R.M. Snider's Blog, page 6

The House on the Corner of 4th and H, Part 1: The Created Purpose

1105 Adelaide, Fort Smith, AR- Home which inspiredthe design for the Callum's home in The River Series. 
Over this long weekend while my kids practice shooting hoops and throwing snowballs at the house, I've been sitting inside under a blankie, totally nerding it up. For a long time, I've wanted to sit down and analyze The River Series and, now, I've finally done it. This is part one of at least a three-part series. Still to come...
* The House on the Corner of 4th and H, Part 2: The Hidin...

Rescue by Lauren Daigle

I love this beautiful song, such a testimony to the extraordinary love God has for all of us.
Rescue by Lauren DaigleYou are not hidden
There's never been a moment
You were forgotten
You are not hopeless
Though you have been broken
Your innocence stolen
I hear you whisper underneath your breath
I hear your SOS, your SOSI will send out an army to find you
In the middle of the darkest night
It's true, I will rescue you
There is no distance
That cannot be covered
Over and over
You're not defenseles...

The Depression

  In college, I had serious depression .  What did I do about it?  NOTHING.  Now, there were lots of other things going on in my life, too, that weren’t any good. Did those things cause the depression? Did the depression cause those things?  The short answer is: Yes.  What I wish I’d done is seek help. But I was too prideful. I wouldn’t even admit to people that anything was wrong. The only person who knew was my husband. And he was too prideful, too, (or perhaps naïve or scared or all of the above) to encourage me to get help.  What would that help have looked like?  Well, now that college is years in the past, and I’ve struggle with depression on and off since that time- and now that I have sought help- I can tell you what I would’ve done:
1) Talk to a counselor.   I know that sounds like a cop out answer, but it’s too true. In June 2017, my husband and I walked into a counselor’s office for the first time in our lives (ok, aside from the counselor who treats our sons- who totally rocks, by the way. And maybe it’s because she rocks so much that my walls of pride slowly crumbled so that I could seek help for myself.) My husband and I were both nervous, but we were, honestly, facing divorce, and this was our last option.   But it should’ve been our first.   Tara was our counselor and, though she was still in school, she had all the right questions and responses. We were able to open up and really talk about things that we couldn’t talk about on our own without a mediator.   But Tara could only take us so far. We realized this about two months in and we said our goodbyes.   Then, we met Vance. Vance  Vance is awesome. He’s younger than us (ok, all my kids’ teachers this year are younger than us, too, by 10 years or more- geez, we’re getting old!). But Vance just knows what to say to get us to really talk and share with each other. (Ok, he doesn’t just know- he had training- but he just knows and it blows my mind!)   I know some people say they hate going to counseling and it only causes more issues in their marriage, but if you find someone like Vance (who happens to charge $125/hour but insurance helps), then you are on the path to healing. Over a year later, we still have topics come up when we’re talking at home and we’ll say, “Let’s save this for Vance’s office.” Genius. Plus, it’s healing. Things are getting better.
2) Talk to a counselor.   Ok, so that may have sounded redundant.   It was.  But, seriously, all I’ve talked about is marriage counselingand, if that’s all you do, you’re probably not going to find all the healing you’re searching for.   Shortly after we met Tara, I decided I needed a personal counselor. (BTW- My husband was already in one-on-one counseling with a guy.) I definitely wanted a lady to counsel me. In fact, I think that’s a very important part of finding a personal counselor- same gender. But that’s totally up to you.  So, I met my first counselor, who will remain anonymous. She was, well, a little, um, how should I say this- hey, do you know what time it is? What did you eat for lunch? Oh wait- I need to take a phone call.  Distracted.   Alright, she was very distracted. Glanced at her watch. Brought in other things to do while we were talking. And the way she spoke lacked that je ne sais quoi we’d already found with Tara. So, I quit her and met my second counselor.  She and I were MFEO. We could talk about adoption and foster care all day long, baby. If we’d put our brains and ideas together, we could’ve changed the world.  But I wasn’t there to talk adoption and foster care.  There were other issues on the plate and I needed help with those ASAP. But, the only problem was, when I brought them up, she said, “Why do you want to talk about that? That’s not a big deal.” I nearly jumped out of my skin when she said that. I knew it was time for she and I to part ways.   There was a gap in there when I didn’t have Tara or my second counselor- and Vance wasn’t in the picture yet. It was an ugly, painful gap that seemed to last forever, but probably only lasted, like, a week, but I had some serious PTSD episodes during that time, and my husband was like, “We’ve gotta find the right counselor(s) now.” He did all the research, found Vance, and Vance found my next counselor. Megan  Megan is wonderful. Her office is five feet across the hallway from Vance’s. She’s like the wiser older sister I never had. (Ok, she may actually be younger than me. I’ve never asked. We’re probably the same age- maybe. But she could be like my older twin sister, so that she’s like 5 minutes older and she got all the wisdom. It could happen... Ok, I just want someone to be older than me!)   I know there’s a professional line between being a counselor and being a friend and I can’t cross that with Megan, but she’d make a great friend. She has so much wisdom and, like Vance, she always says the right things to get me thinking.   Bonus- Megan (and Vance) love God. Megan brings Jesus and God into every conversation. When I speak with her, there is joy, peace, hope, spirit, love- all the feels. Our conversations are seasoned with salt. If you’re looking for a Christian counselor, don’t settle for one who merely wears the title Christian. Find one who also speaks life.
