The Light Keeper's Daughter by Jean Kinsey

 Welcome, Jean Kinsey thanks for stopping by for a visit. 

 v Tell us a little about yourself? I am a 71 yr-old grandmother who teaches Sunday school in a little country church. I love to travel and try to take a cruise whenever I can.

 v Tell us about your writing journey?  Tina, I've always

          dabbled with writing, but it wasn't until late in life when I actually took the time to do

          it. I began serious writing after my husband passed in 2005.  My short stories have

          been published in thirteen Chicken Soup for the Soul books and several periodicals.  

v What do you do enjoy doing in you spare time? write

v Tell us a little about your new book. The Light keeper's Daughter is a 1915-1918 historical.

v What inspired you to write it? I've always enjoyed lighthouses, and I remember stories told to me by my grandmother about WWl and the influenza pandemic. I just put them together and came up with my first novel

v What message do you hope readers will take from it? Nothing is impossible with God

v Do you have a favorite scene? Care to share an excerpt? 

   Belle blinked. A kaleidoscope of colors floated around the room as the ladies promenaded in gorgeous evening gowns. Her breath shallow and her pulse racing, she nearly fainted as a mental picture of her feet flailing in the air and dress flying over her head, bounced through her mind.

    Belle and Lawrence made their way to the dance floor without a catastrophe, as the orchestra switched from the trot to a slow waltz. She was one of the ladies of Marley Cove, not just the light keeper's daughter. She belonged.  

v What distracts you from writing the easiest? My grandkids

v What kind of books do you enjoy reading? (Book recommendations welcome!) My favorite is Fireflies in December by Jennifer Erin Valent.

v Which character in your new release most interested you while you wrote

  Why? Belle the daughter of a light keeper, who thought she always wanted to get away from the sea but found she really loved it.

v If you were a style of music, what style would you be? Southern gospel

v Are there spiritual themes you like to write about? Forgiveness, understanding & love

v Share a verse or Scripture passage with us that is special to you. (and why) 23^rd Psalm—It got me through a long night waiting for a surgery I wasn't expected to live through.

v Are there things you put off doing because you dread them? Yes, self editing

v What's your favorite time of year? Love them all

v When is your next book due out and can you tell us about it? August 2012 the first of a trilogy, Secrets of Willow Shade

v How do you handle rejections? I haven't had many thanks to Desert Breeze. But I accepted the rejection from another publisher well by immediately rewriting and submitting to DB.

v Why do you write? Because I must

v What would you be doing with your free time if you weren’t writing? Feeling lonely.

v What are you working on right now? A light suspense trilogy set in Logan County KY where I was born.

v Do you put yourself into your books/characters? Yes. But I put my dad in all of them.

v Do you have any advice for other writers? Just write and pray

v How important is faith in your books? My first book is full of faith. The next one refers to it less, but it is there.

v What themes do you like to write about? I don't want to be branded into any theme.

v What is your favorite book you’ve written and why? I like Secrets of Willow Shade because it is funny, suspenseful and full of my early life on the farm.

v What is your writing schedule like? Constant now since I'm contracted to four books in less than two years.

BLURB

A broken heart and trouble with the law washes Belle's dreams of a beautiful life with wealthy Lawrence Rinehart out into the sea. Branded a thief by Lawrence's mother, Belle seeks refuge in a lighthouse on the shore of a secluded little seaport.

Captain Fred Logan, penetrates her wall of defense and persuades Belle to come out of isolation. Together they face WWl, rescue a baby from the sea, and battle the deadly flu epidemic.  

Will Belle choose Fred or the wealthy ex-boyfriend when Lawrence's boat capsizes and she braves a vicious storm to save him? Will Divine Guidance give Belle courage to do what she must in order to truly be free?

Where can readers buy your book and where can they learn more about you? 

www.desertbreezepublishing.com www.amazon.com http://www.barnesandnoble.com/  and anywhere ebooks are sold.

My website is:  http://kystorywriter.blogspot.com  

My facebook is Jean Thompson Kinsey

Give Us This Day by June Foster

June Foster is a Retired Teacher. She and her husband travel full time in their RV. She began writing Christian Fiction in January 2010. She hopes to minister to Christians who struggle with the same issues as her hero and heroine.

Give us this Day  is author June Foster's new release.

EXCERPT 

Holly reached down and untied the shoe string of her left tennis shoe. Could she really do this? 

"What are you doing?" His questioning look accelerated the nervous pangs in her stomach. 

Holly lifted a restraining hand to him and continued her work. With an unsteady grip, she pulled her sock off exposing the curved metal of her prosthetic limb. 

