Tina Yeager's Blog, page 9

The Legendary Author’s Life

Ah, the elusive writer. One might hear an author’s voice in an audiobook or on a radio program. Rare sightings of these legendary figures occur at workshops or book signings. Otherwise, years of searching might fail to spy one on the roads. Few have seen a real-life author in her natural habitat.

Those who chase the myth look for pipe-smoking intellectuals in velvet blazers. Gated estates seem the best place to begin the search, since generous royalty checks afford a vast mansion. The habitat must contain a grand study, since the writer requires thirty-foot shelves to line their library walls as inspiration.The authors remain difficult to locate in these neighborhoods, perhaps due to frequent visits to exotic venues for research. Publishers grant such a luxurious travel budget, one might never find the author in her elite accommodations.

Yet, legend hunters persist in local hunts with the expectation the writer will return soon. According to common theory, an author needs less than a week of seclusion to complete her novel. If amateurs plan to spend a weekend in a cabin to type up their memoirs, the writing process surely offers no challenge to the author. For a seasoned professional, a few days should suffice. With a laptop and bottle of liquor, one expects her to crank out her final manuscript in a single draft.

Though legend hunters fail to witness the author in her habitat, myth suggests she meets her agent and publisher for glamorous cocktail parties. The author hand delivers her only draft of the manuscript. The agent and publisher read her novel in a single day, of course, since it is well-known they pace their offices with little to do but wait for the next fresh ream of pages from an author. Legend suggests the first publisher queried will expedite delivery of a contract, along with a handsome check as an advance. Public belief suggests an editor then lavishes praise upon the writer’s work and begs for a personal, autographed copy. With few corrections, the book should be out on store shelves in no time.

The general public agrees these authors become best sellers with little personal effort. Readers have little trouble finding the flawless material of the writer’s first draft among the other selections online. Myth hunters stalk the doorways of major bookstores to catch sightings of the publisher’s marketing team, in hopes of following the publicist to the author’s habitat. Though it is widely held a publicity crew will be assigned to each author, such an entourage has never been reported.

Legend claims the diligent writer hatches into a best-selling author in a few months. Success then begets greater ease and continued success, theory suggests. With such certainty of fame, myth hunters should find their mark in no time. What on earth could prevent them from locating a real-life author?

***

Yes, I’m a bit late with this week’s post. Writing and life often bend schedules and always break stereotypes. So, instead of continuing the short story, I chose to draft a tongue-in-cheek expose of general misconseptions about authors.

While sitting among piles of decor and unfiled papers, I’m working on edits for a contracted novel. Sometimes in my pajamas, but never with a pipe. The almost-renovated loft won’t quite match the Biltmore library, but it’ll upgrade my environment. I’ll share the results as soon as I’m done with my projects.

Perhaps I’ll offer further insights about writing life at a later date, but I just want to note the basics for now. A real author’s life tends to offer more challenges than glamor. We face rejection at an exponential rate compared to our successes. The journey to discovery remains an Everest-scale quest. Even with subsequent novels or high sales. The sense of accomplishment eludes us, since each milestone brings another set of overwhelming tasks. We must force ourselves to celebrate the ever-unfinished work and compel ourselves to continue dreaming. Though the royalty checks might fall short of renting a campground spot, we must not let the receipts discourage our pursuit of adventure. Our greatest dividends won’t come in monetary form. As a vessel of the Word, an author’s work draws reward in divine currency.

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Lethean Shroud, Part Two

Rayanna grasped the door latch, smearing blood on the handle as she opened it. She pulled back her hands to study them a moment. Streaks and splotches tainted her fingers and palms. Ruddy grime seated deep under her jagged nails.

Is it mine?

She grabbed a crumpled napkin from the floor. Brownish specks dotted the surface and sand fell into her lap as she unfolded the tissue. Wiping her hands on the inner layers, she slid out of the SUV into the night.

Her ankle boots crunched on the weedy gravel, vanishing under a pool of thick fog. She rounded the black vehicle and squinted at the road. The headlights added a glare to the mist, but failed to illuminate more than a car’s length of the scene. Rayanna paced the area, sweeping her feet through the cloudy shadows.

The chilling mist coiled around her feet and pried at the hem of her low cut socks. She paused, offering a glance at the broken windshield before scanning the roadside. Spindly, dark silhouettes haunted the near distance, suggesting a forested landscape.