3) Find a medication.   That’s not a hard and true rule for everyone who feels depressed. But, for me, it has made a huge difference in how I’ve felt. I was in a serious depression this past Spring. I was in a funk and couldn’t shake it. (Yet, somehow, I managed to finish writing Lynchtown Wolf. God’s grace shining through!) The counseling was great, but things were screwy in my body chemicals. No amount of counseling could fix that.
  It was interesting how this happened, but I’d been reluctant for years to get my oldest son on ADHD meds. I just didn’t want him on drugs that were so highly addictive because I thought this would lead to him having addiction as an adult.  Miss Ada being awesome.  But, finally, his blessed, wise counselor Miss Ada said, “If he had a physical disease, like diabetes, you’d put him on medication. So, why wouldn't you give him a medication for a brain disease?” She also pointed out that kids who need ADHD meds and don’t get them are way more likely to self-medicate when they get older. Conversely, kids who needADHD meds and get on them are way less likely to self-medicate. When she told me that, I was like, “Sign us up.”  At almost the same time, I concluded I needed to speak with my doctor about depression meds. So, I did.  My son’s meds started working on day one. It was super cray-cray to see how much they affected him- for the better. He was focused. He was sitting still. He could think something through from beginning to end. He didn’t talk back as much. And there were many more behaviors that changed for the better.  My meds, however, took a little longer. In fact, my doc said, “You may notice you get worse before you get better.” And I’m sitting there thinking, “I don’t think I can get any worse.”  She was right- I got worse. But then, within five weeks, I began noticing I was better. The way I feel now is incredible. I’m like, “Do you normal people feel this way all the time? Whaaaaat?? Seriously?? You don’t feel hopeless all day every day? Crazy!” So, yeah, my meds have made a tremendous difference in my depression- for the better.  Side note- Always follow your doctor's advice on medication. And don't try to self-medicate. That's called addiction and that's bad for you.
4) Tell people.   So, my husband and I were so hush-hush about anything that was wrong in our lives that when we, after fifteen years of marriage, finally got brave (or were so broken, depending on how you look at it) and told our family what all had been happening, they were shocked. Very, very shocked.  Side note- Since we don’t tell everyone and their dog about all our dirty laundry, I’m not going to air it out here but, just know, there was a lot of ugly stuff happening. (If you want to know more, come to Celebrate Recovery at our church on Monday nights and you’ll eventually find out.) Celebrate Recovery  When we began talking about it and telling people, we discovered that, hey, we were pretty good actors. Which makes us sound really fake and I’m sure you’re wondering what the heck was going on. Just know that our children were and are totally safe- you do not have to worry about them. In fact, I think our talking about it has made our children even safer.   The day we drove all over Oklahoma confessing to our families, we confessed to our children, too. They were a little confused because the topics were grown-up topics and we had to water them down for our children to begin to comprehend them. But we were open and honest then- and we still are. Addiction and other topics are now part of our everyday conversations with our kids. Which, I hope, will fertilize the soil of keeping the conversation lines open between us and our children so that, when they’re struggling with things, they will come to talk to us about them and not hide them from their families like we hid from ours.  I know I’ve mentioned Celebrate Recovery before, but I must say something about it again. It has been instrumental in both of our recoveries. God put it in front of us at exactlythe right time (to the day and hour, no less). Through CR, we have found healing in God. Which brings me to my next point.
5) Hide behind God.   So, maybe that sounds weird, but bear with me.   My husband and I (and a lot of other Christians) used to think that, to keep away from sin, we had to run away from it. However, in CR we have learned that, if that’s all we’re doing, then sin is going to catch us. Every. Single. Time. What we should be doing is running to God, hiding behind Him, allowing Him to fight our battle for us. He’s stronger than our sin. He’s stronger than Satan. He’s stronger than all the sin and Satan and all his demons combined and, well, everything else, too. God is stronger. Let Him fight for you.  Depression is the same way. I used to think I had to fight it on my own. And I always lost. Of course, there were reprieves when I thought I had conquered, only to wake up one day depressed and hopeless again. It was an oppressive cycle.   Then, I learned about what God could do for me. Of course, I already knew God, but I didn’t know that there was this particular line in His job description that goes, “Iwill go before you and will level the mountains. I will break down gates of bronze and cut through bars of iron.” Yep. God is pretty much a badass. (I don’t normally cuss, but God is so awesome, I couldn’t help it. Ironic, huh?)  If He can do that, then why are we trying to fight that battle on our own? Hide behind God. It’s in His job description to destroy everything that trips us up and holds us captive.
  Now, there are probably many other things I should’ve done. Like not skipped my classes. Not shopped to soothe my depression. Not ate so many Sonic blasts. But I didn’t know then what I know now.   But now you know. And if you struggle with depression- or anything- I hope you have found courage from this post to move you to do some of the things that will help you gain the freedom you so desperately want to find.
It can be done. Healing is possible. You don’t have to live in hopelessness.

