Paula Scott's Blog, page 5

All is calm, all is bright… when Christmas doesn’t look like you dreamed it would.

Each Christmas it happens. There’s the Christmas I dream about and the Christmas we have. You know the Christmas you dream in your mom dreams: sipping hot chocolate by the fire, reading T’was the Night Before Christmas to your bright-eyed, attentive children. Maybe you’ve already played Monopoly together. Or Yahtzee as a family. Everyone patient and polite, with some laughter thrown in. You add tinsel to your tree. The way Grandma taught you, one strand at a time, strategically placed for glow factor.

But here’s the truth. I’ve never added tinsel to our tree. Not once. That sounds like a nightmare with the Bicknell boys. At my grandma’s house with just my well-behaved older brother and me, the hanging of tinsel went perfectly every year. One shiny little strand at a time just like Grandma directed with Lawerance Welk singing in the background.

You shouldn’t lust for something you don’t have. This morning I got a lesson from the Ghosts of Christmas past like Ebenezer Scrooge. The Good Lord took me on a tour of our old Christmases. And I cried.

This lesson came because of envy. I was blog hopping after seeing an invitation in my inbox to join a blog tour spotlighting farmhouse Christmases. I can do that, I thought for a moment. We have a farmhouse. Christmas lights. Cute kids. But by about the third blog I toured, I realized the Bicknells would never fit in unless I lied.

For one hot second, I considered lying. How hard would it be to post a picture of our beautiful tree?

I know I’d need to remove the half-naked boy standing on the windowsill, but I could use this photo instead. Almost everyone loves babies…

Nobody needs to know my grandson was just taking a breather from crying when one of the boys snapped this picture. He went back to wailing a moment later because he’s pretty fussy, but for a second, all is calm, all is bright at our house.

And this really is our farmhouse mantle. Before decorating it this year, I removed three nerf darts and maybe a dried frog. It kind of looked like a mummified frog. The dust was an inch thick as well, and in this photo you can see our fanlight remote controls if you look closely. We keep the remotes up on the mantle to keep them away from the boys, but this has never worked. We would have to tape the remotes to the ceiling to stop our sons, and truly, I don’t believe this would help. The boys have carried in a tall ladder to get something they want up high. At six-years-old, Cruz hauled in an eight foot ladder to decorate the tree again this year. He carried in the ladder last year and the year before too. Last year, I worried he’d break one of my favorite ornaments, so I broke it before Cruz did, trying to keep it out of his dirty little hands.

Cruz especially likes my bird ornaments. This year, he finally managed to break my last German bird. I cried, “damn it!” when it happened, though I’ve been doing really well not cussing since I realized cussing (mostly at our dogs) isn’t the Christian thing to do. Cruz went and hid in his bed until I walked down the hall and apologized to him for losing my temper.

Sad. I know. And a “German bird,” you ask? “Why, yes.” When we lived in Germany, I collected bird ornaments. Glass ones. Why birds? Why not? Trying to save my glass birds from our ruthless toddler several years ago, I bought some cheap styrofoam birds for Cruz to stick in the tree. A couple of years ago, he hung them upside down. I thought the Naughty or Nice ornament couldn’t have been more properly placed above Cruz’s birds that year. He still moves these two little birds all over the tree every Christmas. They are like our elf on the shelf, except we’ve never played elf on the shelf because Cruz on the loose is enough mischief for one farmhouse.

How do you think Cruz’s styrofoam birds would do on that farmhouse Christmas blog tour?

I could post this picture of him in the tour too, yelling because he can’t reach something he wants. Probably a German bird. Or I could use the sweet photo below and pretend we are all innocent cuteness. But the truth is, I didn’t plan Cruz’s cute mismatched boots. He dressed his two-and-a-half-year-old self. I was exhausted that year. Before I snapped this picture, I’d told Cruz to let go of the string of lights. A hundred times let go, but back then, he never listened. So yeah, this is was our real Christmas farmhouse a few years back.

And honestly, I cried because none of my Christmas dreams have come true. We don’t do hot cocoa by the fire. The one time we tried, the boys spilled their chocolate everywhere and that was awful to clean up. Imagine these boys with cups of steaming cocoa in their hands. And yes, our boys still dress this way year around. They’re just bigger now so being half-naked looks more savage than cute.

Sadly, I don’t think we would qualify for that Christmas farmhouse blog tour. Though I could post this picture of the three wise men up in our window sill.

Walking across to the other window sill to visit Baby Jesus in the manager.

Our nativity scene looks kind of neat up in our second story windows where I place them every year, but this wasn’t because I have a knack for decorating. Our nativity scene we keep up high because our boys, when they were younger, loved mixing them with their dinosaurs and dragons for battles. Which, if you think about it, is pretty true to our spiritual lives. Doesn’t it seem like we’re always in some kind of battle here on earth?

So I’m feeling pretty humble right now. After traveling through our Google photos of Christmases past, I’ve come to the conclusion I like our crazy Christmases even if we never qualify for a farmhouse Christmas blog tour. We do church each Christmas Eve as a family. All our kids go and we now take up several rows, though our oldest son would probably rather be somewhere else.

We kill December rattlesnakes around our farmhouse.

Okay, this was a fluke last year. Usually, the rattlesnakes hibernate through winter, and we don’t see them until spring, but all of our boys can more than take care of themselves. Snakes don’t stand a chance at our house. My sons may not be attentive when I read a Christmas story, but I never have to worry about someone picking on them at school.

And our two son-in-laws just got baptized a few weeks ago at church. The smaller one is six feet tall. When our girls were still under our roof, before they went to college, I used to dream of us being a game family. You know we’d all sit down at our farm table and play scrabble or cards for hours on end. Especially at Christmas when we were all together.

I knew a family who did this every Christmas when I was a kid, and I always secretly longed to be at their Christmas games instead of my own family’s Christmas because my dad and brother hunted on Christmas morning until the afternoon. So we began our tradition of opening gifts Christmas Eve night when the hunters were home. Now my dad has trained my son-in-laws to hunt. Guess we’ll be opening our Christmas gifts on Christmas Eve for the rest of my life, though I think Jake and Drew have better sense than to be gone Christmas morning the way Opa always is out shooting ducks.

Please don’t look at how dirty our refrigerator door is, but read this carefully the way I did last Christmas. I read it so carefully tears filled my eyes. I was ranting in the kitchen about not being a game family, or not opening gifts on Christmas morning, or nobody listens to my Christmas stories when I read them by the fire when I spotted this message.

I can’t remember what I was complaining about last Christmas but “Be thankful for Jesus” hit me like a fish in the face. “Who did this?” I asked with my throat tightening up.

All of the boys looked at me with innocent eyes.

“Well, I didn’t do this. Nobody ever uses my fridge letters but me. I’ve been trying to get you boys to write on the refrigerator for two years and you never touch the letters.”

Still, wide-eyed silence met my throaty accusation. Finally, eight-year-old G2 bravely stepped forward. “I did it,” he softly said.

“Well, thank you!” I said, feeling like a big old Ebenezer Scrooge. “I needed that reminder. Christmas stresses me out. I’m sorry, guys.”

“Why does Christmas stress you out?” One of G2’s brothers asked.

“I guess because I want Christmas to be something it’s not.”

“Like what?” One of the boys pressed.

“Like we’re not a game family. We don’t play games at Christmastime.”

“WHAT?! Yes, we do!” The boys cried in unison. “Remember when you shot me between the eyes a few years ago? You got all of us Nerf guns for Christmas and we played capture the flag. I didn’t know you could shoot like that, Mom!” The boys were growing excited reliving their Christmas memory.

