tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57707063496490721222024-02-06T21:46:40.866-08:00White Roses in BloomUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger412125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-47752754574042421912013-10-24T21:36:00.000-07:002013-10-24T21:36:05.656-07:00Thanks for all your support...we've moved...Thank you for supporting White Roses in Bloom over the years. We're consolidating blogs, and you can find us at the <a href="http://pelicanbookgroup.blogspot.com/">Pelican Book Group Staff blog</a>. Please join us. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-73003569402172004652013-02-18T16:39:00.000-08:002013-02-19T10:38:47.204-08:00A Novella Approach<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zfbkVeNiHtg/USK6RwHVXSI/AAAAAAAAECA/mEbvr9QpoKA/s1600/YPCover_72+dpi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zfbkVeNiHtg/USK6RwHVXSI/AAAAAAAAECA/mEbvr9QpoKA/s200/YPCover_72+dpi.jpg" width="121" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">March 2010<br />
I was a bit disappointed<br />
when Yesterday's Promise <br />
was contracted as an e-Book. <br />
It's just under PBG's required <br />
length for a print book.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Novellas are a new thing for me, as a writer.
I’ve read many through the years, usually in anthologies such as the Barbour
Christmas collections. But it never occurred to me to write one myself until I
was contracted by White Rose Publishing, and I have discovered that I truly
enjoy writing these shorter works.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">That said, please don’t misunderstand: I did not
say they’re easier to write. They’re not. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">What they are is less difficult to plot. At less
than half the length of a full-length novel, these stories simply don’t have
room for an excess of sub-plots and cliffhangers. However, it can become quite
a challenge to fit all the elements necessary to the storyline into 20,000
words—or less, depending on the project. So the novella becomes an exercise in
brevity—a challenge to find ways of saying a thing less wordily, but with equal
impact.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Why should I write
a novella, when I can write a novel that’ll actually go to print?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V-ibGqbKy6Q/USLAyGNCvUI/AAAAAAAAEDE/Ipn0py7RdCI/s1600/DestinysDream_72+DPI+med.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V-ibGqbKy6Q/USLAyGNCvUI/AAAAAAAAEDE/Ipn0py7RdCI/s200/DestinysDream_72+DPI+med.jpg" width="130" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">December 2010</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Admit it, that’s what you’re thinking. I know
you are, because that’s what I used to think…and I’m not all <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>different from everyone else. (At
least, I’d like to think I’m not.) Getting a book into print seems somehow more
like legitimate publication than having an e-Book contract. Books are real…you
can hold them in your hand, and folks can buy them—you can sign those babies!</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But a very wise woman who happens to know a
great deal about publishing convinced me that these shorter stories have their
place in the industry <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> that they
can be a boon to an author’s career. She may not even remember the
conversation, but I do.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I probably won’t be able to quote her
word-for-word, ‘cause my memory’s not that good. I left the half-century mark
behind a few years ago, so I hope Nicola Martinez won’t come back with, “I
never said any such thing.”</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
</span></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TKeR4gziJyQ/USK_v_XTzTI/AAAAAAAAECo/rrTlzokYWFU/s1600/KyliesKiss_72+DPI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TKeR4gziJyQ/USK_v_XTzTI/AAAAAAAAECo/rrTlzokYWFU/s200/KyliesKiss_72+DPI.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">April 2011</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">If I'd been on my toes, </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">and clued in to the benefit</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">of novellas, I might</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> have avoided the long </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">gap without a release </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">between this book and </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">the next one...</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">H<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">ere’s what I remember her saying: “I’ve seen a
direct correlation between authors who consistently have good sales and the
ones who write novellas for release in between their full-length novels.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I’ve thought about those words a lot. And I’ve
come up with a few reasons for that “correlation.” Just my opinion, but that’s
what this blog is for, right?<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">1.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
author’s name remains out there in the public eye, so rea<span style="font-size: small;">ders don’t forget a
writer they like in between books.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Let’s face it…the length of time between
contracts for full-length novels can be daunting. And that’s not even counting
the wait between “the call” and seeing the book in print. I was averaging a
book every couple of years up until Solomon’s Gate. That’s long enough for a
reader to forget they ever read a book with my name on the cover.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">2.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
author continues to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">write</i>.</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The temptation to rest in between books is
almost irresistible…but a bad idea. Having shorter projects in between keeps
the imagination active and the writing skills honed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mj5Lmn10jjg/USK_41aUydI/AAAAAAAAEC4/V8cL78qDEuo/s1600/GypsysGame_72+DPI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mj5Lmn10jjg/USK_41aUydI/AAAAAAAAEC4/V8cL78qDEuo/s200/GypsysGame_72+DPI.jpg" width="133" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">March 2012</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">3.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
author takes home more of the book sales profit.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">‘Nuff said. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-size: small;">4</span><i><b><span style="font-size: small;">.</span></b></i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>E-publishing
is the wave of the future. Why not get in on the ground floor?</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Although it still has a ways to go as far as convincing
the public to embrace it, e-reading has gained considerable ground in recent
years. Almost everyone owns an e-Reader of some kind. Which says to me that
e-Books are becoming recognized as “real” books. Readers are learning to
appreciate the ease of purchase (order, pay, and be reading within a couple of
minutes—and all from the comfort of their recliner); compact storage (yes, I
love bookshelves, but they’re never big enough for an avid reader, which means
books overflow into every area of the house); ease of transport (ever tried to
pack ten Summer reads into a suitcase small enough to fit overhead in a
jetliner’s coach class seating—along with all your clothes and t<span style="font-size: small;">oiletries?);
and cost-effectiveness of e-Books.</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">4.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They’re
fun to write.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">And who needs any better reason than that?</span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
<span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><b><i><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">by Delia Latham</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-17dH-lGjSsE/USLIZkPivxI/AAAAAAAAEDU/wgtLi5KJUWk/s1600/Temp+Collage.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="381" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-17dH-lGjSsE/USLIZkPivxI/AAAAAAAAEDU/wgtLi5KJUWk/s400/Temp+Collage.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-88339392463658903532012-07-26T12:02:00.002-07:002012-07-26T12:02:24.568-07:00Found in the WoodsWhen my editor, Jamie West, and I were working on the manuscript she reminded me of a wonderful passage in Job 12:7-10. <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the
birds of the air, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will
teach you, or let the fish of the sea inform you. Which of all these does not
know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In His hand is the life of every
creature and the breath of all mankind.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I think of these verses often when I am outdoors or when I talk to others about the wolf I named Lakota in <i>Found in the Woods</i>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Rather than a fun read like the other Frivolities books, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><i>Found in the Woods</i> is edgy with elements of suspense</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3qtUMskWAJbJMAvvYrj8pb4EYfBQjEZpCJM_tEp5ErRtXY4_nN7ej9ALkUzp7Ah3JfeRCvdiE9WDf-L93eX6dRlcat-2Qn6nJAql0xwQQVPy0Pdl_wtC1Rao6lzpW8atd3G-4NFSCoE/s1600/FoundInTheWoods_w5176_300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3qtUMskWAJbJMAvvYrj8pb4EYfBQjEZpCJM_tEp5ErRtXY4_nN7ej9ALkUzp7Ah3JfeRCvdiE9WDf-L93eX6dRlcat-2Qn6nJAql0xwQQVPy0Pdl_wtC1Rao6lzpW8atd3G-4NFSCoE/s1600/FoundInTheWoods_w5176_300.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Blurb:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Beth Phillips returns to Platteville, Nebraska
in order to begin a new life and to hide from her abusive ex-husband. The
secluded cabin offers a chance to stay hidden and to draw closer to God, but
Beth quickly discovers she is not alone in the woods. She befriends a curious,
displaced wolf, but instead of fearing the animal Beth finds comfort in his
company.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: auto; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-autospace: ideograph-numeric ideograph-other;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When field biologist, Aiden Holt, follows
up on reported wolf sightings, he finds the animal and Beth Phillips. With
emotional baggage of his own, Aiden usually prefers animals to people, but
Beth's passion to keep the wolf draws Aiden in. Experience tells him the wolf
needs relocation. His heart tells him he needs Beth Phillips. He camps nearby
to capture the wolf, but can he capture Beth's heart, too? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: auto; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-autospace: ideograph-numeric ideograph-other;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: auto; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-autospace: ideograph-numeric ideograph-other;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Two souls, each lost in
their own way, are brought together by one of God's beautiful creations. Will
the Lord's path to their destiny be found in the woods?</span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Excerpt:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Beth’s insides had been fluttery and
nervous ever since her fingers grazed Aiden’s back. Had he felt it, too? That
zing was still there. She’d folded her hands between her knees, trying to get
rid of the tingle, but the connection remained.</span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It didn’t help that she had imagined
being held by him.</span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Even though the Lord fulfilled her
deepest longings, she still yearned for a human touch, the assurance she could
be wanted for the right reasons. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">She jumped up from her chair, as
antsy as Aiden for something to do. She’d been tempted by too many men. Didn’t
want to go there. He was a decent enough </span><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">guy, but too much was as
stake for her to be so attracted. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Attraction. Could that be the reason he was restless? </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“Would you mind bringing in a couple logs?” She didn’t give
him the chance to answer. She yanked his coat off the chair and turned, arms outstretched.
Aiden was so close in the small room, leaning forward and invading her space,
that her knuckles hit him in the sternum. Awareness of his body heat, his
nearness, awakened her nerve endings. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">He bent nearer still. She smelled the chocolate on his
breath. He pulled her towards him until only her hands fisted in the folds of
his coat separated them. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">In slow motion, he lowered his head. Only his strong arm
supporting her back kept her from falling. She raised her face degree by
degree, trying to concentrate on his sparkling, multi-colored brown eyes. But
then she saw only his lips as he drew closer. His smell came close to
intoxicating her. She was a goner. Aiden tasted as good as he smelled, earthy.
Like fresh new leaves, wood, straight-from-the-trees outdoors, and a little
smoky from her own fire. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Meeting his lips was as familiar as a recurring dream, yet as
frightening as a nightmare. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">His arms pulled her to him. The coat sighed to the floor. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">She felt her hands encircle his neck as though they had a
mind of their own. In Aiden’s arms, Beth felt as fragile as a sapling fighting
for survival during the spring storm. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">He pulled back. Had he felt what she did at their explosive
connection? </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">She kept her eyes closed, and concentrated on savoring the
moment as she felt his warm breath on her face. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The reality of being in Aiden’s arms was an exaggeration of
any white-knight fantasy. His arms again obliterated the outside world. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Her whole body jolted at the intensity of their next kiss.