If I hit an animal, where is it?

A blipping siren whipped her attention to the street, where red and blue lights flashed into the mist. Headlights lined up behind the SUV and a patrol car’s faint outline appeared along the roadside. The glare of lights persisted into the mist as the slam of a car door resounded.

A male voice and bootsteps approached. “This your vehicle?”

“I … don’t know.” Rayanna hugged herself, curling her stained fingertips against her body as the stetson-crowned officer came into view. “I can’t remember anything. Can you help me?”

*** TO BE CONTINUED ***

 

 

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Revisionary Author Interview

 

Author and fellow Word Weaver Kristen Hogrefe gives us a glimpse into her new YA novel, The Revisionary, releasing this June. The novel is the first in a new trilogy published by Write Integrity Press called The Rogues where future and past civilizations collide in a futuristic, dystopian setting.

 

Author Interview 

 

#1. This is your first dystopian novel. Was this genre important to the message?

 

Yes, I chose this genre for a few reasons. One reason is that it naturally lends itself to a suspenseful story. The main reason is that much dystopian literature tends toward a fatalistic or hopeless outlook (even if the “good guys” win). I wanted to present a dystopia of a different kind, one that looks backward to find the wisdom to move forward. There will always be dire circumstances in a dystopia, but I want my characters to discover the spark of hope that might just have the power to change their world.

 

#2. Can you tell us what the primary theme is for The Revisionary?

 

A quest for truth. Portia discovers that most of her world is a lie and must decide what she’s going to do about it. Stepping out to confront the truth is going to involve risk and sacrifice—but it’s going to be worth it.

 

#3. Several scenes feature realistic accounts from American history. Have you always been drawn to American history?

 

Yes and no. Funny story … In college, I minored in history somewhat out of convenience. I just had to take a few extra classes to count history a minor, so I went for it. In the process, I discovered how much I love the subject (even though I’m quite terrible with dates). Then, when I started teaching in a private Christian school, I had the opportunity to teach an American history class, which reminded me again how powerful history is. I truly believe studying our nation’s heritage and history are vital for America’s future.

 

#4. Your first trilogy, Wings of the Dawn, was a faith-based adventure series. However, in The Revisionary, the worship of God is essentially forbidden. Is there a Christian message buried within the story?

 

My burden for this novel was to write clean, compelling fiction that could reach both Christian and mainstream readers. That said, there is an underlying message of discovering who God is and what faith means. As of book one, my heroine is just beginning this journey. For example, she puzzles why the cross, a barbaric method of execution, would serve as the centerpiece for a cemetery. She admires Washington’s faith but then must face Professor Mortimer who mocks it. She wants to know more but has no idea where her search for answers will lead her.

 

#5. By definition, dystopian novels depict a fictional future in crisis. While The Revisionary is a dystopian, it also has an underlying thread of hope. Is that an important message for you?

 

Absolutely. Throughout the story, Portia grasps for hope that she might reunite her family and ultimately, rescue her nation. One of my favorite scenes is when Portia witnesses Washington praying at Valley Forge.

 

Though chilled to the bone, I feel a new fire in my soul. If men like this lived once, perhaps they can live again. Perhaps their strength and sacrifice can be reborn in a girl like me.  

 

Rediscovering the previous civilization’s heritage is important for her, because it gives her hope that she might be able to make a difference.

 

#4. The primary character, Portia, has to decide if she’ll work within the existing government to effect change or if she’ll go “Rogue” and work to destroy it. While deciding her course of action, she studies the American Revolutionary War and is stirred by the intentions and hearts of our founding fathers.

 

We know that America rebelled against Britain, and Portia has to decide if she will rebel against her own government. As Christians, we are taught to obey authority figures, not to rebel. How do you reconcile these two ideals?

 

I wanted to recreate this tension and will be building it as the trilogy continues. In the American Revolutionary War, there were good men on both sides of this argument.  In The Revisionary, Portia is torn between her brother’s loyalty to the Rogues (rebels) versus her friend Luther’s insistence that the current government is worth preserving through reform. Both these young men have good intentions and are doing what they believe is right.

 

I don’t want to pretend there is an easy answer to this question. I think our Founding Fathers made their choice after much discussion among wise counsel and prayer. Did they make the right choice? I honestly believe they did, but the cost was still great.

