Lynn Austin's Blog, page 24

Return to Me

     This week I received the first copy of my newest novel, Return to Me, hot off the press. It may be my 20th published book but the thrill never gets old. When my first novel, Gods and Kings was published in 1995, I carried the book with me all day, wherever I went, and even laid it on my bedside table at night. I was afraid that I would wake up anddiscover it had only been a dream.

     I wrote Gods and Kings because I had a passion for scripture and for bringing the Bible to life for readers who may find it difficult to unders tand. I wanted to portray the men and women in the Bible as people just like us with the same hopes and fears, facing the same challenges that we do in our walk of faith. Few publishers would consider a biblical fiction series at the time, and it took me several years of struggling and waiting and not giving up to see my dream come true. In the years since, thousands of readers have written to me, begging me to write another series like “The Chronicles of the King.” And now I have!  Return to Me is the first of three books in “The Restoration Chronicles,” based on Ezra and Nehemiah. I’ve rediscovered my first passion!

The cover, featuring a priest blowing the shofar, is one of my all-time favorite covers—and not just because my husband is a professional trumpet player. The shofar has such a rich history and significance in scripture. A few examples: Abraham obeyed God by offering his son Isaac—and God provided a ram caught by its horn to sacrifice in Isaac’s place. A trumpet blast was heard on Mt. Sinai when God gave His Torah to Moses.  God commanded Joshua to blow trumpets at Jericho and gave Israel a resounding victory. Trumpets are blown on the Feast of Trumpets to announce the New Year and a time for repentance. And of course the last trumpet will announce our Messiah’s return.

     Earlier this month when I celebrated Rosh Hashanah with my friends and family, I learned that the sound of the shofar is a wake-up call. It’s meant to inspire awe and fear of God in those who hear it, reminding us of Judgment Day and the need to get right with Him. It’s the call of the prophets, warn ing us to repent, and live right, and obey His Word. And Jewish tradition also says that the resurrection of the dead will be accompanied by shofars. My host on Rosh Hashanah pointed out that just as a ram’s horn grows in stages, year-by-year, so  should we continue to grow spiritually and in our relationship with God.  Many of the traditional dishes we ate contained honey, a reminder to savor God’s Word: “How sweet are your words to my taste, sweeter than honey to my mouth!” (Psalm 119:103). 
       In other words, the sound of the shofar is the voice of our loving God calling us back to Him. “Return to me,” declares the Lord Almighty, “and I will return to you.”  (Zechariah 1:3) It’s the message of Rosh Hashanah and the message to the exiles in Babylon in the time of Ezra and Nehemiah. And it’s the message God speaks to you and me whenever we allow busyness and worry and the cares of this world to get in the way of our relationship to Him. “Return to Me!”
 May the message of Return to Me draw you closer to God and His unfailing love.
  
Click Here to order “Return to Me!”

Which Way?

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if our lives had warning signs like the one in this photograph, letting us know when we’re heading toward danger?

I spotted this sign while hiking in Israel, and believe me, the abyss was enormous and without guardrails to keep unwary hikers from falling over the edge.  I’ve been thinking about that hike a lot as I stand at an important crossroads in my life. I wish I knew which path was the right one, what dangers and challenges lay along each trail, so I could make the best choice. What if one path takes me in the wrong direction or comes to a dead end? Or an abyss?

In seeking guidance, I recall my hike in Israel. This is a photograph, taken from our hotel, of the terrain we hiked through in the Wilderness of Zin.

The Israelites traveled through this same wilderness on their way to the Promised Land—and isn’t that where we all want to end up, in the place where God wants us to be? But first we sometimes have to trek through dry, difficult places.

Only a fool would head out into this trackless waste without a guide. And without water! The path was barely distinguishable from the surrounding landscape, at times, and it would have been very easy to wander off and become lost.

The hike was challenging, the sun merciless overhead, but our guide promised us beauty—and some lessons along the way. And here is our first surprise—an oasis where we least expected it.

