small plastic bowl she had just filled with cat food.
She made no reply.
That darn cat has been defecating in all of my landscape beds. They’re a mess! The smell is disgusting too. I’ve half a mind to call animal control.
The neighbor looked disapprovingly at her out of the corner of an eye.
I know, Jill, I know, she said wearily. But I’ve chased him away too many times. At least if I feed him he may not get my bluebirds. He’s a stubborn little guy.
Jill grunted, obviously unconvinced, and walked back into her own yard.
Her eyes threw daggers at her neighbors back. He was just a little kitty. What harm could he do?
**** I don’t like you feeding that cat.
John’s face was set.
What if one of the kids came upon him and he scratched them? He could have rabies and Lord knows what else. We don’t need him prowling around. Think of the mess we’d be in.
She tried to hide her disappointment at his lack of sympathy for the creature. But he was right. What if one of the children was to get scratched? Or even bitten? She felt foolish for creating the problem. She said nothing.
****
They all crowded around the window.
Here comes the last one!
She clapped her hands excitedly. Kaitie managed to rock back and forth in her chair a bit. Joey’s eyes were glued to the spot. Caleb was sucking his thumb intently.
He teetered on the edge of the doorway for a brief moment. Then a small blur of brilliant blue flew into a nearby tree. They let out a collective cheer. All five of their charges had not only survived, but had successfully fledged the nest.
Caleb pressed his hands and nose against the window, smearing the glass with syrupy sweetness. They all watched their last tenant fly away into the nearby meadow and disappear in the distance.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a yellow shadow. When she turned her full gaze on him he boldly returned her stare with feline eyes. After a moment he blinked his eyes knowingly. He was waiting for his breakfast.
****
Every day was much the same. She sent the kids away and spent the rest of the day holding her breath until they were all safely back together again. She hadn’t the time or the energy to think about herself. Was she happy? What did she want from life?
The other mothers at the school talked about their dissatisfaction with their husbands, different ways to clean their kitchen floors, and the sale on chicken at Kroger’s. How do you do it? They always asked. The same way you do, she wanted to scream. But that wasn’t true, was it? Instead she smiled and said very little.
But today she sat on the back deck and drank her coffee in the warmth of the autumn sunshine. How lovely it felt on her face, the rest of her body chilled by the frost in the air.
He was watching her watching him. Slowly he crept forward, never taking his eyes from her face. He sniffed around the carrier. It was new. Unsure, he sat beside it for a moment, looking up at her with those occasionally blinking eyes.
The surgeon said there would be some risk to the procedure. There was always a risk, it seemed. But if they could remove the mass from the base of Katie’s skull, the seizures may stop. The MRI’s did not reveal how involved the cervical spine was. The fear being that the child’s mobility may be further compromised.
How? She wondered. If Katie lost the movement in her neck and shoulders she would lose such a valuable means of communication. John was adamant that they go through with the surgery. But she was so frightened. She stared away at the distant hills. It was so far away over there.
A movement caught her eye.
He gingerly stepped inside to consume the bits of meat and food she had placed there. The bait.
Just as agile as her yellow ghost, she descended the stairs and in a flash had the door closed to the carrier. She was careful to carry it arms length so as not to feel his fear. She placed the hissing cat in the back of the van and ran upstairs to get Caleb. After placing the sleeping child in his car seat she ran back in the house briefly. The vet had told her to call before she came and he would be ready with the anesthesia.
****
They were all packed and ready to go. John had taken a week’s vacation. He would return with the younger two after the surgery. They didn’t want either Joey’s or Caleb’s schedules to get too off. She didn’t want Joey to miss a whole week of school. Kids fall behind so easily these days, she thought.
She would stay with Katie the whole time. There was no other way she could agree to the whole thing. The recovery would be arduous. The treatment team would fly their daughter by copter back to a local hospital for most of it. There would be hours of physical therapy and rehab. She knew it would be taxing for both of them. They had been through this so many times before. Katie bore it better. But she had to be there for her little girl. Katie needed her mother with her.
She walked around back to fill the dish before their departure. John had begrudgingly agreed to fill in during her absence.
Here, kitty, kitty, she called softly.
She smiled at his interest in her approach. He would never eat another of her birds. He moved a bit slower and more cautiously than before. The vet said the discomfort would only last a few days. She still felt sorry for betraying his trust. Now that he was neutered, she would only have to do so every couple years when the shots were due.
But she had to take care of him. He was her little kitty.
Besides, he needed her now.
**Inspired by a true story. Well, ok, two true stories. :)
I’m so excited to share these books with you two ladies. Before we chose the names, Jeffrey (and Lucy Mae) and I prayed over them. We prayed that these stories would find their way to the hearts that would benefit from their telling.
That must be you guys!
I’ll be in touch to get your snail and any signing preferences you may have.
In June, I sent a copy ofGod in the Yardoff to Gretchen. The plan was to share this lovely book with as many women as were willing to wait in line. Gretchen sent the book along to Susan--that picture lady we all love. Susan--dear heart--has been having computer problems and so asked if I could post a little about her time with the book here at the Wellspring.
She was gracious enough to send along some of her thoughts before she sends the book along to Karin for her turn...
The book awaits with cover gently lifted by the breeze wanting to fly into your heart. My prayer is that you will find a deeper measure of God's grace through the words and stories shared. It was with some of the same trepidation that Gretchen mentioned, that I approached the questions and activities suggested. God, of course, had plans. As you know, His plans are good plans that sometimes carry us through painful revelations. The wonder is the healing that occurs along the way. And the uniqueness with which the Holy Spirit speaks to each one of us. To frame my words and thoughts in the beauty with which so many of you write seems impossible, but know my prayers go with it.
A card with a photo of the pink poppies that bloom and dance in the breeze by the driveway will accompany the book as well as some seed pods harvested from these poppies. I hope they bring joy into your life next spring and summer.
Thank you to Laura, who has been willing to share this book and document its journeys with so many of us, to Gretchen, who graciously passed it along to me accompanied by a delicious soup recipe, and of course, to L.L. Barkat for sharing pieces of her life and her writing with us.
Be blessed in the journey,
Susan
Thank you, Susan! And don't forget to leave a comment on this post for a chance to win copies of both of my books. Winners announced tomorrow!