 

#5. Portia’s father tells her, “You do the next right thing, Portia, and then the next right thing after that.” Is this advice you use in your own life?

 

It is. In fact, I wrote this line to paraphrase some of the best advice one of my college professors gave me, which has become something of a motto to live by. Often, I don’t know what I’ll be doing next year, next month, or even tomorrow. But I’ve learned (and am learning) that if I do the next right thing God asks me to do, I won’t stray from the path He has for my life.

One thing I love about fiction is its ability to share truth through story. I’ve read many books where the characters’ words and decisions have challenged me personally. In a small way, I hope my book will do the same for someone else.

 

Special opportunity!

Thanks to Kristen Hogrefe for answering my questions and for sharing the following pre-sale opportunity with us:

The Revisionary for Kindle is now available to pre-order during the month of May. When you pre-order on Amazon.com, you’ll receive the e-book at a discounted price and an opportunity to receive a free bonus feature, a prequel of Portia’s story called A Cord of Three Strands.

 

To receive your copy, forward your Amazon order confirmation to freebookforpreorder@gmail.com.

 

Your Kindle copy of The Revisionary will be delivered on June 6. At that time, the print version will also be available for purchase.

 

 

Note: This author interview first appeared at BigSisterKnows.com.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Lethean Shroud

Fierce throbs coursed through Rayana’s forehead as she pried her cheek from the dashboard. Thin, warm trickles wove through her brows and oozed along her nose. She patted the vinyl dash to find a glass-free spot and pushed herself away from the smashed windshield. Back and limb muscles burned in protest. Her bruised hips bumped over the steering wheel as she tumbled clumsily back onto the leather front seat of the SUV. A deep breath invited an assault on her senses–sour brine tinged with moldy animal musk, and the sweet, irony odor of gore.

How did I get here?

Squeezing her eyes shut and biting her lip failed to draw forth a memory. Not even whether the car belonged to her.

She reached toward the glove compartment, but recoiled at finger-width ruddy marks on its surface. Pain shot through her neck as she scanned the vacant cabin. Crimson smears coated and surrounded the passenger seat. The blood streaked in errant directions on the ceiling, window, and door. Reddish fingerprints coated the latch, gripped the handle.

Was someone else with me?

Rayana’s eyes stung. She pulled the tattered cuff of her flannel shirt to her fingertips. Dabbing and wiping, she struggled to clear the blood from her eyes.

A chilling, damp breeze whistled through the windshield. Whipping from the jagged hole, fine hairs clung to the glass. Rayana patted her head. Tiny glass particles littered her hair. A couple of sore, damp spots indicated small cuts, but no severe gashes. She pricked the flapping tuft from the windshield and rubbed it between her fingertips. Its texture didn’t match her hair, and resembled something more like fur.

*** TO BE CONTINUED***

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Meet an Angelic New Tale: Evie

Welcome Chaz Funderburg, author of today’s guest post, as he introduces his new novel, Evie: An Angel’s Redemption. 

 

Can angels find salvation?

 

This was the hypothetical question I asked myself before I started my first book, Evie: An Angel’s Redemption.” Although there is no precedent for this, I do know there are two distinct types of Angels: those that have always faithfully served God, and those who, like Lucifer, the original Light Bearer, who became self-absorbed, and was tossed out of Heaven, along with a third of the angels:

 

“His tail swept down a third of the stars of heaven and cast them to the earth.” This passage is often interpreted to mean Satan and a third of angels were removed from heaven to earth. Revelation 12:4

 

And, apparently, angels are not exempt from judgement:

 

God places no trust in his servants, […] he charges his angels with error… Job 4:18

 

I took the idea for this book from First Peter 1:10-12:

 

Regarding this salvation, the prophets who prophesied about the grace [of God] that was intended for you, searched carefully and inquired [about this future way of salvation], seeking to find out what person or what time the Spirit of Christ within them was indicating as He foretold the sufferings of Christ and the glories [destined] to follow. It was revealed to them that their services [their prophecies regarding grace] were not [meant] for themselves and their time, but for you, in these things [the death, resurrection, and glorification of Jesus Christ] which have now been told to you by those who preached the gospel to you by the [power of the] Holy Spirit [who was] sent from heaven. Into these things even the angels long to look.