The pressure of his lips deepened and swept her away. Sanity eventually
returned. Beth turned her head and pushed on his shoulders. Did he react the
way she had, with spots and flashes behind her eyelids? Would she reveal too
much of those fireworks when she opened her eyes? She didn’t want him to view
her as vulnerable. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’ve tried to imagine how you would taste.” He reached for
her hands and lowered them in his. “You are the real deal, Ms. Beth Phillips.”</span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">No. I’m all mixed
up. </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></i></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Lord, why would you
bring someone like Aiden into my life when I’ve had such a weakness for men in
the past? </span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span></i></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">That old
looking-for-love-in-all-the-wrong-places phrase hit her full force. Now that
she was a Christian, she had no business becoming interested in a man who, by
all indications, didn’t share her faith. She took two giant steps backward,
until she felt a camp chair against her leg. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But space between
them meant nothing. Aiden had slid under her defenses and rattled her solitary
foundation. </span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’ll help keep your
wolf safe,” he rasped as he bent to retrieve his coat. “Keep your Lakota safe.”</span></div>
<div class="Default">
<br /></div>
<div class="Default">
<span style="color: windowtext; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Palatino Linotype"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">His pronouncement
rocked her to the marrow. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">As his promise to
help the wolf sank in, her mouth remained open. Before she could formulate a
response, he shut the door behind him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/found-in-the-woods">http://www.pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/found-in-the-woods</a></span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-62125413220504765612012-04-27T08:09:00.001-07:002012-04-27T08:10:16.754-07:00Monday's Child by Clare Revell<br />
Based on the new version of the nursery rhyme Monday's Child comes a new series of romantic suspense novels by Clare Revell. One for every day of the week.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Monday’s Child must hide for protection,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tuesday’s Child tenders direction</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Wednesday’s Child grieves for his soul</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Thursday’s Child chases the whole</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Fridays Child is a man obsessed</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Saturday’s Child might be possessed</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And Sunday’s Child on life’s seas is tossed</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Awaiting the Lifeboat that rescues the lost.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgQE0wvW6gyB3ss-Wz7eGtzZbRbz2uNDXIAA7gcDcrAr5mUf9vdF2idxvDnG4Kop0rC9XP9l84SXwtteK2__7YILSyl71e419HAIILm5SSIhTjMpCw67aoX2jX8ciSlkOlI7LzbbBsfBl/s1600/MondaysChild_w5143_300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgQE0wvW6gyB3ss-Wz7eGtzZbRbz2uNDXIAA7gcDcrAr5mUf9vdF2idxvDnG4Kop0rC9XP9l84SXwtteK2__7YILSyl71e419HAIILm5SSIhTjMpCw67aoX2jX8ciSlkOlI7LzbbBsfBl/s1600/MondaysChild_w5143_300.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Blurb:</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Monday’s Child must hide for protection...</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
This was not the assignment Luke Nemec expected when he came to the UK—babysitting a beautiful widow. It wouldn’t be so bad if Sara wasn’t such a hostile witness. Despite her complaints and continued jibes, Luke finds himself falling for her.<br />
<br />
When, Sara Barnes is thrown into the witness protection programme, she becomes the “wife” of Lt. Luke Nemec, an American cop on temporary assignment with the British police. Despite Luke’s American bravado, she finds he’s kind and considerate in ways her late husband never was.<br />
<br />
But things aren’t always what they seem, and Luke soon realizes he’s fighting a battle of two fronts to keep Sara safe. Loyalties are called into question, and he’s no longer certain who he can trust. Luke is way out of his depth. As the threats against Sara escalate, it’s a race against time to find her husband’s killer before Sara is silenced forever.<br />
<br />
<b>Excerpt:</b><br />
<br />
Luke smiled at her and offered his hand.<br />
<br />
Sara ignored it, staring aghast at Wilcox, shock resonating through her, and not just at his abrupt tone. Was there something wrong with her hearing? There was no rank of<i> lootenant</i> in the English police force, for one thing. Or leftenant come to that. For another, he didn’t look like a soldier, and—wait a minute, did he say marriage? “I’m sorry?”<br />
<br />
“Lieutenant Nemec will be with you on a full-time basis. As far as the world is concerned, you’ll be his wife. First name terms only.”<br />
<br />
Furious, Sara shook her head. Her eyes narrowed and her lips set. “Oh, no. There is absolutely no way, either in this lifetime or the next, that—”<br />
<br />
“Sara—”<br />
<br />
“Don’t you Sara me. I am not going to live with anyone, Inspector. Especially someone I’ve only just met. And I am definitely not marrying him.” She glanced at Luke, deliberately pronouncing his title the English way. “No offence, Leftenant Nemec.”<br />
<br />
Luke slid his hands into his pockets. “None taken, but my name is Luke. If it helps any, I was just told myself.”<br />
<br />
Taken aback by his accent, Sara did a double take. “You’re American.”<br />
<br />
“And you’re British.” He tilted his head, flashing his teeth in a broad smile.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Buy Links</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/monday-s-child" target="_blank">Ebook from pelican books</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/monday-s-child-softcover" target="_blank">Paperback from pelican books</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-60291947475064664232012-04-22T15:08:00.000-07:002012-04-22T15:11:31.796-07:00Pelican Book Group at the RT Book Lovers ConventionWhite Rose Publishing and Pelican Book Group were well represented at the RT Book Lovers Convention in Chicago a short while ago!<br />
<br />
Authors Dora Hiers, Mary Manners, Marianne Evans, and the writing duo of KM Daughters had a blast mixing and mingling with romance readers and authors at the Rosemont Hyatt Regency! Here's a look at some of the fun to be had at Club RT, the Book Expo (E-Book) signing, and the Giant Book Fair (Print Books) signing. <br />
<br />
We were all so awed and humbled to support this awesome publishing house! In a very fun--if nerve wracking--honor, Hiers, Manners and Evans presented an interactive reader panel discussing the topic: 'Beyond the Bodice - Lacing Together Faith & Romance." The responses they received about what readers want (realism and modern storylines!) were illuminating, and a lot of fun to discuss! Audience member Katy Lee walked away with a Kindle for joining in the fun!<br />
<br />
Hope to see you at next year's RT Book Lovers Convention in Kansas City! Pelican Book Group authors would love to welcome you with open arms!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7jT5QDZqCxLJztkAqdooSlNgvP_H90-OA2SqfRzWSDjsPNrFcI9KvWkul9XwauJNspGXmCY9q3zMsMublkQCbkf8xB8OH0t1GJi_Jm10yiehgHjlQFzQ4QEqjRZMmb6Gwf_Wq21x2k0/s1600/IMG_0452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL7jT5QDZqCxLJztkAqdooSlNgvP_H90-OA2SqfRzWSDjsPNrFcI9KvWkul9XwauJNspGXmCY9q3zMsMublkQCbkf8xB8OH0t1GJi_Jm10yiehgHjlQFzQ4QEqjRZMmb6Gwf_Wq21x2k0/s320/IMG_0452.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="center">
Our Kind of Town!</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Lacing Together Faith & Romance</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBzQurRXwd8CVONKHZgFDvGU9llawRm63Q8Px03fy57BKPCcUCyjBQD6FaE3impR-Nbc8XY0wzIzCq8cNISqqvvo5Ij-31LyFSm5uRth166xX_52h6BVpkplL79Hx4pbZmzO9mwq5sz0/s1600/IMG_0407.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidBzQurRXwd8CVONKHZgFDvGU9llawRm63Q8Px03fy57BKPCcUCyjBQD6FaE3impR-Nbc8XY0wzIzCq8cNISqqvvo5Ij-31LyFSm5uRth166xX_52h6BVpkplL79Hx4pbZmzO9mwq5sz0/s320/IMG_0407.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Promo Lane - Lots of Goodies!</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Mary Manners, Marianne Evans & KM Daughters!</div>
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Dora Hiers</div>
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Mary Manners</div>
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KM Daughters</div>
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Marianne Evans</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-60804088480387949952012-02-09T14:17:00.000-08:002012-02-16T07:35:43.643-08:00Sage and Sweetgrass<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5RcV3RiN_yMyjINpxqIaoxqjThLnyZJMujpJ4tdIsHHFXa6xP72dmHJosmHfrG1h1OPoV7mdKPyPxw5wqf8-qlJJm1cNlTGiqlR3rXH6n-o8kaqcJ2r8kyMCETKjWpD8Ff2iIyW8Hkzk/s1600/SageAndSweetgrass_w5060_300.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5RcV3RiN_yMyjINpxqIaoxqjThLnyZJMujpJ4tdIsHHFXa6xP72dmHJosmHfrG1h1OPoV7mdKPyPxw5wqf8-qlJJm1cNlTGiqlR3rXH6n-o8kaqcJ2r8kyMCETKjWpD8Ff2iIyW8Hkzk/s320/SageAndSweetgrass_w5060_300.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5707265359436595394" border="0" /></a><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right:.5in">Survivor Lanae Petersen finds a moving love letter in an antique and seeks to discover the writer. Sage Diamond is holding on to the memory of his deceased wife. The last thing he needs is a tenacious woman who threatens to uncover his family secret.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">While I was writing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Moselle’s Insurance</i> (the first novel in the Frivolities series), I determined that Moselle’s mother Geneva (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Rainn on My Parade</i>), and her aunt Lanae, deserved their own happily-ever-after. That idea was reinforced by writer friends who loved all three characters. The series is centered around Frivolities, a kooky shop in fictitious Platteville, Nebraska, created by Geneva and Lanae.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">Blurb</b>: Diagnosed with a chronic, debilitating illness, Lanae Petersen vows to pursue life to its fullest. When she discovers mysterious love letters hidden within an antique desk, she begins a quest to discover who the young lovers were. Little does she realize that in trying to bring closure to their lives, hers will be turned upside-down.</p> <p>After the death of his wife, cowboy Sage Diamond wants to be left alone on his acreage in peace and anonymity. When Lanae approaches him with letters to a family member, she not only threatens to expose his family secrets, but also stirs something inside him that he neither expects, nor welcomes. Sage fights his attraction, determined not to fall for a woman whose health is so fragile. Can Sage trust God's guiding hand, or will his fear of losing another love crush his chance for a future with Lanae?</p> <p class="MsoBodyText3" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><b><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> </span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><b><span style="mso-no-proof:yes">Excerpt: </span></b><span style="mso-no-proof:yes">The sky was clear and enormous where it met the horizon. The whinny of horses carried up from a pasture on the other side of the barn. The acreage represented everything she loved about being outside the city limits. Expanse, horses, a sprinkling of trees in the distance…God’s country.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> When she caught sight of the cowboy, the vision was complete.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> She sighed. Home. How crazy. She felt like she’d come home.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> The cowboy rounded the corner of the wood-sided barn that she guessed to be sixty feet long. He loped in the loose way of a man comfortable on the back of a horse.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> And she enjoyed every step as he approached.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> He even tipped the brim of his hat. “Mornin’. You Lanae?”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes">Wow</span></i><span style="mso-no-proof: yes"> was the only thing she could think to say. But she kept it to herself.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> Her mouth went dry.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> His nose was bent, just off to the right of center. He had a full bottom lip, thinner upper, all accented by what she supposed was a year-round tan. Myriad facial lines gave testimony to a life lived outdoors.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> She cleared her throat, mustered up some moisture for her vocal chords in order to answer, “That I am.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> “Sage Diamond.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> When he drew close enough, Lanae was dumbfounded at the impact of his eyes. They were an unbelievable piercing blue with a hint of lavender.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> “Did you have any trouble finding the place?” Sage spoke in an unhurried manner.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> Lanae wondered if he felt rushed about anything. She started to open the door.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> “You always leave your car running?” A hint of amusement tugged at his mouth.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes">Oops</span></i><span style="mso-no-proof: yes">. She turned the key. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Great first impression</i>.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> He held the door.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> Still caught in the lavender blue of his eyes, shadowed now from his hat, Lanae swallowed what felt like the chaff of an August hayfield.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="mso-no-proof:yes">No more singles ads for me.</span></i></p> <p class="MsoBodyText3" style="mso-pagination:no-line-numbers"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right:.5in">Frivolities #3, available 2-24-2012 at </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/sage-and-sweetgrass">http://www.pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/sage-and-sweetgrass</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/sage-and-sweetgrass-softcover">http://www.pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/sage-and-sweetgrass-softcover</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-23221988877656939042012-01-10T07:00:00.000-08:002012-01-10T07:00:02.150-08:00Resting in Jesus' LapThe second week of December I went in for my annual mammogram. I've never had any problems and as far as I know there is no history of breast cancer in my family but so many women are diagnosed every day, that I'm grateful my insurance pays for a yearly exam.<br />