I noticed as we followed our guide that everyone stayed within sight of him. No one lagged behind or wandered away. He had our complete trust. And eventually we reached this beautiful valley, hidden in the middle of the vast wilderness. We also reached a dead end. The narrow path we had been following suddenly ended at this high, rocky cliff.

By now, we had been hiking for several hours and the prospect of retracing our steps beneath the blazing, afternoon sun had us pretty discouraged. Maybe we had gone the wrong way and our guide didn’t want to tell us.

He let us rest and quench our thirst. And while we did, he talked about trusting God to lead us through our wilderness times the way we had been trusting him in this wilderness. He explained how we need a full supply of water—God’s Word—stored up in our hearts during the good times so it can carry us through the bad ones.

Yes, we had reached a dead end, he said. And so often when we reach dead ends in life we panic and scramble to save ourselves, looking for a way out instead of quietly waiting and trusting God. These were good lessons to remember. But what were we going to do now at this dead end?

When we were rested, our guide led us closer to the face of the cliff. And guess what—he knew the way out all along. Straight up the side of the cliff!

It wasn’t an easy path by any means. In fact, it was terrifying in places.

Don’t let my happy smile fool you—I was shaking in my shoes!

 

But after an invigorating climb, we all arrived safely on top—and there was our air-conditioned tour bus, waiting to take us back to our hotel.

Today as I stand at my crossroads, I’m trusting God to help me choose the right path. If I let Him be my guide, if I follow where He leads and stay close to His side, even when the terrain is difficult, I might find an oasis or two to refresh me along the way.

I’ve been delving into His Word as I prepare for my journey, making sure I won’t run dry. And while I can expect His path to be challenging, I know there will be no dead ends. I will arrive safely at last—exactly where God wants me to be.



“He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.”  (Psalm 40:2)

“Clubbing” With My Friends

No, not  night clubs—BOOK clubs.  The very best kind.

What better way to spend a few hours than to gather with a group of friends who love to read, and talk about books? I belong to a book club that meets at my church, but as an author I often get invited to area book clubs when they read and discuss my novels.  If I have time and it isn’t too far, I love to go.



I’ve been to neighborhood clubs, clubs that meet in churches, in libraries, in schools, and in seniors’ centers. Big clubs and small clubs and everything in between. In July, I returned to my home town in New York State for a family reunion and visited with the book club that met in the library where my mother used to work. We discussed my book, Candle in the Darkness.

Last Monday evening I “met” with a book club in Wisconsin via telephone as they got together. I wish I could have been there in person but it was an enjoyable evening for me, just the same.

Last Wednesday, I drove to the library in Yorkville, Illinois to meet with “The Lunch Bunch” and members of two other book clubs that meet regularly at the library—along with some of their friends and neighbors who love to read. What a wonderful group of ladies!

I like to ask each club which books they’ve read this year—which ones they loved and which ones they didn’t. And why. Then I go home and read some of their favorites. I’m keeping track of my own picks on Good Reads. And my publisher, Bethany House, has a wonderful program for book clubs called An Open Book. Stop by their website and sign up for free and you’ll get to hear about some great, new books.

Writing is a solitary job, sitting alone all day with no one to talk to but my fictional friends. When I finally type “the end” and send the manuscript away, I often wish I could visit all the places that the finished book goes, and watch my readers’ reactions when they finish reading. Sometimes I feel like a chef in a bakery, creating and decorating beautiful cakes that will be enjoyed at weddings and birthday parties—but never getting to join in the celebrations.

Unless I’m invited to a book club. Ah, then we all get to taste the cake—I mean, book—together. I know that not all of my readers feel the same way about each of my books, just as some cake enthusiasts like chocolate and others don’t; some like buttercream frosting, others whipped cream. But that seldom matters to me. It’s celebrating together that makes it fun. “The Sister Circle” book club of North Providence, RI, made this delicious-looking cake to celebrate their tenth anniversary–and their novel for that evening was All Things New.

Which reminds me… that’s another thing I love about getting together with area book clubs–the food! I never go away hungry. This is the lunch that the Yorkville book clubs shared with me. I couldn’t resist going back for seconds.