The Guy I Was Running From

I was running, alone, free, at my own pace.Then, I noticed the strangest thing...
There was a guy right behind me. Funny because I hadn’t noticed him there before.My body was strong but, as I ran from him, it began to feel tense and panicky.Who is this guy? Why won’t he leave me alone? I want to run on my own.I picked up the pace, hoping to leave him in my dust.Then, I noticed the strangest thing…
There was less distance between us, a gap growing smaller with each step. Funny because I hadn’t noticed I was going so slow.My mind was calm but, as I ran from him, it began to spiral out of control.Who is this guy? Why won’t he leave me alone? I want to run by myself.I kept running, jabbing him in the side, hoping he’d bugger off. Then, I noticed the strangest thing…
There was an umbrella above my head. Funny because I hadn’t noticed it was raining.My clothes and hair and skin were wet but, as I ran with him, I began to dry.Who is this guy? Why won’t he leave me alone? I want to hold my own umbrella.I elbowed him, hoping he’d leave me alone.Then, I noticed the strangest thing…
There was a scarf around my neck, gloves on my hands, ear muffs on my head. Funny because I hadn’t noticed it was cold.My skin was covered in goosebumps, my body shivering but, as I ran with him, I began to warm.Who is this guy? Why won’t he leave me alone? I want to put on my own scarf and gloves and ear muffs.I gave him an ugly look, hoping he’d get the hint.Then, I noticed the strangest thing…
There was an arm under mine. Funny because I hadn’t noticed how hard it was to take each step.My façade was cold and hard but, as I ran with him, it began to weaken.Who is this guy? Why won’t he leave me alone? I want to walk on my own.I slowed and slowed some more.Then, I noticed the strangest thing…
There was a wheelchair beneath my bottom. Funny because I hadn’t noticed how unable I was.My legs were broken but, as I sat there, I felt myself still moving forward.Who is this guy? Why won’t he leave me alone? I want to know now.I looked up and said, “Thank you, sir.”Then, I noticed the strangest thing…
There was a smile on his face. Funny because I hadn’t noticed what he looked like.My eyes were open but, as I rode, I saw him for the first time.This guy is good. His love for me has no conditions. I want to stay with him.I leaned my head back and relaxed.Then, I noticed the strangest thing…
There was wind in my hair, a breeze blowing across my face. Funny because I hadn’t noticed we were soaring through the air.My legs were broken but, as I was cradled in his arms, I moved faster than I’d ever dared to imagine.This guy gave me new life. He chose to redeem my brokenness. I want to stay with him.Forever.I wrapped my arms around him and sighed with contentment. Then, I noticed the strangest thing…
There was peace in my heart, love in my soul, life in my body. Funny because I hadn’t noticed how empty I’d been.But now that I did, I never wanted to let him go, because a day soaring in his arms is better than a lifetime running alone.