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With the new digital imaging, there is no waiting until the x-rays are developed, so I'm usually in and out again in fifteen minutes. No change this year.<br />
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However, the next day I received a call from the Women's Health Care Clinic. The radiologist had seen something suspicious and wanted me to come back in for a different diagnostic mammogram. They had an opening the following day. This time I went in a little scared. So many women in our church had battled breast cancer, some several times. I prayed and tried not to worry.<br />
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After the second mammogram, I was asked to have a seat in the waiting room and the radiologist would talk to me about the results. The wait was very nerve wracking. I just kept praying and asking God to comfort me. Finally, I was called back to meet the radiologist. She smiled and then showed me some bright white spots on the screen image. She explained these were microcalcifications but she couldn't tell from the picture if they were benign or not. Her explanation is that irregular shaped spots or spots clustered in one area, such as mine, sometimes indicate cancer. She said she would need a biopsy to further assess the situation. I blinked back tears as I agreed.<br />
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Next I was asked to go back into the waiting room while they contacted my doctor to get the biopsy scheduled. Fear gripped me with tight fingers. I repeated the Lord's Prayer over and over and repeated Psalm 23 in my head. Then I began my conversation with the Lord. Isn't it wonderful that he can hear us when we are talking silently?<br />
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I told Him that I was afraid and that I could not handle this on my own. I knelt at his feet and asked him to take me on his lap and hold me. What a wonderful feeling! I felt His comforting touch and laid my head on his chest and let my worry go. I can't explain the abolute peace which overcame me as the fear washed away.<br />
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My biopsy was scheduled for a week later. During that time I didn't focus on the negative. I knew whatever happened God would be with me and all would be well. And it was. The results of the biopsy showed I have fibrocystic breasts and there is no cancer!<br />
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Resting in the arms of Jesus, I received the most wonderful Christmas present. In times of trouble He is always with me as well as in the good times.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-18185997299516400392012-01-03T08:39:00.000-08:002012-01-03T08:41:33.045-08:00Musings from my heart...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAgjDKQoTul-lnakREHO6IOGqqMzYHF6i5b7RhyphenhyphenJ57fLNUntvsdMGn2n2q4AcLvylh7FP6IxOhR1iHCMwQ6Gtfd6ythAluNXmZgjh-Rsw8P1yjOI6e3LA6g8KOBfYu-vI9zY10NktPYo/s1600/images.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 201px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgAgjDKQoTul-lnakREHO6IOGqqMzYHF6i5b7RhyphenhyphenJ57fLNUntvsdMGn2n2q4AcLvylh7FP6IxOhR1iHCMwQ6Gtfd6ythAluNXmZgjh-Rsw8P1yjOI6e3LA6g8KOBfYu-vI9zY10NktPYo/s320/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5693446756280889074" /></a><br />It's a new year! Don't you just love fresh starts and new beginnings? It's the one time of year where I sit down and take stock of what has been accomplished and what I'd like to see accomplished.<br /><br />This year I had a shocker. As I sat down to write goals and pray over my writing and what direction God wants me to go in, God showed me something that still has my head spinning. You know, I've always said that I wanted to write to be a pen in God's hands -- to touch other's lives and encourage their faith. I believed that, and yet, gulp... I found myself judging my success (or lack of) by the numbers of books I sold. In fact, so much so that I'm ashamed to say, I became addicted to checking my books rankings at least once a day and sometimes five or six times – within a 24 hour period. (I know – nothing like overkill!) Why is it so easy to get our eyes off the goal and become so sidetracked?<br /><br />I knew I was going to need some help. I told my husband and one of my sons, who was sitting with us at that time, about my desire to lay my books, once again, at the foot of the cross. It is still my desire to allow God to use them however He sees fit. I asked Glenn and Jonathan to help me stay accountable. They gladly said yes and we made a deal. So, this is what we came up with... if I look at my books more than once a week, I need to wash and dry the dishes when it's their turn. And you know what? Granted, we're only three days into the year, but it's kept me on track so far. :)<br /><br />I realize without Christ, none of my "work" has eternal value. For 2012, I want to have a soft heart towards God. I want to completely give my writing – any and everything I do -- to Him. And if He wills, and it's time to move on from writing to something different, I want to be willing to give it up. For I know that when I'm walking in fellowship and obedience – that's where He will be able to use me to be His hands and feet and bring about His purposes in my life. <br /><br />What does that mean for my writing goals for 2012? Well, I'm going to finish the contracted project I have now and then I plan on just waiting on the Lord. I'm confident that He will direct my path. With a new project in the works or not, if I can keep my eyes fixed on Him, it's going to be an awesome year!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-1340118144343944042011-12-21T16:44:00.000-08:002011-12-21T16:49:46.486-08:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismTzMmpzJ1rkHy_n8vqzcgfBKGzSMIRziyRVX1IHWJTc4zxEV7QlJvvxGuRP7GZvwn8wWVEdHsUMeegn31anr05TB2XM9qfGzbJuivxDPjCR0QrY_uOytX1kjwVZDvMFVIk9o43RV0-U/s1600/thumbnail.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismTzMmpzJ1rkHy_n8vqzcgfBKGzSMIRziyRVX1IHWJTc4zxEV7QlJvvxGuRP7GZvwn8wWVEdHsUMeegn31anr05TB2XM9qfGzbJuivxDPjCR0QrY_uOytX1kjwVZDvMFVIk9o43RV0-U/s320/thumbnail.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5688748429848424578" /></a><br />With Thanksgiving being late this year, the Christmas season kinda just snuck up on me. Is the same is true for you? The calendar says "Advent" is here, yet up until this past week, I was feeling far from prepared -- in my heart or otherwise. That is until we put up our tree two weeks ago.<br /><br />As soon as the lights were plugged in, it was like a switch in my heart was turned on as well. This year as never before, the physical acts of preparing for Christmas this week... baking cookies with my children, writing the cards, singing carols... they have all been very special and real reminders of the importance of preparing my heart.<br /><br />Likewise, I'd like to encourage you to take joy in every little thing that you do over these last few days leading up to Christmas. Whether it's filling stockings, visiting family and friends, listening (or perhaps singing) in a Christmas program, driving by pretty lights, whatever... I hope like me, you'll be able to see these physical reminders in a new "light." May we not merely see them as another thing to check off our lists, but as a means to prepare ourselves for celebrating the greatest gift ever given, Jesus Christ.<br /><br />My hope for you this year is that you will experience an extraordinary Breath of Heaven as you prepare your home and your heart this Christmas season.<br /><br />Have a very Merry & Blessed Christmas!<br />JoAnn<br /><br />(Photo: Yahoo Images)<br />--<br />http://home.comcast.net/~jo.glenncarterUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-32106745623205860652011-12-19T04:06:00.000-08:002011-12-19T04:06:29.894-08:00The way in a manger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday, like many other churches in the UK and probably across the world, we had our carol services. The morning was an all age service with the children taking part and the evening a traditional carol service with readings and a wonderful mix of old and new carols, to both organ and band.<br />
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Although a manger isn't where you'd want to lay a new born baby - my daughter has gone as far as parking her playmobil ambulance next to the nativity scene to whisk Mary to the hospital for the birth - it's the very place that the King was laid following his birth. A genuine King size bed.</div>
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The children's carol says Away in a manger, no crib for a bed. But Jesus is The Way in a manger. He came from the highest height to the lowest depths. Without the greatest gift of all, there would be no hope, no salvation.</div>
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Without Christ, there would be no Christmas. So in between wrapping presents, decorating the tree, singing carols, just take a moment to worship the One who made this possible. Who gave us the forgiveness we don't deserve. And showed us the true meaning of love.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-57335057674860551742011-12-02T13:19:00.000-08:002011-12-02T13:24:20.222-08:00New...from the Sweet Treats Bakery Series<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjveY5i03uklKh8Uv_ri88DL0ZzHU_Su22cW0owepvQnDTvj4xP66qi4SCYjbzWi6LWQG8YD2C9gAif2a6v2KrqNIpTChyphenhyphenHNTTWKbUTt96JYXJtVtCDNWEDO3wCNeA8hq8IZf417PdWaY/s1600/Tessa%2527s+Teacakes+MJPG.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681643847913549170" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjveY5i03uklKh8Uv_ri88DL0ZzHU_Su22cW0owepvQnDTvj4xP66qi4SCYjbzWi6LWQG8YD2C9gAif2a6v2KrqNIpTChyphenhyphenHNTTWKbUTt96JYXJtVtCDNWEDO3wCNeA8hq8IZf417PdWaY/s320/Tessa%2527s+Teacakes+MJPG.JPG" /></a> <br />Tessa’s Teacakes by Mary Manners<br /><br />Tessa, the youngest Spencer sister--and the most impulsive--rushes into the Mount Ridge crisis center bent on saving her brother-in-law. She's ready to handle Brent's abductor, with or without help. What she's not ready to handle is the effect policeman, Colin Phillips, has on her. Romance is the last thing on Tessa's mind. She longs for the adventure and fast-pace of New York City, not being tied to Mount Ridge and a man who insists she shouldn't be so impetuous. After all "independent spirit" is what Tessa does best!<br /><br />Colin transferred from the police force in Atlanta in order to find closure after the brutal murder of his younger sister. He wants a nice, safe future, not one filled with caring and worrying about another impulsive woman. His sister was naive and unpredictable, and while Colin is drawn to Tessa's spunk and vitality, her willingness to rush into danger scares him. No way could he cope with another devastating loss. His heart must remain closed where Tessa is concerned.<br /><br />But God has His own plans--and His own way of changing hearts and cultivating love.<br /><a href="http://www.marymannersromance.com/">http://www.marymannersromance.com</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-77405583554101858212011-11-29T03:47:00.000-08:002011-11-29T03:49:35.004-08:00Count Your BlessingsSometimes I’m so caught up in the day-to-day bustle of life that I forget how very blessed I am. The holiday season is a time to reflect…and hopefully take a moment to slow down long enough to draw a breath, step back, and count the many blessings that fill my life.<br /><br />I’m thankful for a loving husband—a man with whom a share a real-life romance filled with love and laughter, adventure and fun (I tell my husband he’s cheap entertainment). Tim supports and encourages my passion for sharing the written word. I’m so thankful God brought him into my life.