“Oh, great! I’m the mom that shoots her kids between the eyes at Christmas.” But inside I was smiling. See, we really are a game family. We also play Christmas football in the yard. And Thanksgiving football. And football for no good reason. But I don’t have hardly any pictures of us playing because I like playing too.

So doing this farmhouse blog tour has been really good for me. You’re my only audience since I won’t be on any blog tours anytime soon, but I hope you think a little about what makes your family’s Christmases special and unique.

One of my favorite lines is, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” I didn’t realize, but while looking at those other blogs this morning of beautiful calm, bright farmhouses, I made the mistake of comparing my home to theirs. I bet none of their farmhouses has a mummied frog on the mantle. Or maybe it wasn’t a frog. It sure looked like a dead little critter to me.

But really, is Christmas about my farmhouse? Or your farmhouse? Or city house if that’s where you live? Or if your family play games on Christmas day? I hope your special and unique family is all together this Christmas. And above all, I hope your heart is light. I pray you have yourself a merry little Christmas and that you’re thankful for Jesus. Because Jesus is the reason for Christmas.

 

 

 

 

Merry Christmas 2017 from our Family to Yours…

Merry Christmas from our family to yours…

2017 was a big year for the Bicknells. Four kids joined our family. The oldest came with a beard, another is a beauty with long black hair, and two are babies. We feel so blessed by our growing clan. Luke was at Army boot camp during Lacy’s wedding so he missed this family photo in our front yard.

People always say to me, “I don’t know how you do it with all those kids.” The truth is I don’t do it very well. If you come to our house on a normal day–normal for the Bicknells anyway–the boys are shirtless and barefoot, even if it’s 40 degrees out. They’re burping and farting and fooling around. I spend most of my time just trying to civilize them. I’ve given up teaching the boys to put the toilet seat down. I’m happy if they just use the bathroom. Every tree on our lawn has been peed on a million times. Our yard is only a dozen years old, yet our trees are magnificent. Visitors always inquire, “How did you grow trees like these?” Now you know the secret, go pee on your trees.

This autumn we didn’t take our Christmas picture. The photo at the top is from last spring. I didn’t want to torture everyone trying to get them to look presentable. If we photographed ourselves truthfully, the boys would be half-naked, holding knives. I would be wrestling our six-year-old to the ground, trying to get shoes on him. Lacy and Jake would be making out, making the rest of us blush. Cami, Drew, and KJ wouldn’t be in the picture. Drew hates pictures. Luke would have a beer in his hand like Opa, just to freak me out, but Luke is now in the Army National Guard and has a job at their headquarters in Sacramento. He’s an amazing dad to his little guy, Cam. We are very proud of him and Alex.

Then there’s Cami and Drew’s daughter, Kara, with her dark eyes and dimples. She is so precious. I can’t tell you how much Scott and I adore being Papa and Poppy to our grandbabies. Yes, I know my grandma name is weird. A friend in college decided we needed to pick our grandma names when we were twenty years old. I chose Poppy and can’t remember why. I’m sure our grandbabies will straighten me out. “They’ll probably call you Poopie,” Scott says. I’m absolutely okay with Poopie. Growing up I was Poopie. I kind of think the name fits.

I do find it hard to write the Bicknells had a great year because I know some of you didn’t. We’ve had those hard years too. I know what it feels like to sit down and pen a Christmas letter with an ache in your heart and tears in your eyes.  All I can say is the Lord’s love is very real, so lean into his love, allow the Lord to comfort you if your year was difficult.

Time passes so quickly, the seasons flying away like geese across the sky. Ten years ago, we named G2 after his Opa and now they are hunting buddies. John and Joe love hunting with Opa too. All our boys had fun dove hunting in September at the ranch (Uncle Cody joined us that day), and John filled our freezer with venison in October.

Oma and Opa had a big year as well. They became great-grandparents. We sure couldn’t do life without them. Oma runs our summer fruit harvest and Opa is often on the tractor tending to the orchards when he isn’t engineering at his office. My parents don’t believe in retirement. Their work ethic puts everyone to shame. The rest of us do our best to keep up.

Speaking of keeping up, our four youngest boys are coming into their own. Three of them played football this year for the Sutter Huskies, and John and Joe are currently playing soccer at their schools. For Thanksgiving vacation, we took the boys to the ocean. Summer trips are about impossible with harvest overwhelming us. This year we rolled right into football during harvest season. It was tough, but worth it.

Many of our friends are becoming empty-nesters as Scott and I fall into bed at night exhausted after reading the Bible with our boys because we really need Jesus. The truth is, we wouldn’t have it any other way. Our growing sons are so fun. Scott has taken up coaching football with the Sutter Junior Huskies and my writing is going well. After more than thirty years together, we tend to fight about only one thing, who gets to hold the grandbaby. I’m grateful God blessed us with two.

Wishing you a bright and merry Christmas and the happiest New Year. “It is good to be children sometimes, and never better than at Christmas when its mighty Founder was a child himself.” Charles Dickens.

 

When You’re Wounded… Ask for Faith

Last week our nine-year-old, G2, had surgery. He’s absolutely fine and healing well. But I’m not sure I’m fine. Monday morning I took him down to Sacramento for same day surgery. G2 is a sweet, sensitive child and was scared to death of being put to sleep. He thought he would die.

A child development specialist visited every patient to see how they were doing. She quickly realized G2 needed help. He was calm and obedient, but the poor kid was terrified. She talked to him for quite awhile and then accompanied him into the operating room. G2 held it together until I had to leave him in the hallway, then he just sobbed on the gurney. I kissed his forehead and prayed over him. After they wheeled him away tears overwhelmed me.

I walked to the bathroom wondering why I was so upset. I knew G2 would be fine but felt a little traumatized. When I returned to the waiting room, the child development specialist came out to speak with me. “Who died in the hospital with your son?” She asked.

“Did G2 tell you someone died?”

“No, but he has PTSD. Who died?”

Tears streamed down my face. I felt like I had PTSD too. “His cousin, Anna. G2 adored her. She didn’t die in the hospital, she died at the scene of the accident, but her dad was in the hospital for a week after the crash. I’m sure G2 remembers all that. Losing Anna really tore us up.”

The child development specialist spent some time with me. Guess you’re never old enough to be her patient. When she left, I tried to process G2’s woundedness. I’ve made peace with being one of the walking-wounded, but realizing G2 was wounded too really hurt.

I know all our kids are wounded from Anna’s death.

I think most of us walk around wounded in one way or another. It makes us human beings. We live in a broken world where bad and sad things happen. We go on with life and try to survive the best we can, but nothing is the same after we experience a tragedy.

I’m not sure I’ve done an adequate job ensuring our kids are okay after the loss of their cousin. What I’ve realized is that children try to hang on to their carefree ways after experiencing trauma. They just want to continue with a normal life. None of our boys wanted to talk about Anna after she died. Garry would pray every night that she was happy in heaven, and we would both cry, but that was it. He wouldn’t say Anna’s name during the day.

His brother, John, who was twelve when we lost Anna, threw up in response to her death, and then sobbed beside the road where his sister had pulled the car over for him to be sick on their way to school. Scott and I were at the hospital with Anna’s parents. Why did we send our kids to school on the day Anna died?

I realize now that first week after losing Anna, I was hardly home. The boys’ sisters cared for them. I was with Anna’s family most of that time in a fog of grief. After the first two days, Scott stopped going to the hospital and stayed with our boys. Scott felt they needed to keep doing their everyday things. So they went to school. They played sports. They did their homework. When I was home, I couldn’t stop crying, but I wasn’t home much until after the funeral.