Then, God

One of the hats I wear is as an interior designer. More specifically, an interior designer for our church building’s makeover. It’s been a long process and we’re only on phase 2.
I, myself, have gone through phases...
I want to do this.I hate doing this.I want this to be beautiful.I don’t care anymore- just get it finished.No one else touch this- this is my baby.
As you can see, I’ve been through a lot of phases and, right now, I’ve kind of landed on that last one.
Now, this post may not seem very personal but, for me, it’s very personal. I have put dozens of hours (if not hundreds) into this project. I redesigned the entire 11,000sf floor plan on my computer (using a program that had no business doing space planning). I selected colors and fabrics and textures and finishes and furniture and fixtures that versatile, yet, complementary and align with the “statement” we want to make. I researched products that would be durable, washable, economical. I’ve had more conversations than I can recall about toilet paper dispensers and trash receptacles.
I vividly recall one day when I dragged my then five-year-old all over town in the cold, pouring rain just so mommy could look at carpet, tile, quartz, rock, sinks, faucets, mirrors, laminates. By the end of the day we were wet, exhausted, irritable, bleary-eyed.
For the past year, there’s been a small folding table in our house that we’ve been pushing around and relocating. It started in the kitchen, then moved to the dining room, then the guest room. Then, a guest arrived, and it moved to my husband’s office. Then, my husband got tired of it and it moved to my office, and now it’s in the guest room again… But why do we keep this table? Because it’s covered in all the design selections for this project.
You see, even though I’m just designing for our church building, it’s personal to me. And to my family. We’ve all played a role in getting this project done. I’ve even overheard my kids playing “I’m on the church design team”.  
Despite my best efforts, things haven’t always come together. I’ve sat in my fair share of design team meetings in which I walk out and feel like we’ve accomplished nothing. I’ve promised a young man a chance to have his 3-d drawings on the big screen during a design team presentation to the church only to change my mind at the last minute and then regret it ever since. I’ve literally picked out stone four times now for a small section on the coffee bar because a) initial rock selection, b) architect suggested a rock company he was familiar with, c) contractor cut a deal with a different supply company, d) I made a grievous error in my third selection.
Which leads me to why I’m writing this post.
I saw God work in a big way today. Like in a clockwork kind of way where all the cogs have to fit in their place in just the right way for the whole thing to work.
So, it’s been in the works for I don’t know how many years now that when we finally do this project, we’ll put a coffee bar in the foyer. My original idea was to have it be circular. When it came down to it, circular wasn’t functional, nor did it go well with the hard edges and lines that are present everywhere else in the building. So, we changed it to rectangular and handed it over to the architect.
When it came back to us, it had two sides- one for a coffee bar and one that seemed more like a receptionist desk. This was not what I had envisioned, but I listened to reason and was convinced that, “No. It’ll be great.” So, we went with it. Yes, I put my stamp of approval on it.
But it’s bothered me ever since.
Skip ahead several months and the millwork’s been done. The coffee bar has arrived and is assembled.
And people don’t like it. Including myself.
The reception-style welcome center isn’t what I had envisioned. It doesn’t align with the statement we’re trying to make. It’s not the desert oasis, watering-hole, gathering spot, social hub we had envisioned. It’s not us. But what can I do? Even though the coffee bar wasn’t fully finished and functional yet, I felt like my hands were tied.
Then, God.