Jess stared, his eyes the size of large plates. "Oh, good Lord, Holly. What happened?" 

Holly folded her jeans up to her knee exposing the entire device. She released the suction holding the hollow plastic casing over her knee stump and removed the entire leg, setting it next to the couch. 

Her heart thundered as she dared a glance at Jess. 

He sat motionless, his eyes wide open. "Why didn't you tell me?" 

"Because I thought you'd reject me if you knew. Now do you see? You're not the only one with a flawed body." Holly leaned back against the couch, her stub barely meeting the end of the seat. Her palms were like ice. She took the risk and showed him. No turning back now. He'd always know. 

Jess's voice was barely a whisper. "You haven't told too many people." 
B "No. Only my family and Dr. Murphy know. Zack, too. I was riding on the back of his motorcycle when the accident happened."

"Holly, I don't know what to say." He gazed at her with woeful blue eyes.

She wiped away another stream of endless tears. "After I came to know you, I figured you'd love me in spite of it. That's the kind of man you are. I didn't know how to tell you until now."

Jess eased off the couch and slowly knelt in front of her. He folded her jeans a little higher, gazed at her with eyes of love and compassion, then bent down.

She gasped.

He lowered his lips to the stub and kissed it, then gazed up at her again.

"I can't believe you did that. I love you for it."

Jess blinked, a grimace painted on his face. With a groan, Jess moved back onto the couch with her. He slid his arms around her. "You're right. It would've made no difference in how I feel about you, but this makes things even more difficult." 

Because Of Me by Fay Lamb

Fay Lamb works as an acquisition/copyeditor for Pelican Book Group (White Rose Publishing and Harbourlight Books), offer her services as a freelance editor, and is an author of Christian romance and romantic suspense. Her emotionally charged stories remind the reader that God is always in the details. Because of Me, her debut romantic suspense novel is soon to be released by Treble Heart Books /Mountainview Publishing.

Fay has a passion for working with and encouraging fellow writers. As a member of American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), she co-moderates the large Scribes’ Critique Group and manages the smaller Scribes’ critique groups. For her efforts, she was the recipient of the ACFW Members Service Award in 2010.

In 2012, Fay was also elected to serve as secretary on ACFW’s Operating Board.

Fay and her husband, Marc, reside in Titusville, Florida, where multi-generations of their families have lived. The legacy continues with their two married sons and five grandchildren.

Because of Me: 

Not your typical Christian Fiction

Michael's fiancée, Issie Putman, was brutally attacked and Michael was imprisoned for a crime he didn't commit. Now he's home to set things right.

Two people stand in his way: Issie's son, Cole, and a madman.

Can Michael learn to love the child Issie holds so close to her heart and protect him from the man who took everything from Michael so long ago?

Excerpt 

Issie waited a minute, but Cole didn’t join her. She walked to the dugout, her tennis shoes scuffing the soft sand. Cole looked up. Tears stained his dirty little face.

Before she could get to him, Kevin pulled her outside the concrete block enclosure. “What kind of lies have you been feeding your kid, Issie?” he asked between clenched teeth.

“What?” She blinked.

“After his home run, he whispered to some of the boys that his dad was here at the game. What kind of crap is that? His dad’s still behind bars.”

Issie heaved a deep breath and chose to ignore her brother-in-law. As usual, he hadn’t told the whole truth. She suspected from the news reports Tom Jervis might see freedom soon.

“After he told his little lie, Derek James taunted him, said he’d heard Cole’s daddy was in prison,” Kevin continued.

“Cole doesn’t lie.” Issie strode toward her son. Kevin was supposed to help protect him from this. Why hadn’t he shielded her son from some of that James’ family malice?

She clutched the chain-link front of the dugout, using it to keep herself upright until she reached Cole.

What had caused her son to say such a thing? Where had he gotten the idea?

Eric scooted over so Issie could sit beside her son.

“Do you want to talk about this?” she asked.

Cole shook his head and fixed his gaze toward right field.

How did God make a mother able to feel her child’s pain?

Cole’s chin trembled. He looked up at her, his gray eyes penetrating her soul. “I saw him, Mommy. I really did. He was watching you when you were screaming for me. He smiled at you.” Cole swung his feet back and forth, the soles of his shoes rasping across the sand. He looked down at them. A tear slithered from the corner of his eyes and dropped, staining his uniform. “No one believes me, but my daddy was here. I saw him.”

She’d never told him anything about the man who fathered him. “Cole, honey, how do you know it was him?”