In the waiting room on Monday during G2’s surgery, I battled fear that something would happen to G2, but I told Jesus, “He’s yours. I am just blessed to be G2’s mom. I’d really like to keep him, but if you take him now, I know he will be so happy up there with You and Anna. I know you’ll take good care of G2 along with Anna.”

I don’t think this is normal for surgery. The chance of my son dying during this minor procedure was probably right up there with a Great White shark attack or grizzly bear mauling. But I learned with Anna that life is fragile. It can be over in the blink of an eye. We don’t know who’s going to be here tomorrow. All we have is today.

I’m so thankful G2 woke up like this after his surgery.

I wish I had recorded the waking up. The nurse warned me he’d probably be crying when he awoke. “Usually, kids wake up in the same state as when we put them to sleep,” said the nurse. “It’s like their brains shut off and then pick up where they left off.”

I was prepared for the sobbing G2, but he woke up so funny.

“Why haven’t they done my surgery?” he demanded to know when he opened his eyes and he saw me.

“You’re all done! You did great.”

“NO!” G2 said in the funniest way. “I just blinked! They can’t be done!”

G2 has this loud, sure voice. I think every nurse on the floor heard him.

“Really, it’s all done. And you woke up! Isn’t that great?”

“God was right!” G2 shouted. “I’m okay! He said I’d be okay and I’m okay!”

I had told G2 I believed God told me he was going to be okay the night before his surgery. Several nurses peeked into the room to see what was going on. G2’s nurse, Kyle, a man with a fun sense of humor, was laughing.

“Maybe you should become a nurse,” I told G2, with those three nurses smiling at him.

“WHAT?! Nurses are LIARS! I’m going to be a pastor! I’m taking over for Pastor Doug.” G2 cried.

I was mortified. “Why are nurses liars?” I asked, afraid to look at the nurses’ faces, but I could hear Kyle laughing.

“They told me it wouldn’t hurt! But that IV hurt! They told me the gas would taste good! Like root beer!But it tasted terrible!”

“He’s usually very sweet,” I told the nurses. “I’m sorry, G2’s not himself right now.”

“He’s great,” said Kyle. One of the other nurses told Kyle he was done with his shift. It was time for him to go home. “No way! I’m not leaving G2,” he said. “He’s the best patient I’ve had all day.”

I was so impressed with the pediatric nurses at Sutter Memorial. They were wonderful with G2. The nurse that prepared him for surgery wouldn’t leave her shift either when she could have gone home. She also said, “I’m staying with G2 until he’s done.” And his doctor, the head of UC Davis pediatric urology was amazing.

“Do we get to keep the wheelchair?” G2 asked as we waited for valet to bring our car to the front of the hospital as we were leaving.

“No, you’re fine. You don’t need a wheelchair, Get in the FJ,” I told him.

Right across the street was Sutter’s Fort. I’m in the middle of researching about John Sutter and was just writing about him in the novel I’m currently working on. I pointed the fort out to G2. “Isn’t that cool? I just wrote about this fort in my book.”

“Stop!” G2 yelled in the car. “I want to see that fort!”

I pulled into a parking space right after we left the hospital. “Are you sure you can walk to the gate?”

“I don’t feel a thing,” said a grinning G2.

That was the truth. I had a nine-year-old drunk on my hands. The doctor said G2 could walk just fine, but to take it easy for a week or two. Let G2 rest at home. No playing at school or doing sports. He didn’t say anything about not walking to Sutter Fort’s gate.

G2 was so proud to stand in front of the fort to have his picture taken. “Put this is in your book!” He cried, capturing the attention of a nearby homeless man. Seeing the homeless man looking at us, G2 yelled, “My mom writes books!”

“You obey your mom!” The homeless man yelled back.

“Is he okay?” G2 asked in his big, loud voice because the homeless man was a mess.

The homeless man went a little nuts, yelling completely random stuff at us. I hurried G2 back to the car.

That night we both fell into bed. It had been a long day. When my head hit the pillow, I thanked God for his mercy. This surgery had hung over our head for years. I know you’re all wondering what it was, but G2’s a little embarrassed about it and I don’t want to share his personal stuff. He’s all fixed now and should be absolutely fine.

In the midst of all this, I’d forgotten that months earlier, I’d signed one of my books up for a promotion on Amazon. I hadn’t thought a thing about it with G2 going to the hospital. Tuesday G2 was in a lot of pain, so we hunkered down by the fire and rested. I worked on my WIP, which is a “work in progress” referring to an author’s unfinished book, and the day passed peacefully.

On Wednesday I work up realizing my Mother Keeper novel was being advertised on Amazon. Our harvest hit right after I released this book this past summer and I’d done very little to let people know it was for sale. Honestly, I still feel like an imposter as an author. Like any minute now people are going to discover that I’m a terrible writer and wonder what on earth am I doing so I hardly market at all.

I can’t tell you how surprised I was to see my book climbing the ranks on Amazon last Wednesday. By the end of the day, The Mother Keeper was number 1 in three categories. Right up there with some big name writers. This kind of thing happening to an unknown writer is like winning the lottery. If I believed in luck, I would say I was lucky, but I don’t believe in luck. God made this happen and it scares me. Because now a lot more people will read The Mother Keeper and they might discover they hate my voice. Writers have a voice just like singers. Not that I can sing, but we can recognize writers by how they sound on the page. I love Francine Rivers’s voice. She’s one of my favorite writers. Ann Voskamp is like this too. Her unique voice is very recognizable when you read her writing.

The truth is, nobody knows why some books become bestsellers and other’s don’t capture readers’ attention. Industry insiders call this lightening in a bottle. If publishers knew the secret of what makes a book a bestseller, believe me, they would turn that secret into success over and over again.

Here’s another truth about books. Very few authors make more than $10,000 dollars a year. Indie authors like me often lose money on their writing. My book became a free bestseller on Amazon this past week. Which means I don’t earn a dime unless people buy my other two books for sale on Amazon right now. The interesting thing about this Amazon stuff is that it hardly mattered last week that my book hit number 1. What mattered was G2’s healing.

I hadn’t realized how much Anna’s death impacted my children. Don’t get me wrong, I knew losing Anna was life-changing for us, but watching G2 sob before his surgery just broke my heart. He really thought he was about to die.

Life is so out of our control. It deeply truly is, but we seldom realize this hard thing. The amazing thing is that God is completely in control of everything. I call God my Papa. I’m the kid constantly tugging on his robe. “Please, Papa,” I pray a hundred times a day. I even prayed for Papa to help the homeless man who yelled at G2 at Sutter’s Fort.

If you’re wounded, or even if you think you’re perfectly fine, I want to share another kind of lightning in a bottle with you. Faith. Honestly, if I could give you faith in Jesus rather than write you a story about faith I would. As I create books and blogs, I always pray that God will put his Spirit in the words to draw people to Himself. I love my Papa so much and if you don’t know Him, I want to tell you God is your Papa too. He’s a good, good Father. I’m weeping as I write this because it’s so true. But Papa can be hard. When Anna died, I cried, “Oh Papa, what have you done!”

Papa sent Jesus to assure me that this severe mercy was needed. Anna was happy in heaven. And Papa wanted my whole family to turn to Him. He was using Anna to draw us to heaven. I stood on our front porch before dawn the day after Anna died crying out to Papa.

In an instant, in response to my broken cry, Jesus stood beside me on the porch. It was like the whole universe stilled for a moment when He came down to be with me. I couldn’t see Jesus, but I knew with every fiber of my being He was there beside me. I’ve blogged about this experience already, so I won’t go into the details again. And it was such a supernatural experience that trying to explain it pales in comparison. It just can’t be explained.