I got a text last night at 8:59. It was from my friend and minister Dena. She wanted to talk electrical outlets. After talking with her, that old feeling of not liking the reception-style design was stirred up in me again. So, I stood in the kitchen for thirty minutes talking with my husband about, letting my feelings come out for the first time.
I DO NOT like this reception-style countertop! It’s awful! It doesn’t feel friendly or inviting or intimate or participatory! It feels like I’m arriving at a clinic to sign in for my colonoscopy! Yuck! I don’t want to stand around that thing and drink my coffee and chat with my friends at church. I hate it!
Not only was I totally dissatisfied with the design at this point, but I was dissatisfied with myself. After all, that reception-style coffee bar had my stamp of approval on it. No matter how much it wasn’t my original vision, I went along with it and, now, my entire congregation was going to have to live with that poor decision for the next thirty-five years.
I was feeling defeated.
Then, God. 
He spoke through my husband who said, “Why can’t you just chop off the upper countertop and make it all one height?”
I was like, “That would be perfect and versatile and brilliant- but the quartz countertop has already been cut.”
But, then, I remembered that, as though by providence, I had run into the contractor that morning just after church and he’d mentioned, “The countertop guys just measured on Friday.”
And then I look up at my husband and I’m like, “Hey, maybe we can chop it off.”
Of course, I could think of a million and one reasons why this plan wouldn’t work and, while I was standing in the bathroom brushing my teeth last night, I realized another insurmountable obstacle was actually piled on top of this one.
When I selected the rock for the fourth time last week, I was working under the assumption that the countertop color I’d picked was light gray. Only, it suddenly dawned on me that I didn’t pick light gray- I picked white. Very sparkly, dazzling white. And what rock did I pick to go with that? Very sparkly, dazzling white rock.
Uh. Oh. Clash. City.
So, then I was seriously freaking out. Had a hard time sleeping. Also, discovered at two o’clock this morning that my daughter had not yet fallen asleep even though I’d put her in bed SIX HOURS AGO! This was going to be a rough morning and I was preparing myself for the worst. I woke up at six o’clock. Got ready as quickly as I could. Before seven, I was calling and texting people.
I arrived on the job site at 8:06 this morning. The foreman and I discussed everything. Even though he may have been silently having a heart attack, he remained perfectly calm and collected. At 8:12, he said, “Let me call the cabinet maker and see if he can send someone out today to look at this.” The cabinet maker was down the street and he arrived at 8:18.
I knew other people would balk at my idea and think it was stupid… But they loved the idea.I knew the contractor was going to say we couldn’t cut that pony wall… But he said we could cut it.I knew the contractor was going to say the quartz had already been cut… But he said it hadn’t.I knew the rock had already been ordered and the colors would clash… But it had been on a two-week back order and we could cancel the order and change the color, no problem.
And the electrical outlet issue that has caused this avalanche? Turns out, it wasn’t an issue at all.
By 8:59- exactly 12 hours after Dena had texted me- we’d redesigned the coffee bar into what we had always envisioned.
I could see God’s providential hand in all of this today. And, while in the whole scheme of humanity from beginning to end, the coffee bar is a tiny, insignificant detail, to me it’s personal. And God’s working hand over it today showed me that God is in the details.
He cares about what I care about. He wants good for me. He wants good for our congregation. He wants good for our community and the people who’ll use this space. Weddings and baby showers and countless other special events will happen in this foyer. The new design of the coffee bar will exponentially increase the usability of this space. Who knows how many people it’ll bless in the years to come. I hope the number is countless. I hope people know that God fixed it when it looked like it’d be impossible to fix.
And I hope it reminds people, “Then, God.”