“Granny Rhonda’s Michael. Like in the pictures Granny Rhonda had, the man with you in the picture in ‘Tilda’s living room, but today he had a beard and his hair was longer.” Cole looked at her, tears streaking through the dust of red clay that settled on his face.

Why hadn’t she seen this coming? She’d never imagined the track upon which his train of thought pulled his overactive imagination. Why hadn’t she told him the truth? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He’d never said anything to her about the prom picture sitting on Matilda’s mantel, and she’d never known Michael’s mother, Rhonda, had shared other pictures. Cole had been so young then. How could he remember? His question after her nightmare took on a new light. Mother and son both held a desire so deep, and their yearnings centered on a man who’d left Issie years ago.

She bit her lower lip. How could you tell a little boy he had no hope of ever having a father in his life? She took a ragged breath and released it. “Honey, the man you saw probably reminded you of Michael because we talked about him the other night. I believe you saw someone that looked like him, but I don’t think it was Granny Rhonda’s Michael.”

My Michael.

Available through all fine book retailers, Amazon,

Mountainview Publishing, a division of Treble Heart Books.

Hello 2012... a month late

Christmas is long past... okay just by a month. And now January is almost over. Did you miss me? Did you even wonder where I'd been?

So since I'm a month late in telling you... Happy Belated New Year.

I guess time flies when you're having fun. Although, I'm trying to decide if I've been having fun or not.

I suppose if trying to drill a hole through your arm (as I did yesterday) can be called fun... then I was having a wonderful time.

No... I wasn't drilling holes in my arm for a whole month. I actually managed to get some things accomplished.

I've sent in the first in my coming Shadow Series... When Shadows Fall and get to start the process of editing and editing and... well you get the drift.

When Shadows Fall is my Oregon With the Wind type serial, following Rebekah St. James from the War Torn East to the New Eden on the Oregon Trail. Look for it in June.

I've been working on the sequel to Touched By Mercy. Trying to decide whether to call it Tamed By Mercy or Changed By Mercy. It's kind of a Taming of the Shrew so they both work. What do you think?

I've continued to edit for a Publishing Company and hope I don't mess the manuscript up more than when I got it. LOL

Otherwise life has been pretty quiet.

It is the time of the year when the temperature is pretty mellow in Arizona and everyone wants to come here to visit. Meaning the population has practically doubled and the streets aren't altogether mellow anymore. Plus you wait in line every where.  I will have to admit that it's a far cry better than 118 like we had in the summer. But the way time is passing... that's coming around again. And the summer here does have it's upside. Less traffic, shorter lines, open swimming pools...

Still it has been nice to get out and walk in balmy weather. I still miss home. Colorado. But I don't cry as much as I used to over it now.

I found new things to cry over. Or scream over or pull my hair out over or pound my (Sorry I digress)

Case in point... I've been following the Republican Primaries.

Does the whole process make your blood pressure rise?

I myself have been getting just a touch ill with all the in fighting. I'm an inny. He's an outy. He's not as conservative as me. He made money, he took money... blah blah blah. How sad that there is nothing better to talk about. And don't get me started on the debates...  Don't get me wrong there have been some excellent moments. But how many do we really need to have? How long do we keep rehashing the same things over and over and pretty much saying nothing new? My goodness... you'd think all the news media wants is to see fighting instead of talking about issues and what matters. Maybe we should just have a boxing match and get it over with.

Makes a body long for the day it's done. Well this cycle anyway. Because we know it's coming around again in four more years.  This is the time of life when I hate 24 hour news. Wait five minutes and they'll tell you the same thing again.

Believe me I have some other things I could rant about, occupiers, the happening in the middle east, our leadership in America, the captain on the cruise ship, the economy, the cost of cable, how everyone separates everything out to charge extra and more... but that would fill pages. Or not.

I don't know if I could balance on my soapbox long enough to cover everything with the depth necessary. And I wonder if it'd really matter. Would anyone really care what I had to say?

I really just wanted to stop in and say hey. And tell everyone to have a wonderful and prosperous rest of your new year before it gets too old.

Don't get Scrooged

I have such fond memories of Christmas. But I have bad ones. I'm sure you do too. What Memories dictate how you're going to spend the season?

Would you agree that what you put in the season is what you get out of it?

So, how do you see Christmas?

Do you start the holiday season filled with energy and excitement? And finish feeling breathless and zapped of strength?

Do you face Christmas with the anticipation of a child, or with trepidation? Even dread?

Maybe you find yourself hoping that you get something wonderful for Christmas, something you waited for all year. And it doesn't have to be tangible.

Thinking of Christmas' past, how did you feel when they were over? Wonderful? Drained?