But I want you to know Jesus and Papa and his Holy Spirit are real. Everyone is offered God’s lightning of faith in a bottle. The Bible says to ask for faith. “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.

“Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!” Matthew 7:7-12.

“But when you ask Him, be sure that your faith is in God alone. Do not waver, for a person with divided loyalty is as unsettled as a wave of the sea that is blown and tossed by the wind” James 1:6.

I’ve been kneeling beside G2’s bed at night, praying for Papa to heal him, not just physically, but emotionally as well. Being wounded is hard, but lacking faith is even harder. God gives faith because our heavenly Father loves us. Faith comes from God in the form of a gift. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith–and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God– Ephesians 2:8.

If you don’t have faith, but want it, ask for the gift of faith. I find myself asking for more faith almost every day. I believe, but I want to believe more. I hope you want to believe more too. This time of year, I often follow the Gospel of Luke. I’ll leave you with some verses from Luke that touched my heart a few days ago. A people prepared has stuck with me. I want to be prepared for the Lord. I hope you do too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A peek at my new book and some local history

A year and a half ago, my first California Rising novel, Until the Day Breaks, hit Amazon. I was surprised it did fine and we published my second novel, Far Side of the Sea, six months later. That novel got better reviews than my first novel, which made me happy since I wrote it fast. I’m sorry it’s taking so long to write the final story of my California Rising trilogy. But we now have a cover, I hope you like it, and here is a bit of the story…

September 1850, in the throes of the Gold Rush, California becomes a state and Isabella Vasquez becomes a woman.

Isabella was adopted by the Californios as a baby from Fort Ross. Her birth father was Russian, her mother part Indian. The Russians didn’t bring women to California the way the Spanish did. They took Indian wives and their children were called creoles, a race of black-haired, blue-eyed half-breeds known for their beauty and intelligence, but weak constitutions. Many Fort Ross creoles died young. Probably due to tuberculous, though at the time, they didn’t know why the creoles weren’t as hardy as the full-blooded Russians or Indians.

But back to the book, after the Vasquezes lost their rancho to the American takeover, Isabella’s adoptive father, Don Pedro Vasquez carried Isabella off to the gold fields, hoping to strike it rich and buy back their land.

I don’t want to give too much away, but failure in the gold fields sets Isabella on a journey back to Fort Ross to find her real father, Sergei Ivanhov, and visit the grave of her mother, Antipina, a Creole girl who died giving birth to her.

I found these lovely Russian names on the cemetery registry at Fort Ross.

I was in my early twenties, living in Germany when I first envisioned my California Rising series. There was no Internet back then, and my parents sent me history books through the mail. When we moved back to the states, I gave birth to our second daughter and would bundle up my baby and her two-year-old sister and head to the Marysville library. The library’s California room was an oasis of history. I spent hours there pouring over the journals of original California settlers and wrote my first draft of Until the Day Breaks.

Nearly twenty-five years later, I’m halfway finished with Chasing the Wind, the novel that completes my series. To share the California history I love, I needed to create a character who lived it.

Isabella is a sheltered girl so I couldn’t impart much history through her, but my hero, Peter Brondi, has all the freedom in the world to experience California’s turbulent times. While researching, I found the frontiersman Kit Carson the ideal historical figure for the conquest of California so I modeled my hero, Peter Brondi, after Carson.

Born in Missouri during frontier times, Peter, like Kit Carson, has fought Indians all his life. When he wins Isabella in a card game in Marysville, he must come to terms with his animosity against the Indian blood that runs through her veins. Peter is also haunted by the grudge he holds against his half-breed Indian brother, Paul.

While Peter was away fighting with John C. Fremont and Kit Carson in the 1846 California uprising against Mexico, Paul was back in Taos, New Mexico romancing Peter’s fiancee, Maggie. Paul marries Maggie and brings her west on a wagon train. After Maggie dies on the trail to California, the brothers nearly kill each other in a bitter battle because of her.

Three years later, when the story begins, the only reason Peter is searching for Paul is that their father, Jedediah is terminally ill. His dying wish is to see Paul, who disappeared after the fight with Peter. They know Paul’s in California, and Peter and Jedediah have brought nearly ten thousand sheep from New Mexico to California to sell to the miners (something that was actually done in 1852). But Jedediah refuses to part with a few hundred ewes, and with the help of the resistant Peter, starts his own sheep ranch near Nevada City where he waits for his younger son, Paul, to return to him.

Jedediah has made his peace with God, but his sons are chasing the wind, like so many men in California caught up in the gold rush, living for the moment, and lost in earthly pleasures and pain. The story of the prodigal son is guiding me as I craft this tale of love and forgiveness.

My California stories are romances, but the actual lives of the California settlers were far from romantic. Unlike the Californios who enjoyed a relatively rich, easy life by highjacking the already established mission lands and resources before the American takeover, the American settlers faced many hardships homesteading the Golden State. Guns and grit tamed the territory, and death was always at the door.

The native American Indians faced the worst of it. Telling a portion of this tale through the eyes of a half-breed Indian girl opened my eyes to the terrible fate of the California Indians. You could buy a beautiful Indian girl for five-hundred dollars in Marysville in 1850. Many Indians were sold for less, Indian children often kidnapped from their tribes and passed to American families. Any household of means had an Indian slave or two. John Sutter relied on Indians to man his famous fort in Sacramento. Without the Indians’ labor, Sutter would never have been able to rule the Sacramento Valley as he did before the gold rush destroyed his empire.

The plan is to have Chasing the Wind on Amazon in March 2018. Please say a little prayer that I can deliver it to my editor by February. Becoming a grandma has changed my life in the most wonderful way, and I’m still finding my bearings when it comes to being an author. I do love hearing you are ready and waiting for book number three. I hope you like the cover with Isabella in her wedding dress standing on a hill overlooking Fort Ross. Jenny Q. my editor, also designs my book covers. She did an amazing job. I love it.

Below is the little chapel at Fort Ross where Peter and Isabella make a vow to each other. Of course, this vow is hard to keep because good stories are full of conflict.

Fort Ross is one of my favorite places. If you haven’t been there, you really should try to visit this historic fort on the northern California coast.

But the heart of this story happens in Marysville. For those of you who live near me, you know this little town across the river from Yuba City. Marysville is smaller now than it was in its heyday, but D Street is one of my favorite places to visit. Macy’s department store was born in Marysville, and the town was named after Mary Murphy, a girl who survived the Donner Party. When I was little, I used to go with my grandma to Marysville for shopping. We would hit Woolworth’s on D Street and then head on down to the red and white striped Candy Box to buy our See’s chocolate.

Woolworth’s Department Store is closed now, but you can still visit The Candy Box on D Street open since 1954. I treasure our local history and have had so much fun tromping around Marysville, grabbing a ginger peach ice tea at The Brick Coffeehouse Cafe, one of my all-time favorite lunch spots, and then browsing the old brick buildings filled with quaint antique shops lining D Street. If you’d like to taste a little history with your lunch, check out The Silver Dollar Saloon located at the corner of D and 1st Streets next door to the Bok Kai Temple. It is one of the oldest historical landmarks in Marysville and was built in 1851. Until 1972, former owners ran a brothel on its second floor.

 

In Chasing the Wind, Clara’s Place is the brothel where Isabella lives for a spell. Clara’s Place was loosely fashioned after the original Silver Dollar Saloon establishment. Right behind this historic building runs the Yuba River where schooners came from San Francisco and Sacramento to drop off supplies and miners headed to the gold fields in the nearby foothills.