One creative club I visited tried to match the evening’s snacks to the book they were discussing that night. This group also kept a scrapbook with pictures of all their meetings along with items to remind them of each book—a ration card for a story about WWII, for example.

Later, when I return to my solitary writing life (a few pounds heavier), I often think of the wonderful people I’ve met with and laughed with at book clubs. And it makes it a little easier to sit alone and write, knowing that there are some very delightful ladies out there who love to read and are waiting to see what I write next. I think about their comments—what they like about a good book and what makes them want to toss a book across the room. And I remember some of the stories they’ve  told me about their own lives, which give me ideas to use for my novels. (Warning: don’t ever tell me a story unless you don’t mind it showing up in a book!)

The Sister Circle Book Club

So enjoy your next book club meeting and think of me. And I promise I’ll keep writing if you’ll keep reading.

If you belong to a book club, what was your group’s favorite book this year?

Family

I’ve just returned from a family reunion in the village in New York State where I grew up. Ours is a small family by most standards—my father was an only child and my mother’s only sibling never had children. But my two sisters and I produced twelve grandchildren, ten of whom were at the reunion with their husbands and wives and significant others, along with all eleven great-grandchildren and a few family friends.



My dad and sister Bonnie are in heaven now, and are always greatly missed. But Mom, the grand matriarch of our tribe, savored the day with her reunited family and eleven great-grandchildren, including the newest family member, baby Maceo, not quite one year old.



Our nuclear family, mostly ethnically-German, now includes a mix of cultures and traditions added on through marriage—Dutch, Italian, Irish, Jamaican, and Israeli. Imagine the smorgasbord of great food this produced! We watched a fireworks show courtesy of my nephew David, and we all sang karaoke, thanks to the computer expertise of my nephew Leland. We hated for the day to end.



From Karaoke to Shakespeare—a few nights later my sister Peggy, an English professor at a local NY State University, took my mother and me to the Hudson Valley Shakespeare Festival to see a  wonderful performance of “All’s Well That Ends Well.”



We ate a picnic supper on the lawn overlooking the Hudson River before the outdoor play began, sharing our love of words and literature and Shakespeare’s plays.

Then… from Shakespeare to line dancing, and in this, my sister and I are very different! She has been taking lessons and invited me to attend her class one evening. I gave it a try and had a great time—laughing and stumbling my way through the dance steps.



My sister and I also spent a gorgeous summer morning hiking around Lake Minnewaska and enjoying the views from the top of the mountain. Our love of nature and hiking come from our grandparents who lived in the beautiful woods of Pennsylvania.



Finally, I spent an enjoyable evening with a local book club, meeting at the library where Mom once worked as the librarian. (Can you think of a better childhood for a writer than “growing up” in a library?) I had a great time with this group of avid readers discussing my novel, Candle in the Darkness.  

Now I’m home again, reflecting on God’s gift of family.  They’re the people who helped shape me and influence me, and I always come away understanding myself just a little better after I’m with them. We’ve been through good times and tough times, through joys and sorrows and struggles. We’ve prayed with each other through battles with cancer and other illnesses, through a sad divorce, through times of unemployment, and the pain of distant separations.

We celebrate our common heritage but also our individuality and uniqueness, serving God in many different occupations: as teachers, homemakers, computer specialists, college professors, car repairmen; in the armed services, in sports medicine, as a school principal; a musician, a paralegal, a police detective, a graduate student, a heavy equipment operator, a librarian, a writer, and as parents and spouses. Yet we are alike in our faith in God, alike in our desire to serve Him with our many gifts. And all of us are thankful for our family—for the love we share for each other and for Him.

How do you like to celebrate with your family?

~Lynn

Living Stones

Tomorrow, July 16, my Jewish friends and family members will commemorate one of the saddest days of their calendar year—Tisha B’Av. It’s a day of fasting and mourning to remember the destruction of God’s Temple in Jerusalem. On the ninth day of the month of Av in 586 BC, the Babylonian army destroyed the temple that King Solomon built, razing it to the ground. The surviving Jews were carried into captivity in Babylon.  In my newest novel, Return to Me, I tell the story from the book of Ezra, of how the Jews returned from exile 70 years later and rebuilt God’s temple.