Are you expecting a dismal outcome this year? Or a joyous one?

Are you allowing yourself to get Scrooged out before the glorious holiday season?

Here are a few steps we can take to make sure we don't get Scrooged.

First, you all know who Scrooge is… the beloved Dicken's character from Christmas Carol whose story has warmed our hearts through the years.  He was so kind and thoughtful. The character you love to almost hate. Kind of like the Grinch.

You can put whatever character you want in the title.

Don't get Scrooged. Don't get Grinched.

But the fact remains, while Scrooge and Grinch are characters, there are real people like them walking the streets today. People who act like their only joy in life is to steal it from others. They're rude, selfish, heart-hearted and at times downright cruel. They'd steal your Christmas Spirit if you let them.

And that Scrooge could be me. Maybe even you.

We would rarely consider ourselves Scrooges and we hope we're not in the business of stripping Christmas joy.

Perhaps we don't do it on such a grand theatrical scale. And most times no one knows we're feeling like the Grinch. But God does. Some of you may be groaning now. Believe me I know how you feel. Because if we're honest, we know we have times when we're at our worst.

There are times, though I hate to admit, especially around Christmas when I'm supposed to be wearing a face of joy and offering good cheer, that those feelings begin to strip away my happy Christmas mask.

Maybe your mask is fraying a bit too.

See if you can find yourself in any of the following.

Bubbly Christmas Spirit (you know the one you want to Strangle) dressed in colorful Christmas sweater with ornament earrings…  "Christmastime. I love Christmas. It's the greatest time of the year."

Sarcastic Modern Day Scrooge -- "Great? Yeah… well for some of us it's more like the time when the whole world is trying to thin our pocketbooks.  And our nerves are unraveling."

BCS turning up Christmas back ground music to blow my eardrums.  "Oh but Christmas is such a wonderful time. It's a time of Peace on Earth and Goodwill to Men."

Modern Day Scrooge -- "Unless that person happens to cut me off on the street. I mean just the other day at the mall, someone took the parking spot I'd been waiting for. Why should I be peaceful about that. And goodwill.  Hmmph, I'll give them goodwill and a good one finger wave to go along with it."

"But think about all you've gotten for Christmas, think about how wonderful it is to give. Think about the gift God gave when he sent his son."

"Don't lecture me on giving. I am the queen of giving. For what good it's done me. I sent out lovely Christmas Cards last year, and gave wonderful, extravagant and well thought out gifts. Did anyone return the favor. Humbug. And don't get me started on charities or needy people. They're more like leeches this time of year. When is enough… enough? Besides, I have my own family to care for and things are tight this year."

BCS-- (Spraying Christmas scent about the room. Doing a few tra-la-las and twirls.) "But Christmas is a time for Joy to the World. People's hearts and lives should reflect that joy and cheerfulness. At least this time of the year."

"Excuse me? Okay so some people are joyous over Christmas, and maybe there is some cheer in the air. But quite frankly, I'm too busy to be joyful or cheerful. I'm pulled apart by rehearsals and shopping and baking and parties and and… try pulling my schedule then come back and tell me about joy and cheerfulness"

BCS-- flopping a big photo album on the table before me. "Christmas is a time for family and memories.

(Snorting) Yeah Right?  I love the hassle of those big family gatherings. The ones that nearly end up in a brawl on the front lawn.  And if it's at my house well that's more that I have to do. Everything has to be spotless and just so so. And no matter how hard I try someone will complain. Or find fault.

And if it's at someone else's house then I have to load up all the my things and spend hours in the hall traveling to get there. Where I usually end up sleeping on the floor in a room devoid of privacy. Family, Ha, by the time I've spent one day with them I've had enough memories to last a life time. Have you met my family? We're talking togetherness overload.

Christmas is a glorious time of lights and presents and traditions

Yeah well… we could talk for days about traditions (all those things we do because the family did it for years and we can't stand it.) But let's talk about lights. I tried for one of those picture perfect yards the one's that get pictured in the paper and have people driving by oohing and ahhing.

I hung the lights, on the house, across the yard. Put up some cute little lawn characters to wave at the lookey-loos. And put out a Nativity.

It was magnificent, pretty good if I have to say so myself. Then one of those stupid bulbs went out and I spent hours trying to the culprit. A few strands are dead now, someone stole a lawn ornament and a dog hiked his leg on baby Jesus.

I have more chance of a drive by shootings than a visit from seekers of light.

And how about those presents, huh? I get them wrapped and under the tree just so my children can shake them and tear off the paper before Christmas. And if  it's not the children, it's the dogs. I'd hang up a sign saying these are not fire hydrants or chew toys, but I doubt the dogs would understand ( the tree isn't even red).