Peter and Isabella’s story climaxes near present-day Nevada City, which boomed into a town during the Gold Rush. The first “easterners” built a cabin along Deer Creek and staked a claim in 1849 just a year after the discovery of gold at Sutter’s Mill. Nevada City was originally called Deer Creek Diggins, but the fast-growing town soon became known as Caldwell’s Upper Store after the man who opened the town’s first general store. By 1850, people decided the town needed an official name. “Nevada” was chosen–Nevada is Spanish for snow-covered–because it had been a particularly snowy winter that year.

If you want to experience some holiday fun, head on up to Nevada City’s Victorian Christmas. I love celebrating my December birthday there or at Grass Valley’s Cornish Christmas. This year Cornish Christmas turns 50 like me.

Nevada City Victorian Christmas 2014

You can spend the night at one of the lovely bed and breakfasts in Grass Valley or Nevada City, or try The National Exchange Hotel (also known as the National Hotel). It opened in August 1856 under the name of “Bicknell Block”. The town’s first hotel, saloon, stagecoach stop, and mail center were all known as Bicknell’s Block. The original building burnt down but was rebuilt.

In 1977, the hotel was placed on the National Register of Historic Places and is considered the oldest continuously operated hotel west of the Rockies. I sure would like to know if the original Bicknell of Bicknell’s Block was related to my husband. History is so fascinating!

 

Many thanks to our local tourist websites for use of their pictures of the last three historic places.

When Thanksgiving Overwhelms You

For years, my husband has begged that we go away for the holidays. So this year we did. Now we’re back just in time to celebrate Thanksgiving at our house with thirty-five family members. I don’t think this is what Scott had in mind, but we compromised. And I really shouldn’t be blogging tonight. There’s still so much to do. But the pumpkin pies are done. I even cut special little dough leaves this year for decoration.

The laundry is finished for at least the next five minutes, seven loads since last night, but it’s not put away, and I keep finding sandy clothes strung through the yard. My house is decent, thanks to my mom coming over while we were gone and mopping our floors. Of course, the boys immediately dirtied the floors when we got home.

The beach was great. The first day some of the nicest weather I’ve ever seen in Bodega Bay, but now I’m playing catchup with everyone coming. I’m contemplating not doing much more. Just hollering, “Welcome! Make yourselves at home! Feel free to put some laundry away while you’re here,” when guests arrive tomorrow.

I believe in family helping family. Fourteen-year-old, John, patiently taught his six-year-old brother, Cruz, to sand surf at the beach. Twelve-year-old Joey and nine-year-old Garry dug a hole together in search of sand crabs. Or maybe to just watch the water rush in their hole. It’s a rare day when Joey plays well with Garry James.

I did my thing, walking quietly off by myself to collect shells, while the boys ran around with their shorts on fire. The boys all joined in grabbing some shells for me. I kept throwing live sand dollars back into the ocean after the boys would dump them in my bag and run off. A few live sand dollars somehow got left in my shell bag, and by the time we got home, they stank. Badly. Scott laid them out on the sidewalk to dry and our lab ate them. She also destroyed most of my other shells that were airing out with the dollars. I guess she was mad we left her home.

We kissed because we always kiss at the beach. Making our kids photograph us kissing because we like grossing out our sons. Later, we walked down and ate dinner at The Tides. If you live in NorCal and visit the beach, you’ve probably heard of this legendary restaurant. Alfred Hitchcock ate here when he was filming his famous movie: The Birds in Bodega.

The following day dawned wet and rainy. I stayed in the hotel room to write while Scott took the boys to another beach. The beach dumb dads take the kids to without their sensible wives.

You can see the terror on Cruz’s face. The good news, for a first grader, Cruz is incredibly fast. He outruns two of his big brothers, and when it comes to the ocean, he’s got more common sense then the rest of them put together. Until the cliffs come into play. Cruz may fear big waves, but big walls of earth are no match for him. Or his brothers.

Can I tell you cliff-goating makes me mad? I refuse to go to these high places anymore with the boys. “I deleted some of my pictures,” Scott admitted. “They scared me. They would have terrified you.”

No kisses for dumb dad on the second day.

I’m glad I stayed in the room and put my characters through the ringer instead. Watching my boys on one of the most dangerous beaches in the world, and then springing around the cliffs, would have put me through the ringer. I would have been that crazy mom on the endless stairs down to the beach, screaming, “Follow me! Use the stairs! Don’t be stupid! Do you think you’re a seagull?! Oh. My. Word!” All the while praying I survive the heart attack I’m having.

I don’t recommend taking a trip if you’re hosting Thanksgiving a day or two later. I’ve also been on a writing roll and keep plunking myself in front of my computer to move my characters from San Francisco by ship to Bodega Bay, where they mount horses and ride the nine hours to Fort Ross. Today, you can drive to the old Russian fort in an hour from Bodega Bay. But in 1850, when my new book takes place, horses were the safest route to the fort because an ocean landing at Ross was dangerous. It was fun to write these scenes in Bodega Bay on a stormy day. And I’m sure the Bicknell boys would have chosen the ocean landing.

The Bicknells love the ocean, but there’s no place like home for me. I was so happy to sleep in my own bed last night. Scott said the same thing. “I guess we’re getting old. Our bed is the best place in the world.”

This evening, after feeding our chickens and horse, we walked to the mailbox together. A card with familiar handwriting waited for me. It’s been a few years since I’ve gotten a Thanksgiving card. I used to get one every year, and then they didn’t come for a while. When I opened the card, tears filled my eyes.

“I am thankful for you,” the card read. Anna’s mom sent it to me.

Anna won’t be at our Thanksgiving table tomorrow. Her parents and siblings probably won’t either. It’s too painful for them to come and Anna does Thanksgiving in Heaven now. At the table up there, no tears ever fall. I was feeling kind of overwhelmed preparing for Thanksgiving today, and then I got this card. I set it right above my kitchen sink with a small plaque that reminds me of Anna. Then tears fell because this isn’t heaven.

If the holidays overwhelm you, take a deep breath, and remind yourself you are here. Your children are here creating laundry for you. You’re cooking a twenty-pound turkey and a ten-pound ham for the people you love. Many of you still have full tables without anyone missing. Life can be beautiful and brutal, sometimes on the same day. Weep with those who weep. Laugh with those who laugh. And for goodness sake, be grateful. Because gratefulness is the best medicine you can take to cure an overwhelmed heart on the holidays.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Beyond Beautiful…A Letter to New Moms

I wish twenty-six years ago, as a brand new mom, I knew how to measure beauty. At nine months pregnant with my first child, I thought I looked awful. Hoping to improve my appearance, I went and got a perm at a JC Penney’s in Alabama. Needless to say, I gave birth with bad hair.

After that birth, I spent far too much energy longing to get back into my old jeans. Beauty mattered a great deal to me and my body wasn’t the same after having a baby. I felt like a milk cow. And struggled to regain how I used to look, thinking I was no longer attractive. When in reality, becoming a mother is beyond beautiful, but I didn’t know that back then.

For my second birth, I kept my hair straight. I looked decent, but our daughter almost died. She was born premature and was shipped to UC Davis med center. The first three days were touch and go. Our little Lacy could die at any moment. I don’t remember even combing my hair. I remember crying a lot.

Lacy lived and I got back into my jeans after recovering from the trauma of nearly losing a child. By the time I gave birth to our third baby, it was all about how I looked. I was twenty-nine-years-old and into Cosmopolitan magazine. Scott was a pilot and money wasn’t a problem. Every six weeks I got my hair done. Nordstroms was my favorite store. Beauty didn’t just matter to me, it ruled me.

After weaning our third baby, I found a breast lump. Surgery revealed it was benign, but then another lump developed. After my second surgery, I was declared cancer-free. After nursing three children and having several biopsies, my breasts needed some help, so I got implants.