 

In this book Ever Vigilant, and mighty warrior angel, just below Michael the archangel in rank and duty, finds herself wondering about salvation, and gets sent to Earth as a human, to learn what really must happen in order to be redeemed by the blood of the Lamb.

 

One things that gets in her way throughout the book is her pride: she feels that she has always been in the presence of the Trinity, so why should she need to repent to regain her relationship with them? A long and painful journey into awareness of living in corrupt flesh ensues. She finds that she is just as sucseptible to the corruptness of the flesh as her other human friends and family; she begins an relationship with her adopted sister ‘s boyfriend, who is really taking up with her on the rebound. She finds that he still loves his old girlfriend, Grace. When she realizes this, and that she truly loves her friend Carlo, her eyes are opened to the truth. The Holy Spirt, whom I name Lady Ruache Ha-Ko’desh El, The Holy Spirit of God, then reveals to her that Jesus is the only way to salvation.

 

Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” John 14:6

 

I admit I used Literary License, and made a story that is not necessarily based upon Biblical truth, although a lot of Biblical truth is in it. I found, as I wrote it, that when an angel sees life from a human perspective, that angel’s outlook greatly changes.

 

Therefore, I leave it to you, the reader, to come to your own conclusions. This is a work of fiction, for the entertainment of the reader, and is not to support the idea of angelic redemption.

Feel free to visit Evie, now available on Amazon.

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Party Invitation for Breaking the Chains!

Has anything in your life gripped hold of your shoulders and held you down? Pressed its weight on your chest until you’re straining for each breath?

Darkness attacks when we’re most vulnerable. Seizing us in its terrifying hold, the enemy crushes our strength in an effort to cripple us. Shadows zoom in to blanket our view. When unable to move, the sinister culprit urges victims toward despair.

When we’re in the pit, climbing out on our own strength isn’t an option. In Christ, we’re never abandoned to perish in the darkness alone. Heartbroken over our pain, the Lord is faithful to deliver us from bondage. He calls those he rescued to deliver the message of freedom.

Whether you’re in a crisis of suffering or have broken free, we invite you to join us in launching a vessel of hope. Together with twenty authors, venture into a journey of inspiration and freedom with Breaking the Chains.

Katy Kauffman of Lighthouse Bible Studies compiled this book of strategies for spiritual freedom. Let’s celebrate her empathetic and courageous ministry by sharing her vision today. Visit the Facebook launch at 7:30PM EST (Breaking the Chains Release Party). Check out the book on Amazon (Breaking the Chains). Edie Melson’s blog and Katy Kauffman’s site also feature posts for more information.

We look forward to seeing you at the party! I must mention, there will be gifts and giveaways to enhance the fun. We all love gathering with new friends and sharing encouragement with our family in Christ!

The darkness attacks us all, so we must keep the truth written in front of us.

Remember,

Even if you've given up hope, Hope hasn't given up on you.
Click To Tweet

 

 

 

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Matter of One’s Perspective

Rika’s bare sole slapped onto the landing. A hint of ruby light penetrated the black void, trickling down the next flight of steps. She swept her hand across the latex-coated wall. Concrete pocks kissed at her fingertips, despite the institution’s regular doses of paint. After rounding the landing, the exit’s ruddy glow hailed her up to the final flight.

She grabbed the handrail and heaved herself up the last flight of stairs. The hole-riddled tail of her plastic bracelet flapped between her wrist and the metal bar.

Clacks and the sound of groaning hinges echoed up the stairwell with a baritone voice. “Rika? You in here somewhere?”

She raced faster, pounding her tender soles on the rough treads. As she crested the top step, the exit sign’s beam faltered. Its final glimmer illuminated the alarm-hasped pushbar on the door, just two paces away.

Footsteps approached. The man’s voice rose louder, as if he were less than two flights behind her. “There’s no way out up there. That door only leads to the roof. Come back and take your meds, now.”

Rika threw her weight against the pushbar. Alarms screeched overhead as she plowed across the threshold. She squinted and raised an arm to sheild her eyes against the sunlight’s wondrous, all-but-forgotten, brilliance. Stumbling blindly across the stinging gravel surface, she hustled toward the blurry outline of a ledge.