Speaking of trees. I trudged through mountains of snow, through the cold, up the hill both ways, lugging a saw and hot chocolate, on what became a forgettable family outing. We looked all over and found nothing but a scrawny tree. Charlie Brown had a better one. Then I had pine needles everywhere for the next month.

But what about the love of Christmas. God loved us so much he sent his son for us. Christmas should remind us to share that love.

Well sure Christ is all loving and all caring. But he has the power to be that way. I'm only human. I've found that most people just want to use me. They act all nice. Tell me we'll can be best buds. When what they really want if for me to remember them when I send out my gifts or throw a party. They certainly don't keep in touch the rest of the year. I have hard time loving those kinds of people. They  grate on my nerves.

If you ask me… Christmas is just a farce. A time for merchandiser to make money. Maybe that rude, fat, fowl smelling excuse for a Santa who yelled at my children… is the embodiment of my Christmas.

 

Maybe he's the embodiment of yours…

Do you ever get so caught up trying to make Christmas come alive… you kill it?

What is Christmas? What are you really celebrating?

When you say Christmas… what comes to mind? A special gift or two? A scent? A dream? Many memories of Christmas haunt us. Some good. Some bad.

Whether we want to admit it or not… memories dictate, in some measure, how we celebrate Christmas now. Hopefully, they won't all be Scrooge moments that pull us away from the joy. Hopefully, we won't have visits from Ghosts. 'Cause I'd freak.

Hopefully our insights and memories will pull us back from Scroogedom and remind us why Christmas is a wonderful time of year and chastise us for becoming so hard-hearted.

Is there wonderment in Christmas? Do you see Christmas through the eyes of child? Or has it been distorted by life and the years?

Do you get goose-bumps when you hear that Santa is coming? Delight and excitement from staring at the gifts under the tree? Do you feel the reverence of a child in a manger?

Some of us have so many trappings, so many distorted feelings of Christmas we've lost sight of how beautiful the season is.

How simple the Christmas story and season really are.  The remedy for a hectic holiday is to remember the reason for the Season and whose birthday we're celebrating. Share the truth of Christmas. You can impact someone's life this year. Maybe even your own.

Seeking  Immanuel  Makes  Peace  Last  Eternally

 

Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year.

Leave a comment for chance to win a new mouse pad, or a postcard from one of my books.

Anne Patrick -- Kill Shot

Former combat medic Kory Wagner has been in four war zones, served three tours in Iraq, survived countless firefights, RPG’s, IED’s and even a helicopter crash.  Now she’s home and out of the Army for good and someone is trying to kill her in her own backyard.  Just as disturbing is the handsome sheriff who’s on the case. 

Sheriff Sean Harding doesn’t quite know what to think of the decorated veteran that managed to outsmart an entire search party.  What bothers him more is the body of a PI, whom she hired to find her sister's killer, was found dead in a building Kory owns.  And Kory isn’t being very cooperative with helping him find the answers as to why someone would kill her sister and want her dead.  Will he be able to keep her alive along enough to discover the truth?

Excerpt

The steel door creaked as she pushed it open, the sound echoing throughout the metal building. "Mr. Urlik?" She waited for her eyes to adjust to the change in lighting before stepping all the way inside. A wide stream of light from the door spread out in front of her. "Mr. Urlik. Are you in here?"

Kory heard a sound a few yards in front of her. She quickly scanned the area. Three rows of huge metal shelves lined the interior. She inched forward, peering around the corner of the second row. Mr. Urlik lay on his side, facing her, clutching his chest. His eyes were opened and his mouth moved, but no sound came out. A heart attack? She ran to him, knelt down on the cement floor, and took his hand. It was wet, slimy. She looked down and saw his hand covered in blood. Her eyes shifted to his chest. A large crimson stain spread across the width of his white shirt from a small hole near the center. He was breathing erratically. Experience told her a bullet had pierced at least one lung and he didn't have much time. She immediately pressed the heel of her right hand against the wound.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Where's your cell phone?" Hers was in her backpack but she didn't want to waste valuable time digging it out.

"No time. Get out."

"Who did this, Mr. Urlik?"

He grabbed her right hand and squeezed it tightly. "You were right -- no accident."

His hand went limp.

Kory felt something in the palm of her hand, looked down and saw it was a key. She shoved it into her jeans pocket. A whizzing sound buzzed past her, followed by the unmistakable clink of a bullet ricocheting off metal. She instinctively threw herself over his body as another bullet struck metal. Kory felt for a pulse. There was none. She lowered her hand to his chest and felt under both arms and along his waist. I thought all PIs carried guns. Just my luck this one didn't.