            But this second temple—which was extensively renovated in Christ’s time by King Herod—was also destroyed. The Roman army demolished it in 70 AD, just as Jesus had foretold:  “I tell you the truth, not one stone here will be left on another; every one will be thrown down” (Matthew 24:2). And in a tragic “coincidence,” the second temple was also destroyed on the ninth day of the month of Av.

One of the most moving sites I’ve visited on my trips to Israel to do research is the place the Israelis call the Kotel—the wall. It’s one of the last remnants of the temple from Jesus’ day. A Muslim shrine called the Dome of the Rock now covers the site where both temples once stood. The Kotel is not part of the temple buildings themselves but is a section of the retaining wall that King Herod built to support his expanded temple platform. But it’s the place where Jews and many Christians come today to pray and worship.

     In my new non-fiction book, Pilgrimage; My Journey to a Deeper Faith in the Land Where Jesus Walked, I needed a few chapters to express the multitude of emotions I felt when I visited the Kotel. One thing that impressed me was the resilience of the Jewish people, who still come to pray and worship the God of Abraham after everything they’ve endured throughout the centuries. This half-broken remnant of their destroyed temple seems like such a fitting emblem of their unquenchable faith.

God’s temple is gone—and yet it isn’t. “Don’t you know that you yourselves are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit lives in you?”  (1 Corinthians 3:16). As Christians, we carry the Holy Spirit with us wherever we go. And 1 Peter 2:5 says that “you also, like living stones, are being built into a spiritual house.” A “living stone” is one that has been quarried and chiseled and cut to fit a specific place in a building. Whenever I feel those deep cuts, I like to picture Jesus the carpenter chiseling away at all my rough edges so I will fit into the place He has chosen for me in His new temple.

   Tomorrow, when I remember Tisha B’Av with my Jewish friends, my prayer will be that each of us as living stones will take our place and do our part so that His temple will be rebuilt. A world in exile and captivity needs to see God’s glory on display in us.

Digging my Research

Authors do a lot of crazy things while researching their novels but my all-time-favorite research experience was the month I spent as a volunteer on an archaeological dig in Israel. The first books I ever wrote were the 5-book Chronicles of the King series, based on the life of the biblical King Hezekiah. I needed to know what everyday life was like in 700 BC, but more importantly, what it was like to see the Israeli sky at dawn and at sunset, and to breathe the Middle Eastern air. I was gleaning much of my historical information from reading Biblical Archaeology Review magazine, and when I saw the listings for summer volunteer dig opportunities, I knew I had to go.

I ended up choosing the dig at Tel Batash–the biblical city of Timnah, made famous by Samson (see Judges 14:1). But Timnah was also one of the cities that King Hezekiah fortified when the Assyrians threatened to invade his land. Previous digs at Tel Batash had uncovered storage jars he used for army supplies, sealed with his signet ring. I would have loved to find one of those seals! And so off I went to dig in Israel for a month with my oldest son, Joshua, who was 14 at the time.

The dig began with a tour of Israel that included all the important archaeological sites, then we settled into our beautiful resort hotel in the hill country outside of Jerusalem.  Our wake-up call came at 4:00 am every morning (the stars were still out!) and we left for the site by 4:30 to beat the heat. I used to joke that if God wanted me to see the sunrise, He would have put it later in the day! But what a wonderful experience to watch the sun dawn every morning from the top of the tel, accompanied by a chorus of doves in the almond grove below us.

We worked until 11:00 am when the temperature grew too hot, moving bucket after bucket of dirt. “Archaeology is planned destruction,” the head archaeologist would remind us. My work site was at Timnah’s main city gate where we found the cobblestone pavement from Samson’s time. It was such a thrill to think of him walking that very street. My son wanted to find a skull—and he ended up finding an entire skeleton. He had lots of expert help unearthing it, of course. I thought the dig experience would get archaeology out of my system but it turns out, it merely whet my appetite. I’d love to do it again!