If only I had known back then my breasts were just fine without help. I’m the one who needed help. I measured beauty so badly when I was a young mom. It was all about how I looked instead of how I loved.

In a few weeks, I turn 50. Yesterday, I treated myself to blond highlights and bangs. My hairdresser, Starr, always works magic. My hair looked so pretty when I got home. But I was headed back out for our son’s soccer game in the rain. I knew my hair would be ruined. I rarely take selfies, and when I do, they are laughable but I wanted to remember my curls with the hopes of recreating the style if I got to go somewhere for my birthday.

When I looked at the selfie, it hit me. I’ve spent most of my adult life–all of it really since I was pregnant by 22– messed up by my children. I’ve worn vomit in my hair on countless occasions, not because I’d had a good time with my girlfriends, but because my children puked on me.

One particularly bad flu season, all of our children fell terribly ill. I had the flu as well. It went on for weeks. I’d given up and gone to bed with sick babies, thinking perhaps we would all die, go to heaven, and our suffering would end. It wasn’t long before one of the little ones threw up in the bed. I was too exhausted to clean it. I moved my babies over to the dry spot and slept in the vomit. It’s good to know dried vomit holds your hair better than hairspray. Of course, it doesn’t smell nice, but I was used to no longer smelling nice. My pediatrician told me I had to stop wearing perfume. It wasn’t good for babies, he assured me. I didn’t wear perfume for years.

And after I turned 40, I gave up my breast implants and returned to my natural hair color. Almost. A couple times a year I visit Starr for some highlights. But really, I’m so busy taking care of my kids that I’m lucky to make it to the dentist for a cleaning. Instead of spending money on makeup, I buy vitamins and pray for the strength and health to keep up with my boys. Fortunately, Scott still thinks I’m hot. I think my husband’s hot too. Getting older looks good on my man.

But as I age, I wonder how much time to spend on myself. Self-care was never a word in my grandmothers’ or my mom’s vocabulary. These women cared for others. They aged gracefully and I remember thinking how beautiful my Grandma Helen was gathering cows on her horse when she was in her 50s. Her son, my Uncle John, had a cattle ranch, and a couple times a year the herd had to be moved to greener pastures. Wearing lipstick and a cowboy hat, Grandma Helen was always there to help move the cows. She also irrigated my uncle’s pastures.

My Grandma Anne was a farmer’s wife. She worked so hard. The only thing I remember her doing for self-care was saying the rosary in her chair at night before bed and getting a perm once in a while. Both my grandmothers tirelessly served their children and husbands. Just like my amazing mom does now. I don’t remember my grandmothers ever serving themselves. Their lives weren’t glamorous, but my grandmothers were the glue that held our family together.

Recently, I came across this Bible verse: Do not adorn yourselves outwardly by braiding your hair, and by wearing gold ornaments or fine clothing; rather, let your adornment be the inner self with the lasting beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is very precious in God’s sight. 1 Peter 3:3-4. 

I’m still working on that gentle and quiet spirit. This is not the nature I was born with, I can assure you of that. But I have gained some wisdom and now have a bunch of young mommies in my life. Watching these girls being changed by motherhood is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. I want to tell these young moms true beauty is not in your looks, it’s in the way you love.

Loving takes a great deal of sacrifice, but I have found loving my children is easy. Until teenagers. Honestly, when our oldest son, Luke, went sideways in high school, we loved him even more. We knew it was love that would change Luke, and it did. This wasn’t easy love. It was hard love. And an absolute reliance on God to do what we couldn’t do with our wayward son. And for God to guide us as parents.

Now God is guiding Luke and Alex as parents.

A baby changed our son, and his sweet Alex.

Just as our granddaughter, K.J., has changed our daughter, Cami. “I know my bangs look terrible. I cut them to keep them out of my face because I’m taking care of Kara and that’s all I can do,” said Cami the other day. “I don’t have time for my hair!” Yesterday, when I saw Cami, she was in a ponytail.

I wore a ponytail for twenty years. It kept my babies from pulling my hair. Today I adore seeing mommies in ponytails. Cami may not have time for her hair, but she has time to love her baby.

And so do you, new mommy wearing a ponytail or vomit in your hair. If you’re a young mom worried about how you look, I encourage you to look at your baby. Measure your beauty by the way your baby looks back at you. I guarantee you, your baby sees you as beyond beautiful, and so do I.

When You Are Afraid

On Sunday I left for a writers’ retreat. Already anxious about going, about an hour into the drive to Tahoe, I called to see how things were at home. “Joey’s come down with a fever,” said my husband. “But don’t worry. He’s okay.”

Of course, after hanging up the phone, I worried. A 12 year old needs his mom when he’s sick. A couple hours later, I called home again. “Joey and Cruz are both sick now,” but they’ll be fine. Enjoy your writer’s retreat.

Yeah, right. It’s very hard to enjoy anything when my kids are down.

I went to bed that first night praying Jesus would take care of my boys. The next day Joey and Cruz stayed home from school. The sick 12 year old in charge of the sick 6 year old. Alone. In the country. I pondered driving home on Monday. My family is far more important to me than writing. But after praying about what to do, I felt I should stick out the retreat, and just keep checking on the boys.

In the end, my sons recovered. And at this retreat, I met Marilyn. Rarely, have I been around someone with such peace. In a house with nine other women it just so happened Marilyn was my roommate. Of course, I don’t believe things just happen. I know God put Marilyn in my room. The first night, I had a nightmare, and Marilyn hesitated to wake me. “You were calling for help,” Marilyn said. I went and stood by your bedside, but you settled back into sleep, so I left you alone.

The next day we went on our first walk together.

The Tahoe woods are changing with the seasons. Each day at the retreat our instructor, Susanne Lakin, took several breaks to walk in the woods. Marilyn and I walked along with her. It was so good to get outside and breathe fresh air after hours wearing out our brains plotting books inside the warm house.

The quaking aspens are losing their leaves up in Tahoe. A carpet of gold foliage crunched under our boots. The woods are mysterious, hiding bears and mountain lions and secrets. My heart hid a secret too. I was sick with fear. Not just over the boys being ill while I was away, but other things as well. With seven kids and now two grandbabies, there’s always something to fear. I also dread a host of other monsters. Sickness. Failure. Financial difficulties. Random shootings and natural disasters. The wildfires that recently tore through California affected my friends and family. Last year, floods threatened California. We live below the Oroville Dam. It seems like every Monday morning on the news something terrible has happened over the weekend. If your own world isn’t frightening enough, just step out your front door.

I stopped at an aspen tree and studied a carving during one of our hikes. I think the message was initially carved in love, but was so distorted with the tree’s growth, that I couldn’t make out the truth of the author’s original intent. The carving looked kind of scary now.

I’ve been afraid all my life. When I first became a Christain, I took up the mantra, Do it afraid. A priest I admired preached this one day, and it resonated with me. For fifteen years, I’ve done life afraid. Fear does not hold me back, but I’m sick of living with fear. I don’t want to be brave anymore because you can only be brave if first you are afraid. I want to be healed of being afraid.

I stood in front of this rotting log and told myself, No longer will I bow to fear. I will only bow to God. My heavenly Father who loves me.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear  because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. 1 John 4:18.

I don’t think the Lord’s original intent for me is to “do it afraid.” Fear has to do with punishment. I’ve been pondering what this means. I don’t have the answer yet. But every quest starts with a question. Three hundred and sixty-five times in the Bible, the Lord says, “Do not fear.”

That’s like Jesus telling us every day, “don’t be afraid.”