<br /><br />I’m thankful for my daughter, Danni, who has grown into a beautiful young woman. Danni illuminates my life with her loving, generous spirit. She’s friend to everyone, and has a special place in her heart for the elderly and the hurting. She is truly a blessing to me.<br /><br />My friends, especially my precious writing friends, are a reason to give thanks. These wonderful people completely understand when I mention the ‘voices’ that speak to me while I’m writing. I love them dearly.<br /><br />But, most of all, I am thankful for my Lord and Savior, who has given all of this and more to me. What an amazing blessing to know His love and grace are never-ending.<br /><br />So, as this holiday season begins, I wish you blessings and peace, dear friends. May you take a moment to draw a breath, step back, and count the many blessings that fill your life.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-5836492239964006562011-11-09T11:26:00.000-08:002011-11-09T12:09:52.415-08:00A Pear Tree Becomes A LegacyOver 30 years have passed since my father transplanted a pear tree in the back yard. He was big on fruit trees, nurturing them and watching them flourish. Ten years after we moved from Hickory Valley, Tennessee, Dad drove 110 miles back just to dig up a fig bush we'd left behind. It now grows on the south side next to the house.<br /><br />Today, both the fig bush and pear tree produce abundantly. Daddy lived long enough to taste the figs, but passed away before the pear tree produced. I remember him digging around it, fertilizing, and wondering aloud if it ever would bear fruit.<br /><br />Over the years the fruit continues to increase. In the past month while visiting my mother, I've gathered three bags full of the delicious fruit. Mama has called in friends and neighbors to share in the bounty besides giving loads of pears to us kids. Still, innumerable pears hang on the tree and at least a hundred are scattered beneath it.<br /><br />While gathering the pears, I contemplated on what Daddy would think if he knew what his efforts had wrought. What if he does know? What if God allows people to look down from heaven and see the fruit their life has produced in the lives of others?<br /><br />I picked up my heavy sack and returned to the house to find Mama seated in the kitchen working on a Word-Find. She laid it aside as I heaved the sack up onto the table and asked, "Do you think Daddy ever considered he might be leaving a legacy behind when he planted the pear tree? I wonder what he'd say if he knew people come from miles around to gather pears."<br /><br />She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know, but it seems the tree produces more fruit every year."<br /><br />A gift that keeps on giving. Who can count the jars of preserves that have been canned from that one tree? I know my dad would be pleased to share his bounty with his small community. You see, he was a giving person.<br /><br />This brought something else to contemplate. Does everyone leave a legacy? I knew the answer as soon as I asked myself the question. Yes. Whether we know it or not, something we say, or an act of kindness we show to another can become a legacy--changing the person's life. Who knows what results may someday emerge from those kind words or deeds?<br /><br />My fifth-grade teacher did not live long enough to learn she'd planted a dream in my heart when she announced to our class, "One day Laurie will become an author."<br /><br />Her words were planted in my heart and not forgotten. Even though I nurtured them through the years, (journaling and writing poetry) three decades passed before I acted on them.<br /><br />My prayer is for the words I write to become my legacy. For this reason I must always write what God directs and inspires. My desire is for readers to be emotionally healed and blessed through my stories.<br /><br />The highest compliment I've received? When a reader turns to me and says, "Thank you. Don't ever stop writing. You will never know how much your story helped me."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-9267276396785399432011-10-31T04:42:00.000-07:002011-10-31T04:46:15.864-07:00Smuggler of the Heart, a sweet little "snowy" read ~<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtVIFDgP4T5kt7Zx_KqFJjTNwsu2Uk5czedFrLT782aRix0SL6jdWwUpF83TxkRKkMZaIzDkRxZ8prKusYcf5GDapLUwEC_k1GLecvUmvRvcHeerqaVU3Rouk8mp93O6NCjZU4ViT4msc/s1600/SmugglerOfTheHeart_w4206_680.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtVIFDgP4T5kt7Zx_KqFJjTNwsu2Uk5czedFrLT782aRix0SL6jdWwUpF83TxkRKkMZaIzDkRxZ8prKusYcf5GDapLUwEC_k1GLecvUmvRvcHeerqaVU3Rouk8mp93O6NCjZU4ViT4msc/s200/SmugglerOfTheHeart_w4206_680.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669617808546917682" /></a><br />Wow, I don't know about you, but we had snow this weekend! I said to one of my boys on the way to church yesterday, "It looks more like Christmas out here than Thanksgiving." :)<br /><br />This morning, as I was getting ready to stoke up our wood stove I thought how lovely it would be to curl up for a bit with a nice warm blanket, hot drink and a book. If you feel the same way, perhaps you'd enjoy this story~ <br /><br /><strong>Blurb:</strong><br />Disheartened and tired, Samantha Warren returns to Vermont during the winter break. Her passion for history rekindles after finding an old smuggler's chest hidden in her grandparents' attic. Will she be able to return to New Jersey without her heart being smuggled like the chest once was? Or is it already too late?<br /><br /><br /><strong>Excerpt:</strong><br /><br />Samantha gingerly reached for the newfound treasure. A rush of adrenaline coursed through her body, and her nerves jingled the instant her fingers caressed the soft, worn wood. Just as she knew her own name, she knew there was something special about the small chest.<br /><br />“That you making a racket up there, Sammie?”<br /><br />Samantha blew a puff of dust off the curved lid and sat down Indian-style on the painted but worn wide plank attic floor. “I’ll be down in a few minutes, Gram.”<br /><br />Gram chuckled. “Sure, and pigs can fly too.”<br /><br />Gram might be eighty-something, but she didn’t miss much. She knew Samantha’s passion for history and antiques and how long it had been since she had visited the attic of her grandparents’ beloved 1820s Victorian home. For that matter, how long since she’d been in Vermont, period.<br /><br />Samantha fiddled with the latch on the chest. Her finger brushed against a small metal protrusion on the side of the lock. In a sudden, swift motion, the latch sprung open and the lid lifted a quarter of an inch, almost as if the chest wanted to share its secrets and stories with her. She lifted it further and peered inside. The musty smell of aged wood and paper greeted her like a familiar friend she hadn’t seen for a long, long time.<br /><br />She clutched the box to her chest and rushed downstairs. Breathless, she held out her find for her gram to see. “Do you know what this is?”<br /><br />“I do.” Gram’s eyes sparkled. “And, I must say, it’s good to see there’s some life in you. I’ve been worried about you since you’ve come home.”<br /><br />Gram didn’t need to be concerned about her. She was a strong independent woman—at least she liked to think she was. Granted, she had felt a little bit blue as of late, but didn’t everyone experience those feelings every now and then in life?<br /><br />Time to focus on something else. She held the box a bit higher. “The chest?”<br /><br />Gram motioned for Samantha to join her on the couch. “That chest’s said to have held letters from one of the caves in the Notch.”<br /><br />“Smuggler’s?”<br /><br />“You remember the history?” Gram asked with obvious delight.<br /><br />“Sure.” Samantha nodded. “When I drive through Smuggler’s Notch, I try to picture it as during the War of 1812.”<br /><br />“Yup,” her gram said. “That was when the good old U.S. Congress placed an embargo on the imports from England.”<br />Samantha looked out windows to the mountains. “I can imagine smugglers hiding in the thick forest and storing their supplies of food, clothing, cattle, and such from Canada in the caves and caverns along the Long Trail.” She turned back to her gram and matter-of-factly said, “And then of course, a hundred years later, when the U.S. Congress passed a law prohibiting the sale of alcohol, it happened again.”<br /><br />Gram nodded. “Smugglers avoided the revenue agents by storing the alcohol in the caves where they freely smuggled it through the Notch Pass, down to central and southern New England. Thus it’s aptly named...”<br />Together, they chorused, “Smuggler’s Notch.”<br /><br />Samantha smiled at her gram’s joy, which must have been mirrored in her own eyes.<br /><br />History...her passion. But recently, without her even realizing it until this moment, the joy and excitement she usually felt had fallen flat. She still enjoyed her teaching position at a high school in New Jersey, but her enthusiasm over the last several years had waned. How had that impacted her students? She shook her head, trying to dispel that train of thought.<br /><br />Perhaps coming back to Vermont for winter break was what she needed—at least she hoped so.<br />“Samantha, I know I don’t tell you this often enough, but I think you’re a gifted history teacher. I only wish you’d come back home where you belong.”<br /><br />There were many subjects Samantha would be delighted to discuss, but her personal life, particularly where she did or didn’t belong, wasn’t one of them. Especially since she had been struggling with those very same thoughts moments ago. “Gram, let’s not go there. How about you tell me about this chest instead?”<br /><br />Gram rolled her eyes. “You’re more stubborn than that old manual lawn mower. I guess I should expect as much with all that red hair.”<br /><br />Samantha lifted her chin. “It’s not red. It’s auburn.”<br /><br />Was it her imagination, or was Gram fighting a smile?<br /><br />Gram coughed in her hand. “Where were we...oh, yes. This chest stayed in a cave where it held correspondence or information from one party to the next.”<br /><br />“How’d you get it?”<br /><br />“I’m saving that part of the story.”<br /><br />Samantha’s heart sank with disappointment. “Why?”<br /><br />“So I can be sure you’ll come back home, where you belong, from time to time.”<br /><br />Samantha rolled her eyes and bit back the retort, Now who’s being stubborn?<br /><br /><br /><strong>Reviews:</strong> (As posted on Amazon.com)<br /><br />Deila Latham said: "... What a beautiful, heartwarming, soul-stirring little story! JoAnn Carter says more in thirty-seven pages than many authors can produce in an epic novel. It's a thought-provoking picture of a life in transition, a love in the balance, and a God Who never stops caring. Smuggler of the Heart is good stuff. Period."<br /><br />K.M Daughters said, " I loved Sammie and Tim (and Grandma, too) at first meeting. Sweet prayerful souls are reunited in this lovely, well-written romance. Sammie's "conversations" with the Lord were beautiful and soul stirring. A must read for anyone who enjoys Christian fiction and satisfying romantic endings." <br /><br />Kara Lynn Russell said, " This short story is a mini-vacation to snow Vermont. Perfect for a lunch time or break time read."_<br /><br /><br /><strong>Purchase Link:</strong> http://www.pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/smuggler-of-the-heart also available through Amazon and Barnes and NobleUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-12422333621356849252011-10-01T04:54:00.000-07:002011-10-01T04:54:51.388-07:00Happy Birthday!<b>Join us to celebrate the second anniversary of White Rose Publishing and the launching of its sister company, <a href="http://www.pelicanbookgroup.com/ec/">Harbourlight Books.</a> </b><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO8nOtVXguLbdPLqCbGuct1GlCdG2B8KPxh4aEOm4204CrQ52nAJA7CnWpCdnSVGjPqRF0DULWB9jcOMl-LheqJIuOtRfxc2Rm6BQJuNvymRSZZPj-NCyGL_AANE_LoDC7rq05IWLLj66m/s1600/th_balloons_confetti_hw.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear:left; float:left;margin-right:1em; margin-bottom:1em"><img border="0" height="160" width="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO8nOtVXguLbdPLqCbGuct1GlCdG2B8KPxh4aEOm4204CrQ52nAJA7CnWpCdnSVGjPqRF0DULWB9jcOMl-LheqJIuOtRfxc2Rm6BQJuNvymRSZZPj-NCyGL_AANE_LoDC7rq05IWLLj66m/s320/th_balloons_confetti_hw.gif" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-87516430058946916312011-07-28T12:30:00.000-07:002011-07-28T12:36:59.196-07:00Curt, Convicted, Contrite<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzl_RrMrzI_uH-iExfCJ_ezI05hTqEpEKxr1gtAyUDBp1KXWVnG7R_8ByHycPpvC7JlHjBguMHYMaPMLI0ZxVvJtce9ITGwdNfsmaf7T1eGFMPzi8eFkyFoK_O2MJ1vgriC0_GooCUS4/s1600/DSCN0870.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQzl_RrMrzI_uH-iExfCJ_ezI05hTqEpEKxr1gtAyUDBp1KXWVnG7R_8ByHycPpvC7JlHjBguMHYMaPMLI0ZxVvJtce9ITGwdNfsmaf7T1eGFMPzi8eFkyFoK_O2MJ1vgriC0_GooCUS4/s320/DSCN0870.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634489006405388642" border="0" /></a><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">We’ve had one day in over two weeks when the heat index wasn’t above 100 degrees. Patience and tempers run short. People are testy. My DH had debilitating cluster headaches for three days. Wednesday it was 109, thanks to 98 on the thermometer, and the high dew point. Hubby went to bed at 8:30.</p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><br /></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"> </p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">Not five minutes later, the phone rang. A woman asked for someone who doesn’t live in our home. We don’t have cells or caller ID (don’t ask), and we get a lot of unsolicited calls.