She scrambled to her feet, as more shots ricocheted around her, and dove through an opening on the first row of shelves. A piercing pain sliced through her upper arm as she took cover behind some boxes. They wouldn't shield her from the gunfire but they would conceal her presence while she figured out how she was going to get out of there. She paused long enough to grab her cell phone from her backpack, wishing she hadn't when another bullet tore through a box beside her. She ducked lower to the floor.

Kory ignored the throbbing in her arm and slithered along the floor toward the back of the building. As a child, she and her sister, Callie, had often accompanied her grandfather to the warehouse where he worked on boats as a hobby. She remembered a back exit that led to the side parking lot and nearby woods. If she could reach the door, she had a chance of getting out of this alive. She looked down at the tear in her shirt, drenched with blood.

This isn't good!

Kill Shot: Book One Wounded Heroes can be purchased at most online bookstores or from my publisher – Desert Breeze Publishing: http://stores.desertbreezepublishing.com/-strse-227/Wounded-Heros-Book-One/Detail.bok

Anne's Bio: Anne Patrick is the author of more than a dozen novels of Romance, Mayhem & Faith, including the award-winning and best-selling Fire and Ash, Lethal Dreams and Sabotage. When she's not killing off people or falling in love with dashing heroes, you can find her surfing the web or spending time with family and friends.  Born and raised in Oklahoma, she now makes her home in Kansas.

To learn more about Anne, please visit her website: http://www.annepatrick.weebly.com (where I have monthly giveaways) or blog: http://www.suspensebyanne.blogspot.com .

 

Happy Thanksgiving

Punctuations of Praise

by Tina E. Pinson

A worn and battered, cloth-bound, book lies before me on the shelf

I pull it down, turn the brittle pages carefully, and find the story of myself.

Written declarations of pain and strife, myriads of agony

 and kaleidoscopes of mistakes, glare at me from tear-stained lines

I wonder as I read the story of my life,

Is that all there is?

The thought that my story is rife with sorrow and error, overwhelms me to tears.

But turning a new page, I read on.

As my eyes begin to clear, a miracle unfolds before me.

I begin to see the glory of the tale and find beauty written between the lines.

When my life sentence was too long… You gave me periods of rest.

There were parentheses to hold and comfort me.

Brackets secured me… when my world seemed crazy.

You dotted the i's of my life with your blood and tears.

You put an apostrophe behind my name, to say that I am yours.

You gave my life meaning.

You used hyphens to hold me together when my life was such a mess.

And between the quotes you spoke to me with love and tenderness.

With your life=s blood you red-lined my pain,

You underscored my sorrow with exclamation points.

Gave me dashes for moments to think,

and ellipses upon which to hope and dream.

You alone formed the sentences that tell the story of my life.

You gave it rhyme and meter.

The blessings found on each page I read, show me you've always been there,

And remind me of how you've made my life sweeter.

But even if the lines didn't hold the sway of my life,

Even if you erased all the punctuation,

I know I'd still see you.

You'd be in the swirl of an S, in the loop of an L,

You'd be the ink that writes my life.

Most of all, I'd remember you, because you spanned eternity to cross a t and give me a future.

For these precious blessings, I am ever grateful.

What more can I say?

But thank you, thank you, Jesus.

Period.

End of sentence.

But not the end of the story.

In Their Words: Veteran's Stories

By Tricia Goyer

As early as 1940, prisoners started arriving at the small train station at Mauthausen, where nestled in the hills was a hidden concentration camp. A full two years before the bombing of Pearl Harbor, this once peaceful community was already experiencing the horrors of war. And by January 1941, the Mauthausen-Gusen camps became the only 'Category I' camps in Third Reich history, meaning "camp of no return." Prisoners were used as slave labor in quarries and munitions factories. These men and women were worked to death or killed not long after their arrival.

 

The estimate of the number of people killed in the Mauthausen camp system is between 120,000 and 300,000. Most who entered the large gates never exited, but in May 1945 everything changed. American troops had fought through France, Belgium, and Germany and had now crossed the Austrian border. They were headed toward the camp, though they didn’t know it yet.

The first American US GIs at the camp were the 41st Recon Squadron, 11th Armored Division, Patton's 3rd Army. The men opened the gates and brought the prisoners what they never expected—freedom—followed by food, clothes and the care of medics.