Her palms patted the rough, unvarnished stone. She bent her knees and stepped onto the precipice. Crisp winds fluttered into her hospital gown. The cotton fabric buoyed against its feeble ribbon-tethers. Wedging bony fingers under her bracelet, she snapped it free from her wrist. She held it in her fist as she extended both arms wide out from her shoulders. The itching on either side of her upper spine had returned, and it now intensified.

Closing her eyes, she raised her chin to inhale fresh, delicious mist. The open air breathed its romantic greeting to fill her lungs with its clean flavors. No more metallic tastes and bleached odors. She opened her fist, letting the ID strap vanish into the breeze. No more false identities.

“Rika, no! Come down from there!” The panicked voice halted when she glanced back at him. He raised a hand, inching toward her. “You don’t want to do this. You have to come back in where it’s safe.”

She smiled at him, cocking her head as the tethers of her gown snapped apart. “No, I have to see whether I can fly.”

Rika spun, rolled her shoulders,  and dove onto the wind.

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The Son’s Indignant Brother

Shades of indigo clung to the night’s damp air, pooling deep in the stone corners of their dwelling. Mineral scents wafted from the moist earthen floor as James tossed on his straw mat. He pulled his cloak up over his shoulders, drew his limbs in tight against his body, and set his jaw. Yet, even with his back to Mother’s side of the room, her moans needled through his robes to prick his skin. No defense allowed him to rest amid those cries.

Snoring droned from the mats lining the back wall, where his brothers slumbered in a self-deafened bliss. In the years following their father’s death, James tiptoed past the younger boys in the night. He shushed her cries while folding her thrashing arms over her chest. Mother’s breathing slowed as he tucked her cloak back over her. In those days, nightmares came once or twice a season. Now dreams rattled her each night and James could no longer comfort her. For the last three years, he doubted whether he could find comfort himself.

No thanks to that lunatic brother of his.

“A sword!” Mother’s cries punctuated the cacophony of crunching straw and thudding against the tamped earthen floor.

James clenched his fists. No amount of punches would’ve tired him when it came to the unpunished eldest. He would’ve gladly beaten some sense into Jesus years ago. If only that man would stop. Spare their mother this insufferable grief. And let him sleep in peace.

He rolled onto his back and sighed. Of course Jesus wouldn’t listen to his brother. No matter how much he threatened him. Even the Pharisees failed to stop him.

Smoke’s acrid scent whipped across the room as the final ember died in the oil lamp’s wick. Rapping shook the front door. Electricity coursed through James’ body and he jolted upright.

Mother’s groans turned to a series of sharp gasps.

More banging at the entrance. “Wake up! It’s urgent!”

James hustled to the door and unlatched it. Cracking it ajar, he scowled at John’s unmistakable, dewy countenance. “You? My brother’s not here. Didn’t even bother to show up for the feast. Go away, and don’t–”

“I’m here about Jesus.” John pressed his hand against the door. His lips trembled and a tear streaked his young face as he spoke.  “Someone needed to tell your mother.”

James stepped outside and crossed his arms. “What has he done wrong this time?”

“Nothing. But, that’s not what the Sanhedrin plans to tell Rome.”

“Rome?” He backed against the doorpost. Splinters dug through the tunic fibers and stung into his spine.

“You must know how much the Pharisees hate him.” John shook his head, then locked eyes with him. “The law won’t be satisfied until he’s dead.”

“Why are you coming now? Sanhedrin never convenes in the middle of the night. And it’s Passover.” He waved him off. “Impossible, anyway. They’d never conspire with the pagans. Someone who had too much wine must’ve fed you bad information.”

Nailing a willowy finger at James’ chest, the young man deepened his voice. “I was there. Armed temple guards arrested Jesus in the garden and dragged him away. There’s nothing just about the court they’re holding tonight. Now go get your mother. There isn’t much time left.”

Within a few minutes, James presented his bleary-eyed mother at the door.

Biting her lip, she gazed at John. “Is it time?”

“I’ll explain on the way.”

“There’s always more than we can explain, son.” She straightened the shawl over her head. With a nod, she set out onto the shadowy road.

James hustled to join her, on the opposite side from Jesus’ friend. He tried to wrap an arm around his mother, but could not match her swift, driving gait. Questions riddled his mind with every step on the dark path.

Why had Jesus let things go so far? Did it really have to end in death? What would happen to his mother? To all of them?

He peered over his mother’s head at the young man. Why would anyone show loyalty to a man condemned to death?