</p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><br /></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"> </p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I admit I’ve never been a quick thinker (years ago a kid asked if my refrigerator was running and I went to look), so I didn’t even consider asking who she was or the last name of the individual she wanted. I was curt, and basically hung up.</p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><br /></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"> </p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">The phone rang again and the same woman asked for the same person.</p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><br /></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"> </p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">I said, “No one by that name has ever lived here.”</p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><br /></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"> </p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">She verified our phone number, then offered, “You must get a lot of calls to be so irritated.”</p><p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><br /></p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"> </p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">“We do. And my husband just lay down with a horrid migraine.” I didn’t apologize.</p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"> </p> <p style="margin:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">She said, “The Lord be with you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was convicted by her click. It sounded so final. It was too late to apologize or search for any more excuses.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Humble, regretful, guilty. That old sin nature can still raise its ugly head. My mind raced to the Lord.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Five minutes later, the phone rang again, but no one responded to my softer hello.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">What if it was a test of some kind?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">What if the caller really meant to call me to see how I’d handled the ruse?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">What if someone was checking up on me to see if I’m equipped for ministry?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">What if I missed the opportunity to entertain an angel?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I was once voted Miss Congeniality. If those girls could have heard such a tone of voice, that trophy would belong to another. And a short tone like the one I used would never fly in the workforce.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Contrition ran so deep I couldn’t sleep. There is no excuse for irritability. A Christian has no reason to be rude. And Christians are meant to be in the Word on a daily basis. Oops. It was our anniversary and we’d planned a day away from home, I hadn’t made the time to absorb God’s precious words.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Early this morning, in the wee hours of dark, I turned to Ephesians, Chapter 4. Words are meant to be edifying. I’m reminded to walk (and talk!) in a worthy manner, with humility, gentleness, grace. Forgiveness is a must, because I’ve been forgiven. I’m convinced a kind and loving tone turn curtness into congeniality.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Have you been tested lately?</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-80208809798711731062011-07-23T13:37:00.000-07:002011-07-23T13:37:57.035-07:00Husband Material by Annette M. 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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FMi5aqzyTzz8Gj-_yEanfqryYan1-apZ8dAlmS7qXlyALdS-QZ-du42GGXqvNv5aMORD0Oxc86HnxWZoOBa0wcq4OiCHlvzUi8ZjkaqDI1wBHpSrJ7gwGQ282rWToRhScXz6R1BAqqqn/s1600/HusbandMaterial_w5111_300.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FMi5aqzyTzz8Gj-_yEanfqryYan1-apZ8dAlmS7qXlyALdS-QZ-du42GGXqvNv5aMORD0Oxc86HnxWZoOBa0wcq4OiCHlvzUi8ZjkaqDI1wBHpSrJ7gwGQ282rWToRhScXz6R1BAqqqn/s1600/HusbandMaterial_w5111_300.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.whiterosepublishing.com/Husband-Material">Husband Material e-book Dollar Download</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Hey readers, why do you love reading romance? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I like watching a hero warm up to a heroine, and getting a peek into his heart. Or watching him pursue her. I like watching the characters go after their goals and find love. I like warmth, gentleness, and kindness, and that’s where Christian romance shines. Sure, there are rough situations, but it’s the tenderness between the hero and heroine that brings out a visceral response as we read.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We like watching a boy meet a girl and then overcome obstacles to become a husband. And if he doesn’t start the book as good husband material, we like watching him grow as a character to become a man of good husband material. Right? That’s often why romance readers prefer reading about single people. It’s a fictional journey where that part of our hearts that resides deep inside is accessed and blessed. It’s clean, it’s wholesome, and it all reminds me of Jesus’s love for us, and our relationship with Him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">See, Jesus woos us to Him daily. See that lovely butterfly flitting around in the garden? God created it to woo you. Feel that warm summer sunshine? A gift from your Bridegroom. Smell those flowers? the ocean? the rain? All from the Lover of your soul. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And when we read a good romance (which you’ll find a-plenty at White Rose) your heart is stirred, just as God created it to be. Then, we take those emotions to God and He fills up any empty places in our hearts. Human husbands weren’t meant to accomplish all that God can in our hearts. Marriage is blessed and delightful and refining, and many of our needs are met within the commitment and love of marriage, but for those areas of our hearts where we’re still unsatisfied, God wants to fill those places up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, look to Jesus. He’s perfect husband material!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">~~~~~</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Husband Material</i>, my new ebook, released on July 22, 2011. It’s a dollar download, short romance. CONTEST: Leave a comment here with your email address for a chance to win a copy. I’ll choose a winner on July 29th. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here's the summary for <i>Husband Material</i>: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Wyatt Hansen has no fears about commitment, but only three years have passed since his beloved wife died, and he can't bring himself to break their annual dinner date—that is until he meets restaurant owner, Lara Farr.<br />
<br />
Lara doesn't have time for romance; she has a business to run. At least that's what she tells herself so she doesn't have to admit that commitment scares her. But Lara's business is failing, and it just may take a miracle—or marketing analyst, Wyatt Hansen—to save it.</i> <i><br />
<br />
Can Wyatt rescue Lara’s restaurant, help her overcome her fears, and prove he is good husband material?</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">~~~~~ </div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwymgplViK-c7ruaSaIG_0x6Bks7uGJ-IXZk1idbBOWeROqS_Mx51Rl7zRR-lsyazDTYVGepakJ8kzU-2OxCrRrSCH7UQzosM6tN0wYjbme8ZVObJzx4rJl1S99H3K3QUsH8Ee956i0FFU/s1600/Annette+M.+Irby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwymgplViK-c7ruaSaIG_0x6Bks7uGJ-IXZk1idbBOWeROqS_Mx51Rl7zRR-lsyazDTYVGepakJ8kzU-2OxCrRrSCH7UQzosM6tN0wYjbme8ZVObJzx4rJl1S99H3K3QUsH8Ee956i0FFU/s200/Annette+M.+Irby.jpg" width="196" /></a><a href="http://www.annetteirby.com/">Annette M. Irby</a> has enjoyed writing since her teen years. If she’s not writing, she’s reading for review, or editing. She is an active member of American Christian Fiction Writers and finaled in their Genesis Contest, 2006. She gives back to writers via her co-hosted blog: <a href="http://www.seriouslywrite.blogspot.com/">Seriously Write</a>. Married twenty years, she lives with her husband and three children in the Northwest. <i>Love Letters </i>was her published book. She currently works as a freelance editor, as well as editing for publishing houses. She is active in her church as a mentor and worship leader. She enjoys photography, nature, and falling deeper in love with Jesus. Learn more at her <a href="http://www.annetteirby.com/">website</a>.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-72425366096148478312011-06-05T09:25:00.000-07:002011-06-05T13:59:43.553-07:00A Wonderful Celebration & Blessing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdiqkAmCG1natdgR0nujSDxeQuxHBtrWLJksT51SP23HxyAqpQ0RMFB_hdehkPEZDXd2M-Xl8aQv2x0_l_PWL_-YuL3lgpYB2EQK1JSry9LB6OBDqZhZ8SxI5N62FXmZHlYk3F2LUTJsY/s1600/John+Mary+n+Bishop.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 181px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdiqkAmCG1natdgR0nujSDxeQuxHBtrWLJksT51SP23HxyAqpQ0RMFB_hdehkPEZDXd2M-Xl8aQv2x0_l_PWL_-YuL3lgpYB2EQK1JSry9LB6OBDqZhZ8SxI5N62FXmZHlYk3F2LUTJsY/s320/John+Mary+n+Bishop.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614774601578273234" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUMFpSKoJQxbh5AXnoPUHFA2CSj7qi9pUckR97TYQ1zihM_98Xl8-SZapB2LXl6uw65tfisvPgFmdSjlyDrrPp1QPpugL8NWSa1xsNpPjok87KENcGD3UFFMKCPeq7hMq-L4h-CAZne4/s1600/IMAG0527.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 308px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzUMFpSKoJQxbh5AXnoPUHFA2CSj7qi9pUckR97TYQ1zihM_98Xl8-SZapB2LXl6uw65tfisvPgFmdSjlyDrrPp1QPpugL8NWSa1xsNpPjok87KENcGD3UFFMKCPeq7hMq-L4h-CAZne4/s320/IMAG0527.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614775225137973170" border="0" /></a>As some of you may know, my brother-in-law, John Hilger, was recently ordained as a Deacon in the Catholic Church. He'll be serving in ministry at Queen of Angels Church in the archdiocese of Fort Wayne, Indiana.<br /><br />The road to receiving Holy Orders was long and intense--truly a calling.<br /><br />The permanent diaconate formation period in the Catholic Church entails a four- or five-year training period that resembles a collegiate course of study. Diaconal candidates receive instruction in philosophy, theology, study of the Holy Scriptures, homiletics, sacramental studies, evangelization, ecclesiology, counseling, and pastoral care and ministry before ordination. Although they are assigned to work in a parish by the diocesan bishop, once assigned, deacons are under the supervision of the parish pastor. Saint Stephen is considered to be one of the first seven deacons in the Christian Church.<br /><br />The ministry of the deacon in the Catholic Church is described as one of service in three areas: the Word, the Liturgy and Charity. The vestments most particularly associated with the Western Rite Catholic deacon are the alb, stole and dalmatic. Deacons, like priests and bishops, must wear their albs and stoles; deacons place the stole over their left shoulder and it hangs across to their right side, while priests and bishops wear it around their necks. The dalmatic, a vestment especially associated with the deacon, is worn during the celebration of the Mass and other liturgical functions; its use is more liberally applied than the corresponding vestment of the priest, the chasuble.<br /><br />For me, the most moving part of the ordination was when the 11 candidates for the deaconate lay prostrate upon the altar, deep in surrendered prayer to the God who called them to this vocation. My brother-in-law was also given the blessing of being able to serve with the Bishop during communion at this very special Mass. Another moving part of the ceremony is when the Bishop rested his hands atop the head of each candidate in blessing, and then gave them each a beautiful, leather-bound edition of the Gospels for use during Mass.<br /><br />The day after his ordination, John delivered the homily and performed the duties of a deacon at his church home, Queen of Angels. This first mass was referred to as 'The Mass of Thanksgiving' and many family and friends were in attendance. We were truly blessed and thankful to be part of it, too, and witness him living out the call God placed on his heart. Receiving the Eucharist from my brother-in-law, then the Precious Blood from my sister-in-law touched my heart and brought me to tears of joy. Our family traveled bits and pieces of this road right along with him, and cheered him on all the way.<br /><br />God has claimed a holy warrior in the gifts and talents of John Henry Hilger, and we're so very thrilled for him!<br /><br />Until next time ~ Blessings!<br /><br />Marianne<br /><a href="http://www.marianneevans.com">www.marianneevans.com</a><br /><a href="http://www.marianneevans.blogspot.com">www.marianneevans.blogspot.com</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4dxpwZOUqOX7_JnwV0eCJ2dHou8Lle2azIytrkcnO251cyvOX_CdGQdcNbQN1zryp6yXEYBgno7Ff0Qsy6JQjRYhNJRVdfhtJ7n6_d0qEsO-rlhMNwcRQ9KJS2zCM6bfNtiALFwvC8w/s1600/IMAG0535.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 191px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid4dxpwZOUqOX7_JnwV0eCJ2dHou8Lle2azIytrkcnO251cyvOX_CdGQdcNbQN1zryp6yXEYBgno7Ff0Qsy6JQjRYhNJRVdfhtJ7n6_d0qEsO-rlhMNwcRQ9KJS2zCM6bfNtiALFwvC8w/s320/IMAG0535.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614775601480792114" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6I5u-wfd4NdL_dit0077lQ39_LF7RyOgCIXIM5rKw9FZiZ0DtElekdwuoPmedVb4Y87uouS-faumgse5a6CSOfiHYoLE-dmkccW1oL036vmFrrRTQ3sjk6Y3X6VlcffOBOlavc90qI40/s1600/IMAG0538.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 191px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6I5u-wfd4NdL_dit0077lQ39_LF7RyOgCIXIM5rKw9FZiZ0DtElekdwuoPmedVb4Y87uouS-faumgse5a6CSOfiHYoLE-dmkccW1oL036vmFrrRTQ3sjk6Y3X6VlcffOBOlavc90qI40/s320/IMAG0538.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614775435447738386" border="0" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-11709244137252505522011-05-25T16:22:00.000-07:002011-05-25T16:22:49.342-07:00This weeks latest release...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUoWE8xFvv4hErj4b7grBYFLFe0RlLUMuX3_NDXAnofthiJS58M5Dh9bkbDsFrPoAwQ-TRrt6TD8EEVSgQHlp3BHZ87ehsQB57diLm7LVGOhnPGSyz_gsKzDeCZc6qR06e-uTdELd-jo/s1600/DoraHiers_tmb.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 85px; height: 85px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUoWE8xFvv4hErj4b7grBYFLFe0RlLUMuX3_NDXAnofthiJS58M5Dh9bkbDsFrPoAwQ-TRrt6TD8EEVSgQHlp3BHZ87ehsQB57diLm7LVGOhnPGSyz_gsKzDeCZc6qR06e-uTdELd-jo/s200/DoraHiers_tmb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610794491787513986" /></a><br />