Tell the Mess

I’m not sure if other writers feel this way, but sometimes I suddenly regret what I wrote. Like, all the sudden I feel bad for the entire book and subject matter I wrote. I feel like a scumball for writing about child abuse. I feel like a dirtbag for including a scene where someone gets drunk or high or solicits a prostitute. I feel like filth for writing about filthy things.But then I remember that that’s not the end of the story. The ugly, sinful, vile, repulsive things that my characters do isn’t the end of the book- it’s only there to show how low they fall before God raises them back up.And aren’t our lives the same way? When we focus on the terrible, distasteful, worthless things we’ve done, don’t we feel like trash? But God doesn’t leave us there. He jumps down into the pit and lifts us out of it. And how can we possibly tell how far He’s raised us up until we tell how low we’ve fallen? Yes, there are awful things that happen to my characters and that my characters do in my books. But that’s not the end. God is so, so much greater. He’s stronger. He’s more powerful. He’s good. Really, really good. Complexly and creatively good. No matter what mess we’ve made, He can make good come out of it. And when we tell others about how God’s done that, we increase the harvest of goodness from our stories. Don’t hide the mess. Don’t wallow in despair because of how horribly messy the mess is. Don’t live in defeat because the mess exists. Tell the mess. Then tell what God has done with the mess, how He’s stepped in at precisely that moment when it looks impossible to redeem, and He’s turned everything around, and He’s made beauty from ashes, treasure from filth. Tell that because that’s a noble story worth telling.

Podcast Interview

So… I’m not so good at keeping up this blog thing. But I wanted to be sure and share the link to my interview on Reboots Podcast a couple weeks ago. I shared about The River Series, my own personal struggles, adoption, fostering, writing, abuse, and mental illness. Check it out here!

A Teacher Who Inspires

In college, I majored in Interior Design and had to take a lot of art classes. One of my art teacher’s was not only a good teacher, but she was really cool, too. 

She was probably only about 30 years old, so not much older than her students. Except for one, an older man in our class who, by the looks of him, had lived a rough life of motorcycles, drugs, and wild living, but who had, sometime in his 60’s or 70’s, decided he wanted to go to college. So, there he was in my art class, his creased face and I’m-too-old-to-care-what-anyone-thinks-about-me attitude a stark contrast to the rest of us insecure teenagers/twenty-somethings. One day in the middle of instructing, my art teacher stopped mid-sentence, walked up to him, a twinkle in her as she gazed at him, and said, “I mean this in the most flattering way: Would you let me draw your face sometime? All my models are usually young college kids with perfect bodies and the wrinkles on your face are so much more intriguing.” Of course, not minding the attention of this young lady who was less than half his age, he chuckled and said, “I’ve got more wrinkles, if you’d like to see them.” She laughed with good humor about that.

There was another time probably in November of that semester when, just as we were walking into the art building, God blessed us with an early-winter snow. There were a slew of freshmen from Asia in that class who normally congregated together and never spoke to anyone else, aside from one boy they’d designated as their official translator. They entered the classroom that morning in an unusually heightened state of excitement, chattering away to each other and making big gestures with their arms. Allured by it, my art teacher asked the designated speaker, “What are you all talking about?” He replied, “We have never seen snow.” Hearing that, she opened the door to the classroom and said, “If this is your first time to see snow, you are excused from class today.” Of course, half the American kids ran out of class when she said this- but she excused them, too.