When the camp’s historian, Martha, told me about these men, I knew I wanted to meet them and to hear their stories. What was it like to grant these prisoners their freedom? How had it affected these men? When I arrived home, I researched their experiences and contacted their division’s veteran organization to ask if it would be possible to interview any of the men. I was overwhelmed with the response. The men invited me to their annual reunion in Kalamazoo, Michigan.

Those I'd connected with through letters were waiting with their photos, their stories, and their tears. After all these years they had not forgotten. I talked to Arthur and Charlie first. They'd been best friends during the war and 55 years later still finished each other's sentences. Thomas, LeRoy, and Tarmo were next … each one telling me their story. Many more men, each with their own personal experiences, poured out their hearts to me. During the week they had a special ceremony to honor their friends who'd died and to remember the people they liberated. Even after all these years they knew what they did had mattered.

***

I’d been a Christian since I was a small child, but I had even greater faith after feeling the protection of the Lord pressing upon me. I’m still a strong Christian today because of that experience. Many people can deny the fact that God exists, but not me. I’ve felt His hand . . . and heard His whisper in the midst of war. LeRoy Petersohn

***

On our way to Austria, there is one thing I will never forget. The image of what I spotted from my perch on that tank still brings tears to my eyes nearly sixty years later.

“Major,” I says.“I believe the whole German Army must be down there. The road is full of people. Just a black line.”

I couldn’t distinguish what kind of people they were, but I could see that black line stretched out for miles. I said again, “The whole German Army must be down there waiting for us.”

He answered very quietly. “No, son, that’s the prisoners from Flossenberg concentration camp. The Germans wanted to clear them out before we got there.”

The prisoners reminded me of walking skeletons. Yes, from the top of that tank I’d seen it all—the battles, the barbarity of men, and the joy of liberation. From my perch I witnessed what I’ll never forget—the fight against good and evil. And I was thankful I was part of bringing in the good.” Tarmo Holma

***

I was just a young kid straight out of high school; a replacement for killed or injured troops. Nothing had prepared me for the sight of thin arms and legs poking out of striped uniforms, their distorted faces staring at us, reminding us we were too late. Charles Torluccio

***

I attended two more reunions over the years, in Buffalo and St. Louis, and interviewed hundreds of veterans. I wrote two historical novels about their experiences, From Dust and Ashes (http://www.triciagoyer.com/historicalfiction.html#DustAndAshes) and Night Song (http://www.triciagoyer.com/historicalfiction.html#NightSong), and now Remembering You (http://www.triciagoyer.com/contemporaryfiction.html#RememberingYou), but it was the relationship with the men that forever changed my life. It's their stories that I will never forget.

Many people walk out of Mauthausen concentration camp with a sadness of what took place. I experienced that, but as I sought out the men who opened the gates I've found so much more.

So much more.

Tricia Goyer is a homeschooling mom of four and an acclaimed and prolific writer, publishing hundreds of articles in national magazines. She has also written books on marriage and parenting and contributed notes to the Women of Faith Study Bible. Tricia's written numerous novels inspired by World War II veterans, including her new release Remembering You. Tricia lives with her husband and four children in Arkansas. You can find out more information about Tricia at www.triciagoyer.com.

My thanks to Tricia for sharing these insights from WWII. And a special thanks to all those who have served our country past and present.

Rotten Potatoes

I found a rotten potato today. Actually, it found me. I opened up the pantry door and it literally reached out with long green tenacles of pew and smacked my nostrils.

Ugh, gagalicious, and watch me spew.

Mushy Rotten Potatoes. Not much can compare to the way it assaults ones senses.

But being the frugal type homemaker I am. I knew I couldn't just waste that potato. Noooo
I hunted it down, cleaned it, cut it up and put it in my roast to feed to the family later. Of course with my decerning taste, I can't eat it.

AS IF...

I pulled that smelly mushy thing out of the bag by the tips of two fingers ( while I carefully plugged my nose with the other hand) and tossed it in the trash. ( and found a couple more potatoes beside it that were getting soft rotten spots and tossed those too.)

But it got me thinking about life... and how some of us actually thing we can keep the rotten potatoes around. How we try to make culinary delights out of rotten fare. Dress it up with rich flavors and think the world won't notice.

Some of us actually believe our potatoes don't stink. Our potato are a more expensive brand, so much better and they even have a hybrid brand name that keeps are potatoes from emanating any kind of smell.

And even if they do, the odor isn't that bad.  We can smell the stench and ignore it. Or can buy expensive perfumes, heavy deodorants or take a gazillion baths to conceal it. And people should and will accept our potatoes stench because those potatoes are ours.

We'll deal with our rotten potatoes. When the time comes, we'll look at our potatoes again and we'll take out the bad one. Maybe... For now, it's small, it won't hurt anything.