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR1qx18T_DSRrWaf71B7Eiazu5fVM4muZ7xV6ElcwSQoIsvPr30p13h30-yrMiAO2LHQqa7VMg4roCb8c86uQHtqqH68X-6-KnXWbZgnmXnTqUp2qRcJJaFRtgD_qP6iKiIs-zdni4CJs/s1600/JourneysEnd_w4991_tmb.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR1qx18T_DSRrWaf71B7Eiazu5fVM4muZ7xV6ElcwSQoIsvPr30p13h30-yrMiAO2LHQqa7VMg4roCb8c86uQHtqqH68X-6-KnXWbZgnmXnTqUp2qRcJJaFRtgD_qP6iKiIs-zdni4CJs/s200/JourneysEnd_w4991_tmb.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5610794488405744162" /></a><br />
<strong>meet Dora … </strong> <br />
<br />
After a successful auditing career, Dora left the corporate world to be a stay-at-home mom to her two sons. Eventually, needing something more to fill her days, she started writing heart racing, God-gracing books that glorify her Creator. Dora belongs to the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) and the Carolina Christian Writers. <br />
<br />
<br />
Dora and her husband make their home in Kannapolis, North Carolina. When she’s not writing, Dora enjoys spending time with her family, guzzling café con leche, kicking back in her recliner with a good book, teaching Sunday School, vacationing in the mountains, watching football, walking her dog, and did somebody say shopping? <br />
<br />
<strong>JOURNEY’S END Blurb:</strong> <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Devastated after the brutal murder of her husband, Chelsea Hammond vows never to love another lawman. Intent on rebuilding her shattered life, she turns her focus to helping troubled teens. But when an angry father bent on retaliation, threatens her, Chelsea must turn to the one man she never thought to trust: Deputy U.S. Marshal Trey Colten.<br />
<br />
Trey wants only to protect Chelsea, but she blames him for her husband’s death.Trey can relate. He blames himself, also. As danger lurks, Trey begs Chelsea to heed his warnings. He let down one Hammond. He won’t let down another—especially one who now holds his heart.<br />
<br />
When Chelsea is snatched from her home, can she put aside her fear, and trust Trey with her life? Can she forgive him for destroying her past and let him help to rebuild her future?<br />
<br />
Where one journey ends, another begins…<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><br />
JOURNEY’S END Excerpt:</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
"I suppose I should have been a vet." Chelsea stroked the dog’s fur from his head all the way down his back, careful not to touch his wounded leg.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Maybe. But I don’t think you’ve wasted your energy or your talents as a guidance counselor. Teenagers can’t seem to resist you, either."<br />
<br />
<br />
That produced a full-fledged smile in his direction. Way to go, Colten! <br />
<br />
<br />
"Remember that natural charm I warned you about?"<br />
<br />
<br />
He threw back his head and laughed. "Yes. And after a few days in your presence, I’m inclined to agree with you."<br />
<br />
<br />
He pulled into the veterinarian’s parking lot and glanced her way, surprised to see her grinning. "What?"<br />
<br />
<br />
"Saved by the vet."<br />
<br />
<br />
Her words hit him like a piano dropping ten stories. She was flirting with him. <br />
<br />
<br />
He took his time walking around to her side of the truck. He opened the door and leaned in, planting his hand on the seat next to her shapely legs. His face hovered inches from hers while he savored the way her wavy hair cascaded down her shoulders, the lips that curved in that always graceful way, and the eyes that spoke everything his heart wanted to hear. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her eyes closed, and her lips parted slightly. <br />
<br />
<br />
Trey snapped out of it. He couldn’t do this. He was on the job. She didn’t know the secrets he knew, the truth about her husband. <br />
<br />
<br />
Her eyes startled open. As much as he wanted to partake and enjoy, he couldn’t. He touched a silky curl framing her face and ran it through his fingers. "You need to know that right now I’m working. But there will come a time, soon, when I’m not."<br />
<br />
<br />
She can’t bear to look at yesterday. <br />
<br />
<br />
She has no strength to face today. <br />
<br />
<br />
She won’t believe in tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<br />
You can purchase this book at (either as an e-book or paperback) at: http://www.whiterosepublishing.com/Journey39S-End?CDpath=3Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-91076024513198225442011-04-27T06:40:00.000-07:002011-04-27T06:54:23.995-07:00Paisley's Story<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">This is the second in the Love is Blooming serial<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Widow Paisley Robbins rounded the corner of her front walk, ever on the look out for flowers to divide or trim. The transplanted Nebraskan missed specific seasonal changes, but spring was definitely in the air here in southern California. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The sound of a slamming car door drew her gaze off the slate path. Three houses up, at the curve of the cul-de-sac, Sara Hunter walked backward to her front door, face almost obscured by…a tree made of fruit? They exchanged a wave.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Paisley eyed the delivery van parked in front of the edible fruit truck, and wondered what Sara was celebrating. The driver of the van exited the horseshoe drive. Instead of gaining speed, he swung into Paisley’s drive. Curious. She hadn’t ordered anything.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Ms. Robbins,” the teenaged driver greeted, “we had a mix-up of orders and one of these is yours.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“One of what?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">He jumped out and opened the slider. “Take your pick. The names are here on the clipboard, but Gramps and I don’t know who gets what ‘cuz the computer’s messed up.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">She surveyed the choices, beginning with a handwritten restaurant invitation. Her heart hitched at the writing that looked like her deceased father’s. She shook her head.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Delectable chocolates packaged in gold and pink wouldn’t be for her because she had celiac disease.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The dozen red roses vased in emerald glass weren’t for her either. She may have awakened that morning with a heightened sense of spring fever, but her love lay in a cemetery across town.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“How about these?” The delivery boy held up an ornate replica of a Victorian bird cage. Through the resin slats a pair of cuddling, teal love birds cocked their curious heads. Their iridescent feathers reminded her of an Indigo bunting she’d once seen back home.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">She knew who the birds were meant for. “I’ll sign for those.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">This was the fourth time deliveries or mail had been mixed up with a man named Robin Paisley. The last time was the previous week when a package of organic bird seed had been left on her porch.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The teenager carried the cage up her steps and set it in the shade. Then he placed the invoice on the top of his clipboard for her to sign. “Thanks, three to go.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">She thanked the youth for the delivery. It was time she met the bird man.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Their first contact was when he’d called. Her number was on the invoice for a delivery of calla lilies, left at his door. She’d picked up her package when he was at work. The next two exchanges were over mail left in each other’s box.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The turquoise love birds were probably fine on the porch. She went inside to get her cell.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">For some reason, a flutter of anticipation wiggled through her tummy as she waited for him to answer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Mr. Paisley, Paisley Robbins here.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">She smiled when he chuckled, low and long. “It happened again?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Right the first time. I think this one calls for a personal retrieval.” That flirtatious tone had come from her mouth? </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Be right over.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">What had she done?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Would Gabe be turning over in his grave?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">She sat without moving, mesmerized by the pair of love birds. They nuzzled and clacked, engrossed in one another as they perched.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">A car soon swished into her driveway. She took a deep breath and turned at the snick of the door. And almost forgot to exhale.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">He wasn’t Hollywood handsome. Separately, features were mismatched, kind of unbalanced. But all together, she approved of the approaching package. When he was close enough, Paisley blinked. Robin’s blue and green eyes matched the feathers of the love birds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">He extended his hand. “We finally meet.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">At the touch of their palms, her hungry heart sighed. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Something beyond attraction was born. Peace. Familiarity. The sense of rightness. And above all, she could almost hear Gabe whisper, “It’s time to let me go.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">He ignored the steps and leaped onto the porch. “Oh, what lovely blues and greens you are.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Is that what they’re really called?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Generically. The bright green with the target eyes are called Fischers.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“Why such a fancy cage?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“It’s all for show. They’ll live in a wire cage in the breezeway behind my house.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">She tipped her head and wondered if she looked too much like his birds. “They seem pretty content here on my front porch. Would you like some lemonade?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">“I would. And I’d like to get to know more about you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Paisley had no idea what Robin’s life story was. But she knew deep inside she was beginning a new chapter of hers. A part of her would always miss Gabe, yet she was certain he wouldn’t want her to go through life alone.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">She suppressed a giggle at the crazy romantic notion of the name, Paisley Robbins-Paisley. But that sounded a whole lot better than Paisley Paisley.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">***</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> </p><p class="MsoNormal">One fortunate commenter will win a pair of handcrafted stained-glass earrings by Lincoln artist Julee Lowe.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">If you want to read the other serial stories, they will be post at different spots. Visit our blogs and websites, listed below and follow the story of the mixed up gifts!</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.creativewritingforces.blogspot.com/">www.creativewritingforces.blogspot.com</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.marymanners.com/">www.marymanners.com</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.marianneevans.blogspot.com/">http://www.marianneevans.blogspot.com/</a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.marianneevans.blogspot.com/">LoRee's Frivolities books are available at http://www.whiterosepublishing.com</a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-79591520497599327142011-04-26T20:28:00.000-07:002011-04-27T08:09:22.549-07:00KENZIE'S STORY by Anne GreeneThis is the third story in the series Love Is Blooming by five White Rose authors. <br /> Kenzie Kinkaid shifted on the white-cushioned posing couch. The scent of artist’s oils, turpenoid, and drying canvases filled the small studio. Though she tired of holding her back straight and trying to appear relaxed, she never tired of gazing at the artist.