I’ve been afraid to plot a novel. I’d rather just wing it and see what happens. But I learned a great deal about plotting at the retreat. Susanne is a wonderful teacher with so much wisdom to share. I’ve always been a “seat of my pants” writer, which means I just sit down and write and the story comes to me like a movie. I don’t run the projector, I just do my best to write out the scenes that I see. No planning. No plotting. Just writing. I’ve always written this way. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I get lost in the woods of my own imagination.

I’ve been working on my final California Rising novel and recently got to a place where I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. I needed to step back from my story and get a little perspective so I signed up for Susanne’s plotting retreat at the last minute.

It wasn’t really the last minute. I’ve been invited to Susanne’s retreats for the past several years. The retreats are often held in Tahoe, and I’ve been wanting to go. I really didn’t think it was possible, but in a matter of days, all the doors opened, and I found myself in the Tahoe woods, contemplating my novel, which is really the story of our heavenly Father’s love.

Funny, how that’s exactly what I need right now. To know the love of my heavenly Father more. As I plotted out the rest of my story, how my characters discover God’s love, I was discovering more of God’s love myself in Tahoe. I kept finding heart-shaped rocks. This is a special thing between God and me. The gift of heart-shaped rocks.

It surprised me that Tahoe has lots of rocks. It’s an extraordinary place. You walk out of the forest, and onto golden sand, and then you reach the lake. An incredibly wide, incredibly deep, incredibly clear blue lake that looks like an ocean.

I stood there staring at the lake, marveling how big it is. For some reason, my fears have felt so big lately. A few weeks ago, I stopped looking at the news because I’ve realized it makes me more anxious. Even Facebook is upsetting.

I will no longer bow to fear, I admonished myself at the retreat. I know there is healing in my heavenly Father’s love. His perfect love casts out fear.

My new friend Marilyn said, “I’m done with fear. For most of my life, I battled fear. And then I went through something really hard. And in the end, I realized my heavenly Father loves me. He is sovereign over every bit of my life. The devil can do nothing unless my Father allows it. God’s grace covers everything. And I haven’t been afraid of the devil or death or what will happen to my children and grandchildren since I realized that,” said Marilyn.

I want the kind of peace Marilyn has found.

“This is what the LORD says: “I will give Jerusalem a river of peace and prosperity. The wealth of the nations will flow to her. Her children will be nursed at her breasts, carried in her arms, and held on her lap” Isaiah 66:12.

I first read this “river of peace” verse in the Bible when I was still nursing my children. Even now there is usually a child on my lap. My six-year-old still likes to sit there. And I’m cradling grandbabies as well these days. This river of peace scripture pierces my heart like an arrow every time. I long for a river of peace that never ends.

Since I got home from the retreat, I’ve been telling myself my heavenly Father loves me. He has complete control over my life, and his grace covers everything. I have nothing to fear. Psalm 34:4 says, “I prayed to the Lord, and he answered me. He delivered me from all my fears.”

If you struggle with fear like I do, I encourage you to pray and read your Bible and get to know the Lord better. Our heavenly Father doesn’t promise us an easy life on earth, but He promises to be with us through it all.

“Do not be afraid or terrified, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you,” Deuteronomy 31:6.

 

 

When A Baby Saves Your Life

It never dawned on me a baby was the answer. A son to save our son. I can’t write this without crying.

A year ago, I was praying for God to do something, anything, to rescue Luke.

At 19, our oldest son was in college. He had a job washing dishes after school in a posh restaurant. And came home every Sunday with his laundry, hugged his mama, and ate dinner with the family. But sometimes tears of sadness would streak my cheeks while I washed Luke’s clothes. The smell of marijuana was always there. I knew Luke was smoking pot every day and I worried about his health. More than that, I worried about his heart. He just seemed kind of numb. Like he was getting by. Just surviving life. The shine was gone from his eyes and I ached for him. So many times I knelt in front of the washing machine, holding Luke’s clothes in my hands, pleading with God to save our son.

Along with his drug use, Luke was a reckless driver. He spent most of his 16th year grounded for wrecking two cars. By 17, he had to leave his Christian high school because of drinking and drugs. At 18, Luke moved out of our home and was carrying his own car insurance.

“If you can afford to smoke weed, you can afford to pay your own way in the world,” Scott told Luke after high school. “And don’t come around if you’re stoned. I don’t want your little brothers seeing you that way.” I walked down the hall, closed the door, and cried in our bedroom during this conversation between Luke and his dad. I just couldn’t believe this was happening to our family.

Where was our happy, blond boy who liked to hug people? The smiling kid who never stopped kicking a soccer ball. The boy who completely enjoyed church and youth group. At 8th grade graduation, Luke won the award for godly character at his Christian school. He went on several mission trips and truly seemed to love Jesus in junior high. Then high school hit.

What happened? I asked myself numerous times when Luke was a teenager. It took Scott and me about a year to realize our son had gone sideways. And another year to admit it wasn’t some minor rebellion that would soon pass. Luke wasn’t getting back to his old self no matter how much I prayed, or how many restrictions Scott placed on him. Our son had changed. And it broke our hearts.

Early one Saturday morning, a highway patrolman came to our door. We’d already had highway patrolmen come to our house twice with Luke after he’d been in accidents, but this highway patrolman was alone, carrying papers in his hand. Luke lived an hour away in Chico and all I could think was, this man is here to tell us Luke is dead. I was the only one up that morning, reading my Bible by the light of the lamp before dawn. The hills were rosy with sunrise now and I began to shake all over. Our front door is mostly glass. I watched the highway patrolman walk from his patrol car to our front porch. It seemed to take forever. By the time he said, “Mam,” I could hardly breathe. “I found your mail all over the road.” The young highway patrolman, he looked somewhere in his late twenties, handed me a pile of envelopes.

At first, I couldn’t reach out to receive the mail. Finally, it hit me, the highway patrolman wasn’t here about Luke. I stepped towards him, falling into sobbing relief as I took the mail from him. Tears streaming down my face, I reached out, and kind of hugged him with the mail in my hand. Thanking him that our son, Luke, away at college I explained, wasn’t dead. The poor highway patrolman stiffened in surprise. He put his hand on his weapon, not like he was about to use it, like I had scared him too. He patted me awkwardly. Apologized for frightening me. And then left as fast as he could.

That’s when I realized, I was living on the edge of terror all the time, wondering when Luke would die. Would he kill someone in a car accident along with himself? Would he accidentally overdose on drugs like Scott’s youngest brother? Would he die in a Marijuana-induced motorcycle accident at 21 years old like Scott’s oldest brother?

My iPhone rang around this time. I didn’t recognize the number, so almost didn’t answer it. But I finally clicked on the phone. I was always worried about Luke. “Are you Luke’s mom?” said a sweet little old lady on the line. “I am,” I said. The lady introduced herself and then went on to tell me about the auto accident she and Luke had the day before. “It was my fault,” she assured me. “Luke was such a nice boy. He was so worried about me. He kept asking if I was okay. I invited him to Bible study at our church. I hope he will come.”

I knew about the accident. Luke had called us after it happened. He was driving our old Suburban because his car had been totaled in another accident a few months prior. We’d only let Luke use the Suburban because the previous accident hadn’t been his fault. A lot of Luke’s accidents were his fault, but he also had several accidents in which the other driver was cited as causing the crash.

“I’m praying Luke will return to the Lord,” the little old lady told me. “My husband and I run a prodigal program at our church. We pray for children who’ve left the church to return. I know the Lord has his hand on your Luke. I was listening to the song How Great Thou Art when I crashed into him.”