John met his gaze. “He didn’t turn his back on you.”

“What?”

“Passover. I think … by they way he prayed in the garden … he knew they were coming to take him tonight.”

“Why would he–”

“I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this.” He paused with them in the courtyard. “I just know he wouldn’t turn his back on someone he loves. Not like the rest of us would.”

Shouts poured from the stone building and flooded the courtyard. Above the roof, fat stars huddled around the sickle-shaped moon. Flames from the servants’ fire sent dancing shadows across the eerie gray cast of the building’s facade.

James took a step backward. John laid his hand on Mary’s arm. She shook him off, rolled her shoulders, and marched forward. The two men followed her into the arched mouth of the building.

 

 

“Those who had arrested Jesus took him to Caiaphas the high priest, where the teachers of the law and the elders had assembled …”(Matthew 26:57).

“Again the high priest asked him, ‘Are you the Messiah, the Son of the Blessed One?’

‘I am,’ said Jesus. ‘And you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the Mighty One and coming on the clouds of heaven’”

(Mark 14:61-62).

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The Snow Angel, Part Fourteen

Amber nestled a sand-weighted paper bag against the sidewalk, turning it to align with its sisters. She fished a flameless tealight from her totebag. Her toddler wobbled in an awkward gait on the nearest square of walkway. Amber extended the candle. “Want to turn it on?”

With a grin dimpling her plump cheeks, Angela tapped the plastic flame with her mitten.

Amber simultaneously toggled the switch on the bottom. The fake candle glowed.

Babygirl gasped. “Me do it!”

She planted the tealight in the bag’s sandy bottom. Light flickered up the paper walls and beamed through the star shape perforated in its walls. Her clap muffled by the downy pink yarn of her mittens, Angela offered silent applause. Amber stood, taking her daughter’s hand.

Dusk’s auburn embers vanished beyond the coal silhouettes of homes and trees. Frigid air swooped across the world in its wake. Woolly layers bundled her limbs against the December night, but the view stole her breath. Pricks of golden light shimmered in trails across the neighborhood. Snow-blanketed bungalows morphed into starry huddles, joining as flickering constellations further than she could see. Front porches, paths, and sidewalks all linked with an ellipsis which seemed to continue forever.

Chuck scuffed toward them from the frosty driveway. “You got the last one, there. I think we’re done.”

Babygirl flexed her knees as if to jump, but managed a heel-bounce as her best effort. “More!”

Amber nodded. “I agree.”

“We’re out of luminaries. What do you …”

Smiling at Chuck, she led Babygirl into the lawn. Her feet crunched into the layer of glimmering snow. Just deep enough. Amber flopped onto the brisk, icy powder and swept her arms and legs wide. Little Angela mimicked her. She rose and lifted her tot from the snow, beaming at the double impression.

“Carrying on Angela Standover’s legacy isn’t about the luminary bags.” She carried Babygirl to join Chuck on the driveway. “It’s about sharing light.”

“You want to go beyond Christmas. Beyond our subdivision.” He pushed his glasses up higher on his nose and gazed across the road to the Standover home. “She would’ve liked that. For such a small girl, she left unforgettable spark. “

“Within each of us, I think. Cancer limited her to walk our small circle for just a short time. But, if she could’ve reached the world, Angela would have done it.” Amber wiped a tear onto her daughter’s knitted cap, inhaling the scents of frosty yarn mingled with baby shampoo. How Mrs. Standover must miss the smell, the feel, of holding her beloved daughter. She cleared her throat and raised her head. “Tomorrow, I’m setting up a foundation for year-round snow angels and gifts and light. As long as I have breath, I intend to carry her spark further.”

“This service that you perform is not only supplying the needs of the Lord’s people but is also overflowing in many expressions of thanks to God.  Because of the service by which you have proved yourselves, others will praise God for the obedience that accompanies your confession of the gospel of Christ, and for your generosity in sharing with them and with everyone else. And in their prayers for you their hearts will go out to you, because of the surpassing grace God has given you.  Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift!” (2 Corinthians 9:12-15).

“You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house” (Matthew 5:14-15).

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The Snow Angel, Part Thirteen

Winter’s breath needled through Amber’s worn soles to bite at her toes. She trudged the walkway, burdens slipping and swinging at her sides. She clamped a stack of mail in her hand, while her arms fought to balance purse, diaper bag, and twenty pounds of wriggling flesh.