<br /><br /> His dark chocolate eyes seemed to look right into her soul and enjoy what they found. And the way his wavy black hair fell over his forehead each time he bent to dip his brush into his palette made her toes tingle. She wanted to jump up and run her fingers through that wavy hair, then smooth it back out of his eyes. The feeling had grown stronger during the five weeks they’d been working together.<br /><br /> “This is the last sitting, Kenzie, and I think your parents will find the portrait worth waiting for.”<br /><br /> The deep timbre of his voice sent delicious shivers to Kenzie’s stomach. She blinked. She hadn’t experienced that delightful tingle once in the two years since her fiancé died in a sky-diving accident just a week before their wedding. “Did they tell you this was to be my bridal portrait, and that I wanted them to cancel?”<br /><br /> “Yes. But I was glad to extend you all the time you needed.” He stepped back and chose a new brush. “You’re a remarkable model. Usually I only ask for one sitting and then complete the portrait from photographs I take, but…you’re so stunning, I wanted to make certain I caught the real person beneath the beauty.”<br /> <br /> Heat flooded her face. “You’ve been sniffing turpenoid, Jeffrey Gordon. I’m not beautiful.”<br /><br /> He propped a foot on the nearby stool, leaned an elbow on his knee, and dangled the brush from his fingers. “I got the impression from your parents they wanted me to get to know you.” The cleft in his chin stood out when he smiled.<br /><br /> “Please don’t feel obligated. Mom and Dad have been matchmaking for the past year. I’ve resisted, but they’ve thrown every eligible bachelor they know at me. And they made no secret of the fact that you are single.” Her ears burned. She ducked her head and smoothed the yellow silk dress where it clung to her thighs and then flared to the floor.<br /> <br /> “Don’t be too tough on them.” A twinkle lit his eyes. “I named this portrait Daffodils.”<br /><br /> “Because of my dress.”<br /><br /> “Partially. But mostly because you have an inner glow that lights the studio. Would you go out with me?”<br /><br /> This was too much. Though she’d dreamed about him, she wasn’t ready to date. It was just too soon. Her knees trembled when she stood. “Please. You can finish the portrait from the pictures you took of me.”<br /><br /> Jeff dropped his palette on his shirt, leaving splotches of color on the black material. “I’m sorry. Don’t get upset.” He grabbed the palette off the floor. “I thought enough time had passed and you might be ready.” He placed the palette back in his left hand. “But I should have waited.”<br /><br /> Kenzie settled back down on the couch. “I don’t mind your asking.” She managed a smile. “I didn’t accept any of the dates my parents arranged.” Instead, she’d dived headlong into her marine biology work using all her energy and loving what she did. When she was ready to date again, God would let her know. She didn’t need matchmakers. And, of course, her parents had insisted she sit for this particular artist.<br /> <br /> “Almost finished,” Jeffrey mumbled around the brush handle in his mouth.<br /><br /> She would miss the concentrated expression that changed his face from being merely attractive to being a man with purpose and drive and vision. She’d loved watching him work. Loved seeing the magic his hands created. Loved talking with him. Up until a few minutes ago they’d had a comfortable, relaxed relationship. And that’s all she wanted.<br /> <br /> “All finished. You can view the portrait now.” He stood back, his usually direct gaze guarded.<br /><br /> Did he think she wouldn’t like his work? She shot up, almost afraid to look. Her stilettos tapping on the hardwood floor, she glided over to the easel.<br /><br /> “Well?”<br /><br /> “It takes my breath away. It’s like looking into a mirror. I…I love the way you captured my skin tones.” She fingered the edge of the wet canvas. “Do I really look like that?” Heat flooded her from her scalp to her ears. “I’m sure my parents will be happy with it.”<br /><br />****<br /> The following Saturday morning, Kenzie paced in the tiny garden behind her rented house. The sun shone, the air smelled sweet, and a hummingbird flashed around the nectar of a scarlet bougainvillea bush. She should be happy or at least content. But, now that the portrait hung in her parent’s living room over their mantle, she missed her Saturday mornings spent with Jeff. Missed their casual conversations. Missed their spirited discussions about God, and how He worked in a believer’s life.<br /><br /> She probably just missed him because spring had come to Southern California in a burst of sunshine and blooming flowers. And probably because daffodils’ ranged up and down her short walkway. And probably because a Blue Jay darted down to lure her away from its nest full of new born chicks. Well, she’d get over him. Her bare feet slid over the smooth stones between the waving daffodils as she sauntered around the house to the front.<br /> <br /> With a screech of brakes, a delivery truck pulled into the horseshoe drive in front of her neighbor, Sara Hunter’s house. Kenzie rested her hands on her hips and watched Sara walk to the truck. The delivery man slid the side open. Because the truck obscured her view, Kenzie couldn’t see what else Sarah did, but her neighbor soon turned back toward her own front door. Then a Delectable Edible Arrangements truck pulled up behind the departing delivery truck. Wow, busy day on Daffodil Lane.<br /><br /> Another squeal of brakes distracted Kenzie from Sarah’s drive to her other neighbor, Paisley Robbins. Kenzie only had a nod and hello acquaintance with the two older ladies, but she liked them both. Paisley came outside and talked with the delivery driver. Kenzie glimpsed an antique cage with some tiny birds fluttering inside, and was about to walk across the street to talk with Paisley, when the delivery truck gunned out of her drive…and right up Kenzie’s.<br /><br /> Kenzie sucked in a breath. What? She hadn’t ordered anything online. Maybe the truck was simply turning around in her drive.<br /><br /> But the truck pulled up, stopped, and a teenager with spiked hair jumped down. “Kenzie Kinkaid?” The boy carried a clipboard.<br /><br /> “Yes?”<br /> <br /> He grinned. “Um, Miss. You got a delivery.”<br /><br /> “Are you sure? I’m not expecting anything.”<br /><br /> “Yep. Only problem is—um, we got a glitch in our computer. So, Gramps sent me out with these names on this clipboard, and I got packages. But I don’t know which deliveries go to which names.”<br /><br /> Kenzie chuckled. “Really?”<br /><br /> Untied sneakers flopping on the drive, he hurried to the side of the white van and Kenzie followed. “Can you look at these orders and pick out which one is yours?” He opened the slider.<br /><br /> “Well, yes, but I can’t imagine…” Kenzie let her words fade as the boy took out a huge box of chocolates in a gold package with a fancy pink ribbon. The thought that a man sent candy made her heart race. She remembered the expectation such gifts brought. And the love they expressed. “Is there no card?”<br /><br /> “No card, Miss. Do you think this is for you?”<br /><br /> She shook her head. “No. I wish they were, but I don’t think so.”<br /><br /> “These must be for you then.” He pointed to an emerald vase filled with a dozen long-stemmed red roses.<br /> <br /> She bent inside the van, stuck her nose close to a velvet bloom, and inhaled the rich rose scent. How many bouquets had she received and taken for granted? How much caring went into such a gift? She touched the cool, glass vase. Why had she turned her back on love? She’d been too cautious to risk her heart again. And with that fear she’d lost the joy and excitement and deep satisfaction of caring about someone else more than about herself. She breathed in the sweet, rose fragrance again.<br /><br /> How strange these gifts getting their addresses tangled. Was God sending her a message? Was He telling her not to turn her back on love? She’d been too afraid to risk her heart these past two years. The pain had cut too deep. And, last week she’d totally discouraged the one man who’d caught her interest.<br /><br /> “I’ve got this one more,” the teenaged voice cracked. His expression looked so sympathetic Kenzie knew he must have sensed her regret. He handed her a vellum envelope.<br /><br /> The envelope felt smooth and rich in her hand. Spring-like yellow paper showed through the translucent material. She had to peek inside. “This looks as if it’s been opened.”<br /><br /> “Yes, Miss. Ms. Hunter and Ms. Robbins opened the letter to see if it was for them. But it wasn’t, and I only have two other addresses. And the two other packages. Do you think this one’s for you?”<br /><br /> She slipped the textured paper out of the envelope. Her heart fluttered. Beautiful inked calligraphy invited the reader to a dinner that evening at the Café Parisian. She knew that Café. It nestled just around the corner from Jeff’s studio. She’d thought some evening she might stop by and have dinner in the romantic spot. Tears pricked her eyelids. This couldn’t be for her either. The restaurant was for lovers. She was about to fold the note and return it to its envelope when she glimpsed a sort of signature in the corner—an artist’s palette.<br /><br /> “There’s daffodils embossed on the front of the envelope, Miss.”<br /><br /> Such a sweet invitation. But why hadn’t Jeff signed it? Could it be <br />that he feared being rejected again? That his artist’s heart wanted her to<br />catch the gentle suggestion behind his invitation? The puzzle intrigued<br />her. But not nearly as much as the man.<br /> <br /> Kenzie couldn’t stop smiling. “Yes, thank you. This gift is mine.”<br /><br /> With a hitch of his drooping pants, a slapping of sneakers, and a squeal of burning rubber, the delivery truck drove away.<br /> <br /> Kenzie clasped her hands and gazed at the glorious azure sky. “Thank You, Lord for these three messages. I hear what You are saying. My parents aren’t the only matchmakers.”<br /><br /> God had sent His own special message. She would no longer turn her back on the promise of love.<br /><br />One fortunate commentator will receive an autographed copy of Anne's Scottish historical, Masquerade Marriage. <br /><br /> <br /><br />Look for Anne's Scottish historical, Masquerade Marriage at http://www.whiterosepublishing.com<br /><br /><br /><br />Anne Greene<br />www.AnneGreeneAuthor.comUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-25346475543211458672011-04-22T05:55:00.000-07:002011-04-22T07:36:01.222-07:00Healing, Responsibility...and Redemption<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0YKYBjSJQ8IWq7NDsFbly7GLepZ8xYq1dXOvHpMBPetkxX_Q6xU1wk4orDPKzmNpjqgmiqgibU-FlpIxDPdtp74ekJSJ70B2F0PZ4K5U0cCde7HDgBrxni-xFsov-PtQuYkqavFbN_WA/s1600/Calvary.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0YKYBjSJQ8IWq7NDsFbly7GLepZ8xYq1dXOvHpMBPetkxX_Q6xU1wk4orDPKzmNpjqgmiqgibU-FlpIxDPdtp74ekJSJ70B2F0PZ4K5U0cCde7HDgBrxni-xFsov-PtQuYkqavFbN_WA/s320/Calvary.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598396730530165602" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:";" ><br />How often have we come upon situations where all we want to do is scream: If God wanted to heal me, He would! If God wanted a painful relationship saved, He’d do it! If God loved me, if I’m His precious child, He would want me healthy, and whole—in body, spirit and emotion. So, why is there pain? Why is there suffering?</span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Does a seeming “lack” of healing—in our health, our relationships, our jobs, our finances—mean God doesn’t love us? Is He, perhaps, angry with us? Punishing us? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >While I believe we bear the weight of the choices we make in life—for good and for bad—I can’t think of God as a scorekeeper. I don’t hold to the image of Him seated on an unapproachable throne in the heavenly realm, scepter in hand, watching intently, waiting for sin and evil to mess us up so he can add another “sinned again” checkmark to that space next to our names, or shake his head in righteous regret.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Instead, during those moments when I most need His forgiveness and healing, I like to think of Him as a compassionate and forgiving friend. I like to think of Him like the best parent you could ever pray for. He knows me, and most important of all, He loves me—no matter what my “illness”—be it physical or emotional. His healing comes in the fact that when I turn to His absolute goodness, when I open myself to His Word and pray to him in words or in silence, his presence is real, and life-changing.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" >‘He sent His word and healed them, and delivered them from their destructions.’ (Psalms 107:20)</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" >‘O Lord, my God, I cried out to You, and You healed me.’ (Psalms 30:2)</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Do these verses mean He works a magical touch and heals all afflictions? That He keeps bad things from happening?<span style=""> </span>He can, and He will, if that ‘magical’ touch is part of His overall plan. However, life is imperfect, and so are we.<span style=""> </span>He holds the plan, not us (thankfully!). To me, these passages reflect the truth that He gave us the Bible as a living, breathing means by which He wants to care for us, and instruct us in ways to best handle our life circumstances.