I think I learned more about both art and life from her than any other art teacher I had. And there was something about that that made me want to do my best in that class. And looking back on it, my work from that class was some of the best of my entire college career.

If you’re a teacher and you can have this kind of impact on someone, may God bless you and may you find joy in your work.

When We're Vulnerable

I realize that in our vulnerabilities, by sharing parts of us that are private, we do more than just make ourselves vulnerable. We reach other people on a deeper level, one where we’re free to express our imperfections without judgment, where we can celebrate our triumphs (even small ones), where we can connect in a way that is more real and more solid than by simply sharing our lives on the surface.
I have the pleasure of doing this on a weekly basis at Celebrate Recovery. I’ve heard it said that CR is what church should be- and I have to agree. It’s people of all walks of life in all circumstances coming together and taking their masks off, allowing others to see them for who they really are, inviting God to resurrect the brokenness inside them. In all honesty, it’s restored things in my life that had been torn own, freed me from things that had become binding, and cultivated the growth of good things which had never taken root in the infertile soil of my life.
But it’s also helped me be more transparent outside of the two hours each week I spend there.
Publicly, I’ve shared my struggles with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) as well as some failures along the way, like the time last March when I ran away from home for a night. Yes, I struggle with mental illness. Yes, I’ve made poor decisions in my life. Yes, I’m flawed. There have been so many times when I didn’t think healing would be possible, when I thought I couldn’t be fixed, when I struggled with the doubt that, though God could fix me, would He actually do it?
But guess what?
I now know there’s hope for me. Restoration is taking place right now in my life. Redemption is brimming over my once leaking bucket, spilling out all around me, watering dry sand and soil with promises of a plentiful and abundant growth.

No, I’m not fixed all the way. Praise God because He wants to do more than give me a bucketful of redemption and a small oasis in the desert. He’s got plans to fill a pond, a lake, a river with all the ways He’s going to redeem my life. And I’m ready for it. And I’m hoping for it. And I’m experiencing it right now.
Thank God.

And so the summer goes...

I’ve had the delightful experience of meeting with two book clubs this summer who read Lynchtown Wolf. Overwhelmingly, the reviews were full of praise and many readers proposed questions they’re hoping get answered in the next novel. For example, will we find out what happens to Penny and her girls? Will Daniella and Robert ever get married? Can Daniella really not have children or is it just her imagination? But the questions I’ve most been asked is this: 
When is Rivertown Crooner coming out???
Well, I had this lovely plan that I would write everyday this summer and have Rivertown Crooner finished by September. But… kids happened. Three kids, actually. No, we didn’t get more children. But almost as soon as summer break hit, I realized that it’s as easy to write with kids at home as it is to build a tower out of marbles in the middle of an earthquake. So, in mid-June, I set writing aside for a couple months. Since that moment, the summer has been so much more peaceful and our family’s had a blast. We…
Went to the kids' first concert.
Played at VBS.  












Took apart a piano.
Visited the Fort Smith National Historic Site.
Celebrated our Country’s birth.
Walked (ok, drove) up a mountain.
Swam with cousins.
Took family photos.
Rode a unicorn. (Check out my hub’s abs!)
Tried on silly hats.
Did the incline.
Took drum lessons.
Spray-painted Cadillacs.
Pulled teeth.
Rocked out with Skillet.
Upcycled a piano.
Buried a pet.
  
The kids have also been rock stars while I worked countless hours getting supplies, formula and clothing to foster families. Lately, I’ve been painting my office and, though there hasn’t been a whole lot for the kids to help me with, they’ve been over-the-top supportive and well-behaved (it’s been a little scary how good they’re being, lol).
All my readers can rest assured that, come August 15, I will once again be setting my attention on Rivertown Crooner. It would be a miracle if I finished by my September deadline, but you’ll have access to the final novel in The River Series soon!