Angela stretched her demand into extra syllables. “Down!”

The pom-pom on Babygirl’s knitted cap batted the smell of snow-dampened yarn at Amber’s nose.

“In a minute.” She huffed, stuffing the mail into the diaper bag.

A wail drilled into her ear.

She fumbled the key into her lock. “Hush!”

Once inside the foyer, Amber kicked the door shut behind them. Angela’s cry intensified as she leaned away from her momma’s torso.

“Stop–!”

Bag and purse slid from her shoulders in the struggle. Everything but doughy child-flesh tumbled in an avalanche around her feet. Mail spilled across the floor.

“Angela Hope!” Amber tightened her grip on the babe and stepped over the disaster area. She marched into the living room and planted her tot inside the playpen. Shaking her finger at the beet-faced howler, she scowled. “That. Is. Enough.”

Bawling louder, Angela slapped the padded railing of her play pen.

“Ugh!” Growls churned in her gut as  she fetched a sippy cup from the kitchen. Babygirl’s sob-chopped breaths settled into shuddering sighs as she reached for the milk. Amber secured the handle in her tot’s fingers, then headed to the mess in the foyer. “I’ll get your dinner in a few minutes.”

After scooping up her things, she seated her bags in the cushion of unpaid bills obscuring the cafe table. A quick shuffle sorted the mail over her rusty trash bin. Catalogue, loan offer, training ad. Swish-thunk, swish, swish. Bills flew to join the white flock nesting on the unused table. She studied the final piece–a red envelope with no return address. Probably a card from the insurance agent or bank.

Amber bit at her frown as she untucked the back flap. The envelope hadn’t been worth sealing. Maybe the card could decorate her fridge, anyway. She drew out a lightweight stock card bearing a cartoonish evergreen. Above its googly eyes, a yellow star flopped askew. She opened it and a ten dollar bill slid to the floor. The familiar scrawl burned into her eyes. If only this impersonal card had been from the bank.

I expect you and the baby will have a nice holiday. I’m doing well and plan to have a great one. I won’t be in touch after this, since there’s no sense fighting when we can go on with our lives instead. This will be my last letter. If you love me, you’ll be happy for me. If not, you’re free and can move on now.

P.S. Get the kid something for me, for old times sake.

The words blurred. Jaws grinding, she crumpled the weak stock into her fist. Then a roar surged from her core. She ripped and screamed. Spiked the shreds into the can. Like a winter storm, she drove a blizzard of red paper and pale-backed script. Her ruddy, hot hands emptied in seconds. Energy buzzed through the taut muscles in her trembling limbs.

“It’s not fair!” She kicked dents into the trash can, screaming herself hoarse. “Why do you get to live your life?” Pain shocked through the ice-numbed layers on her toes as she bashed the rusty canister across the kitchen, but she pummeled it harder. “And we’re left here! How are we supposed to move on?” Amber spat a string of expletives. When she’d called her ex every name she could summon, the rising cry of her baby crashed in to drown her croaking sobs.

Amber wiped her face with the back of her sleeve. Shuffled to the pantry. Plucked out a can of saucy o’s and set it beside the high chair. The doorbell punctuated the baby’s wailing.

“Co–” She lifted the child and cleared her throat. “Coming.”

Babygirl sniffled back her tears and nuzzled against Amber’s chest. She rubbed circles on the babe’s back, pausing to open the front door.

“Hey, is this a bad time?” Chuck pursed his lips aside and adjusted a messenger bag on his shoulder.

“Well, it’s been a day.” With a head tilt, her cheek brushed Babygirl’s silky, milk-scented hair. The sensations triggered the bloom of a faint smile. “But, I’d still like to hear what brings you over here.”

“The other neighbors have finished making their luminaries. We’re ready to set them up Friday.” He raised a palm, shifting his feet. “Just wanted to let you know. Though, I’m not sure if that’s something you need to do, what with all you got going on here.”

Angela raised her head and poked at her momma’s chin. “Ya.”

Raising a brow, she regarded her infant a moment. Turned back to face Chuck with a deep inhale. Her baby’s tender smell flooded her senses. “Yes, I’m sure that’s something I need to do. We’ll see you Friday.”

“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?” – Romans 8:35

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