We had a lovely conversation about Jesus after laughing about this. Actually, I laughed, the little old lady was sincere as they come. I assured her we weren’t going to turn the accident into our insurance. We would just live with the big dent in the side of the Suburban. “That is so nice of you,” she said. “My husband will be so happy. I’ve had a lot of little accidents now that I’m getting older. It’s hard on our insurance. Luke told me he’s had a lot of little accidents too. I’m praying for God to do something special in Luke’s life so he knows how much God loves him.”

Most of Luke’s accidents weren’t “little” but I didn’t correct her. She was such a sweet thing, and she promised to pray for Luke. By now I had everyone praying for Luke. I was thankful the sweet, little old lady was praying too.

A few months later, Luke came home early one morning from college to tell us his girlfriend, Alex, was pregnant. Things are going to get really hard for Luke now, I thought with my heart breaking, but I didn’t say this out loud. Instead, I said, “Children are a blessing from the Lord, no matter how they come.” Then I cried with Luke.

Over the next two months, I watched Luke struggle to stop using marijuana. He lost even more weight and couldn’t sit still for a minute. When I hugged him, he felt like a live wire. All bones and nerves and trembling. I knew he was in a terrible battle and I intensified my prayers for him. I was so grateful for the Army recruiter who helped Luke get clean and encouraged him to find his future in the military.

Luke left for boot camp right around Mother’s Day. It was the best Mother’s Day present I’ve ever received, even though saying goodbye when Luke left was really hard. But then the letters began arriving in the mailbox, handwritten notes asking for forgiveness, Luke apologizing for “being a punk in high school” he wrote. “And thank you for unconditionally loving me, and for Dad’s discipline. I didn’t know how much I needed that,” he said in his letters. “I’m better for it here. I’m doing really good at basic training because of the way you raised me,” he wrote. “A lot of the kids here have no discipline. I know what discipline is. And I know you love me. I’m doing my best now.”

When his boot camp picture arrived in the mail with one of his letters, I held it in my hands and cried happy tears. The light was back in Luke’s eyes, and it was the first boot camp picture I’d ever seen where a soldier was smiling.

Now that Luke’s son has arrived, he’s always smiling. Luke’s life isn’t easy. He gets up at 5 a.m. to get to work down in Sacramento and he’s in the National Guard until he finishes college and then goes active duty. He’s tired, and worries about his baby, but loves his son so much. At barely 20, Luke’s adulting, and it’s hard. But it’s good. So good. I’m proud of him and Alex.

I can’t believe a baby saved Luke from destruction. Just like God used his own Son, Jesus, to save the world. What mercy to give us such love when we don’t deserve it. What wonder to use a baby to save sinners such as us.

Are You Being Shaken?

We harvest our walnuts this time of year. It’s Monday morning, and I can hear the machines shaking the trees. The hum of heavy equipment creating a swirl of dust in the orchard. A north wind is blowing, making the dust fly far and wide. Dust is better than mud, that’s for sure.

I’ve been praying this day would come before the rain arrives. Our family doesn’t own nut harvesting equipment yet. The machinery is very expensive. So we wait our turn. Last in line to get our nuts to market. It’s kind of nerve-wracking. California’s rainy season begins in October. If the orchard gets too muddy, the machines can’t come in and do their work. But they’re here today, so I sigh in relief. Our harvest has come.

And harvest is hard on the trees. The walnut trees have to be big enough to shake. And rooted enough to remain standing when the machine gets a hold of them and then moves on. I sympathize with the trees. I’ve been shaken in my life, too.

A few years ago, I came down with melanoma cancer. Had surgery. Couldn’t walk for a while. And when I did, I collapsed and was hospitalized with an exhaustion breakdown. The medical bills wiped out our savings, and had us paying mortgage-sized monthly payments to doctors and the hospital for a long time. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, fourteen-year-old cousin Anna was killed in a car accident.

Our family was crushed.

Do you feel like you’re being crushed right now? Are trials shaking your life? Will all the suffering break you or will it make you better? “Son though he was, he learned obedience from what he suffered,” Hebrews 5:8. If Jesus learned to obey God through suffering, why should we learn any differently?

Yesterday I was talking to one of my daughters. I’m headed to a writing retreat next week and scared about going. My breakdown began at a writing conference four years ago. I associate writer events with losing it and being carried away to a hospital the next day. After shredding the jeans I was wearing once I was home. Yeah, it’s true. Yanking at the holes in the knees, I ripped the jeans off my body with my bare hands, and then slapped my dad’s face when he tried to calm me down in the front yard. After this, I told the sheriff, who handcuffed me, he was Santa Claus.

“Are you here to get me, Santa Claus?” I said before they stuck me in an ambulance. Which hurt the sheriff’s feelings, Scott told me later, because the sheriff had a big belly and a bald head and it would have been better had I cussed him out like I was cussing everybody else. I was out of my mind and don’t really remember this. The sheriffs, firemen, and ambulance crew all thought someone had slipped me drugs at the writer’s conference. I’m not sure why a dozen first responders showed up at our house when my friend, Kay, called 911, requesting an ambulance for a sick woman. It’s kind of a long, hysterical, horrifying story. I’ll tell you about it sometime, but not today.

“You know, Mom, you’re so much better now after your breakdown. Good things came out of that terrible time. Our family is better for it too,” my daughter said yesterday.

There is a purpose for the shaking that happens to you. Farmers don’t just go out and shake the dickens out of their trees for no good reason. Farmers are after a harvest. And God is after something when you’re being shaken.

We call my breakdown the gift that keeps on giving. For the rest of my life, I’ll be eating humble pie. And the loss of financial stability has taught us God gives us our daily bread. Every day, Scott and I pray together, “Lord, You are our provider, please give us our daily bread.”

We don’t pray for bread tomorrow. We pray for manna today. We now live one day at a time, trusting God to take care of us.

And the terrible loss of Anna has taught me time is short. I’m going to tell people about Jesus. I don’t know how much time you have left. I don’t know how much time I have left. Anna was a beautiful, healthy kid, here one moment, gone the next. She loved Jesus. So I know she’s in heaven, but do you love Jesus? Are you going to heaven? I don’t hesitate anymore to ask these hard questions.

A harvest of pain has taught me not to waste my time on meaningless things. I’m going to make life matter. I’m going to live with eternity in view. Heaven is a real place and I read everything I could about heaven after Anna died because Anna’s mom asked me some questions about heaven before the funeral and I couldn’t answer her because I didn’t know. In the sidebar, I’ve added a link to a book on heaven by Randy Alcorn that helped me.

Before Anna’s death, I was like the duck in the puddle in the middle of the road, when right over the hill was the beautiful pond. I preferred my puddle until Anna died. The pain of losing her made me look for the pond. We all should be looking for the pond, not playing mindlessly in life’s puddles.

If you’re being shaken right now, ask God what He’s trying to teach you. What He’s trying to shake out of you. A harvest is happening. Don’t miss what really counts. Make your harvest matter.

Maybe you noticed we are trying something new here on the blog. Scott and I have discovered an awesome old devotion: Valley of Vision. We’re reading it every morning together and love what we are learning about God through its pages. If you’d like to get the devotion, it’s advertised in the sidebar. In the future, we will be adding advertisements of books  and products we think you might like.

The age of the Internet has changed everything. I once wrote for newspaper, and there was always an advertisement page. Several times now, the Internet has somehow highjacked my website, and added random advertisements. We’ve removed them, but have decided if we can’t beat em, we’ll join em. Hope you don’t mind.

Thanks for your time. I know there are a million other things you could be doing right now. I really appreciate you visiting our orchard here on the blog, seeing the trees being shaken, and thinking about the harvest happening in your own life today.