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >God’s grace and love gives me strength by which I learn to work through those healings I crave. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >That brings me to part 2 of this post: Responsibility. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >I’ve learned that I need to take responsibility for healings needed in my life. Is my health in question? Don’t be afraid to get to a doctor and get their input and help! Is a relationship in need of healing and forgiveness? Take the initiative (hard as that may be!) and step up to the plate. Offer the opening needed, and let God do the rest.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i style=""><span style=";font-family:";" >‘Jesus said to the man, “Stretch out your hand.” The man stretched out his hand, and it was restored’ (Matthew 12:13)</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >When I read this verse, I realize Jesus is ready to heal the man—He stands waiting and able. <i style="">But He asks the man to move first.</i> Jesus never enters where He’s not asked, or wanted. BUT—when we reach out to him in trust and faith, He will answer the call. Maybe not in the exact ways we expect, but His grace has always led me to a place where I look back on events in my life—good and bad—and think to myself, ‘He always leads me to what’s GOOD.’</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >In the end, I look at the fact that Christ’s journey was seldom easy. He cried out to His Father for healing, and comfort, and He received it. How? By being the example, and bridge, we all need to follow in living our daily lives, because with nothing but love to hold him there, he died upon a cross, and brought about the ultimate healing of us all in one powerful beautiful word: REDEMPTION! Happy Easter, everyone!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Marianne<br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >PS – It’s springtime, and love is blooming! A group of White Rose authors has teamed up to give you a free gift, a series of short romances centered around a delivery snafu! Intrigued? Then please pay a visit, in order, to the following websites on April 27th:</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Part 1 - Tanya Stowe: <a href="http://www.creativewritingforces.blogspot.com/">www.creativewritingforces.blogspot.com</a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Part 2 - LoRee Peery:<span style=""> </span><a href="http://www.whiterosesinbloom.blogspot.com/">www.whiterosesinbloom.blogspot.com</a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Part 3 - Anne Greene: <a href="http://www.whiterosesinbloom.blogspot.com/">www.whiterosesinbloom.blogspot.com</a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Part 3 - Mary Manners: <a href="http://www.marymannersromance.com">www.marymannersromance.com</a></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style=";font-family:";" >Part 5 - Marianne Evans: <a href="http://www.marianneevans.blogspot.com/">http://www.marianneevans.blogspot.com</a></span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 115%;font-family:";font-size:100%;" >Enjoy the fun—and romance!</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-9714709057847872082011-04-21T08:42:00.000-07:002011-04-21T08:44:16.974-07:00Healing Hands by Mary Manners<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My healing began many years ago, when I got married and wanted so badly to become a mother. After seven years of marriage, and countless visits with a fertility specialist, I finally conceived. At twenty weeks into my pregnancy, I went for a routine ultrasound. I still remember having a somewhat heated discussion with my husband concerning whether or not to have the sex of the baby revealed during the test. The utter frivolity of that discussion would soon be revealed.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A few minutes into the test, the technician called for a nurse, who took one look at the monitor and then called for a doctor, who called in a colleague. As it turned out, my beautiful baby girl had a form of dysplasia, which causes stunted bone growth and a lack of lung development. I was taken to the delivery room and she was stillborn twelve hours later. Oh, I was devastated beyond imagination!<o:p></o:p></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The doctor counseled me to wait several months before trying to conceive again. During this time I questioned God. Why would He put me through this…someone who so badly wanted to be a mother? I struggled to be happy for my friends, who seemed to birth babies at every turn, without any problems at all. I felt defeated and yearned to hold the baby I’d lost. I also carried a good deal of guilt, and wondered if there was anything I had done to contribute to the deformities and stillbirth. The days were long, the nights longer, and doubts plagued me. I called out to God and waited for an answer. One verse I leaned on during this time was ‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. But in all your ways acknowledge Him and he shall direct you path.’<o:p></o:p></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nearly a year later, I became pregnant again, and I turned to God to vanquish the fears that almost consumed me. Would I have the same problem again? Would I lose another beautiful child? The same doctor who had helped me conceive and had counseled me through the loss, stayed with me every step of the way. I truly believe he was an angel sent from God. He delivered a healthy baby girl…my precious Danni.<o:p></o:p></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nearly nineteen years have passed since my heartbreaking loss, and my faith has grown stronger with each step and breath I’ve taken over the years. I have learned that although I may not understand, God always has a plan. And on the days Danni and I (who just turned seventeen) fail to see eye to eye on things, I remember the blessed journey I traveled to have her, and continue to count my blessings and thank my wonderful Redeemer for His patience and unfailing grace and healing along the way.<o:p></o:p></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-47104689045877468312011-04-20T08:09:00.000-07:002011-04-20T08:14:20.906-07:00Loves Healing Power By Anne GreeneIn my Scottish historical, Masquerade Marriage, nothing was as it appeared. Yet, Lady Megan found love’s healing freedom when she discovered that against all appearances, her father did love her. Brody discovered God’s healing love freely given in the tragedy following the Battle of Culloden. None of this healing love would have been possible without the author of love, God Himself, freely giving that love to His children. Because, wonder of wonders, God IS love. <br />I can only write of God’s healing freedom because I’ve experienced His healing love that gives me freedom in my own life.<br /><br />Since I became a Christian at age twenty-one, I’ve been healed many times. Because I had a very difficult childhood, I experienced great healing when I became a Christian. The Lord really made me a new creation in Christ Jesus as He promised. He began the emotional healing that made me the happy, content person I am today.<br />When my first husband died early in our marriage leaving me with very little money and two young children to raise, I learned first-hand that the Lord does take care of His children. When the first love of my life died, I felt physically torn in half. At times I looked down to see if there was blood. But God was with me in a very special way. He became my constant companion. And slowly He took the torn halves of my heart and life and knit them back together. At that time He gave me the verse, Deuteronomy 31:6 – The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you: He will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. And He absolutely kept that promise. And, at the right time He brought a new love, a new husband into my life. Through that experience I know, without a single doubt, that I have the freedom to trust God. God is Love. God Heals. God gives freedom. Not just to me. He gives love’s healing power to all His children.<br /><br />I don’t have a lifetime verse from God’s Word, because during different seasons and different trials in my life, God’s given me different verses. So many verses are precious and meaningful to me. I am finding these days that I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me from Philippians 4:13 to be a verse I cling to as God so often takes me out of my comfort zone and puts me in new situations. <br />God’s healing love gives freedom. Otherwise I couldn’t write the happy-ever-after ending to my books. <br /><br />Can you think of a specific time of healing in your life, mind, body, or spirit. I’d love to hear about it. And one fortunate commentator will win a free copy of my book, Masquerade Marriage.<br /><br />Readers can find my book at http://www.whiterosepublishing.com and fans can get to know me better by visiting my website at http://www.AnneGreeneAuthor.com.<br /> <br />On Wednesday, April 27th five of us White Rose authors will post our short story. Five delivery gifts arrive at five addresses. But there’s been a computer glitch. There are addresses but no names and each of the five ladies must choose which gift belongs to her—a bouquet of roses, two teal-colored love birds, a box of chocolates, an engraved invitation, and a fresh fruit tree. Discover the story behind each gift.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5770706349649072122.post-37807472717123451682011-04-18T09:47:00.000-07:002011-04-18T09:55:03.016-07:00Love's Healing Power<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJAn7qta6NOOByHAnKCxHLB5dvcr30M6yF15XMWRnkXTHx_QSECF4gDRiFo3gMYIERkkgGywboame5GGLuZgLJiHGBu-MzUFheRys9KpKDizsXhTwUEhouW5ErGQEu9FU1m53yhGJxdg/s1600/DSCN1528.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJAn7qta6NOOByHAnKCxHLB5dvcr30M6yF15XMWRnkXTHx_QSECF4gDRiFo3gMYIERkkgGywboame5GGLuZgLJiHGBu-MzUFheRys9KpKDizsXhTwUEhouW5ErGQEu9FU1m53yhGJxdg/s320/DSCN1528.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596966781149786338" border="0" /></a><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]-->I love the month of April, and the rains that bring flowers in May. I celebrate my birthday, my born-again anniversary, my first book contract, and release of my first book available in print, which arrived on my birthday. God is so good, he renews my soul. <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">April is also the anniversary of the unsolved homicide of my father. Talk about the healing power of God’s love. Such trauma can change a life forever, if that life isn’t turned over to receive God’s grace, and pass that grace on to others. I’ve been disturbed many times over the years, wondering how a killer could be walking around free. I’ve had to accept God’s answer to this prayer for resolution as “no.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I would say in the case of my father, God has healed my mind. The unsolved answers could have eaten me up. Instead, I realize that God is God and I am not.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">For reasons only God knows, I walked around in constant physical pain for several years. I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia. The leaden, heavy leg and back pain were corrected with fusion. I have learned to live with limitations, and am so very grateful for what I am able to do. At the time of this writing I am not pain free, but most days He enables me to handle the aches.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">And because of God’s sovereignty, He chose me to spend eternity with Him. I call that healing of my spirit, which He has healed many times over the years, because I am weak and sin every day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">So when it comes to God’s healing power, I’ve been there, and I hope to bring that awareness to the characters I create. Inner conflict is painful, especially when it comes to spiritual things. In the case of Geneva Carson in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Rainn on My Parade</i>, she’s torn between following her dream to make her business a success and her instinct to come to the aide of a special needs child. Toss in the reality of falling for a younger man in a small town where she has lived her whole life.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Rainn Harris has spiritual issues as well. I don’t want to give them away, but he faces guilt, ill feelings toward his father, and taking up Geneva’s time when he knows where her priorities lay. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">No relationship is flawless and follows a smooth path. The road is bumpy with hills to climb and ruts to avoid. We are emotional creatures. Our characters need to be as well. So there is a lot of healing that needs to be done during misunderstandings, careless words, thoughts taking over words and actions.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I claim Isaiah 12:2 as my lifetime verse: “Behold, God is my salvation, I will trust and not be afraid: For the Lord God is my strength and song, and He has become my salvation.” My goal is for that theme of renewal, that healing of the spirit, to be experienced through my stories.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Love heals. We can see the fruits in our lives. And we can write that happily-ever-after into our romances. Can you think of a specific time of healing in your life? Be it mind, body, or spirit, I’d like to hear about it. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p> <p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7