Funny thing is... when we go to use the potatoes, they are all rotten, just because of that one stinky, mushy potato we didn't throw away before.

But we do, using our calibrated sniffers, smell everyone elses rotten potatoes. We turn up our noses and let them know how much their rotten potatoes stink. And it's always worse than ours.

And we all have our rotten potatoes.

I remember my mother, who didn't want to throw anything out... used to use moldy bread. I understand using dry bread for croutons, stuffings, and such, but Moldy bread. She told us the green growing on the bread was just penicillin and they cut mold off cheese, so she could do the same with bread. It wouldn't hurt us, infact it could be good for us. Especially during cold and flu season. She would cut of the moldy parts, dip it in eggs and cinnamon and feed it to us as French Toast for breakfast. Breakfast and meds in one bite. YUMMM

Can I just say... all the syrup and peanut butter in the world, didn't kill the taste of mold. It lingered after every bite. The thought alone could kill you... You could almost smell it, even though the green had been cut away.

All the lysol and scented candles won't get rid of the stench of rotten potato, one has to pull it out of the potato pack and deep six it.

What rotten potatoes are you carrying around?

The Game

I constructed a game board. This may Boggle some of your minds and you may ask... why I just didn't go buy the game.


Well, for one, it's not on the market. And I want to play it. For two, building the board gave me a bit of a challenge. So being the artistic engineer (woodworking hobbyist) that I am, I set out to build the board myself. It was quite the Operation.

Some may say I'm an idiot. Perhaps I am. I've heard that about my other artistic outlets as well. Writing, chief among them.

I've heard how I'll never get my books published. (I proved the naysayers wrong.)

I've heard that I had too little talent and from others… too much talent. Huh? Whatever???

I realize I'll never please everyone. There will be people in this world who just don't get me. I just have to follow my heart and take a ride on the Reading Railroad. Which brings me back to the game.

My heart was set on playing this particular game. So I decided to make the board and soon realized that building the board was sort of like writing. Like Life even.

First, I got the concept from seeing the game. (Don't take stories verbatim though, that's plagiarism.) Then using my Cranium, I sketched my first draft of the board layout.

After I settled on the layout, I sat down and built a mock up out of Legos just kidding. Might have been fun though. Instead, I drew it up on the computer, till I got the right size and dimensions for a template. But couldn't print it out, 'cause my printer doesn't take such big sheets of paper. I had to change my Strategy.

So it was back to Start, to the drawing board... literally. This time I drew a full scale model. And when I laid it on the board, I realized my dimensions were off. I needed to measure the ends better. More cutting commenced. Saw dust flew.

Writer's have to cut back and change scales on their manuscripts, too. Of course to do so, we don't have to pull out the power tools and slice away. Although at times, it sure feels that way. And who knows it, might make cutting words more interesting.

So I had my board cut and laid out. Bare bones. I could have played the game on the unfinished board then, but it wouldn't have been the same.

I needed to do more.

Just like a writer, I needed to add the lines and fill empty spaces. I had to define the scenery of my board. Homebase. Start and Finish. I had to show the short cuts and make sure I researched and put down the rules somewhere. (So I could break them of course). Then I had to pull out the sander and buff some uneven spots.

I added more designs, drilled out holes for the playing pieces, which I still had to finish by giving them color and character. They, like characters in a book, can't look the same. No one will know who's who on the board.

I sanded and smoothed some more rough edges, filled holes that were drilled too deep my playing pieces got lost like sunken Battleships. I etched more color into the wood with a wood burner and then went to the garage to add a touch of varnish.

Then I had to find some decks of playing cards, and of course, round up players to play my game.

Writers have to add depth and design, we have to give our stories colorful interesting sheen, vivid real characters and editing polish, and we too, must find the players. ie., Readers willing to open our pages and spend the time in our book.

I won't send this game board out into the world, like I hope to do with my books, but hopefully myself and others will get to enjoy the game for years to come.

I hope my stories bring long hours of enjoyment.

While at times I'd like to pass go and collect my prize without all the investment of time, sweat and energy. I realize that a game or a story, will never touch another life if one doesn't take the time and Risk to move beyond the concept, the dreams, the imagination and construct the story. The game.

Who knows? Maybe no one will like the game. Or the book. Or the ________ ( you fill in the blank). I could be Sorry for putting myself out there, and investing so much time.

Maybe I'm just and Idiot. If so... I think I'm in good company.

So write your stories, build your game boards and invest in your dreams.

Play the game of Life. You may find that it's funner than a Barrel Full of Monkey.