When I finished the Chronicles of the Kings series a few years later, I decided to use my experiences to write Wings of Refuge, a novel about a woman who goes on an archaeological dig in Israel. The story gives readers an idea of what my experience was like, but I also tell two parallel stories, one about the founding of modern Israel, the other about Christians in the First Century who lived in the ruins that my heroine is excavating.

In the meantime, I’ve written novels with other historical settings, but readers continually ask if I’ll ever write another series like the Kings. Well, the answer is YES! I’ve begun writing a 3-book series called The Restoration Chronicles, based on the biblical books of Ezra and Nehemiah. Once again I needed to travel to Israel to research this series, but this time I had the enormous pleasure of staying with my daughter and her husband who were living in Jerusalem. We had a great time traveling around and researching together. (And she didn’t make me wake up at 4:00 am!) The first book in the Restoration Chronicles, “Return to Me,” will be out this fall.

Going on an archaeological dig had been on my “bucket list” for a long time—what’s on yours? And by the way, the oldest volunteer was in her eighties, so you’re never too old to dig.

 

Father’s Day & Nesting Robins

A friend of ours, who happens to be an excellent father, once remarked that he hated Father’s Day sermons. “Pastors always elevate moms to near sainthood on Mother’s Day,” he insisted, “but they beat up on dads on Father’s Day, chiding them for being workaholics, advising them to treat their wives better, telling them to spend more time with their kids.” Sadly, I’ve noticed that he’s right. Fathers deserve more credit.

I wish I would have told my dad more often how much I appreciated him. He lived a quiet, hardworking, honest life, raising my two sisters and me. Nothing earth-shattering or epic. The kind of life we’re all supposed to lead—loving God, doing right, living well. He died much too young from a heart attack at the age of 62. I miss him.



Dad had perfect Sunday School attendance growing up, and a string of gold pins to prove it. He used his magnificent bass voice to sing in the church choir where my grandmother played the piano. He was a much-loved only child, and I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been for my grandparents when he enlisted in the Navy during World War II at the age of eighteen. He rarely talked about his wartime service, so I know very little about it. He was assigned to a submarine chaser in the Pacific. He was a signal-man, sending and receiving Morse Code messages. He served most of his time in the Philippines. And forever after, he hated rice and the smell of the gunpowder from our cap pistols.

His family was all female—a wife and three daughters, living in a small, two bedroom house with one bathroom. Poor Dad was outnumbered. He used to joke that even our family dog was female. Yet he was good-natured about his suffering—and pretty quick at shaving on school mornings. He was a very big man and quite tall (I could always find him in a crowd) and I never doubted that he would protect me from harm. He was quiet, a man of few words, with a deep, hearty laugh. While he wasn’t openly affectionate, I always knew he loved me. I once decided to run away from home after fighting with my mother but only got as far as the front sidewalk when I met my father, coming home from work. “Don’t run away,” he said. “I’d miss you.” He shooed me back inside.

My father was a natural-born salesman who could probably sell ice cubes in the Arctic and sand in the Sahara—but mostly he sold Pepsi-Cola in the Catskills, where we lived.  He worked hard all his life, and while he didn’t always like his bosses or the daily grind of work, he got up every day and did his job and brought home his paycheck without complaint. That’s what men in his era did. It’s how they showed their love.

But I think Dad’s real love was making music. He played the clarinet in a band before he married and was a fan of Benny Goodman and Big Band music. I would see his face light up when he got out his clarinet or alto saxophone, and he had a deep respect for my husband who is a professional musician. Dad had talent and probably could have turned professional with the right breaks. But men needed to get “real” jobs in those days, especially if they had families to support.

Which brings me to the robins. A pair of them have built a nest in the crab apple tree outside my office window. I don’t know how many babies are in that nest but I hear a loud chorus of cheeping every time one of the parents swoops in with another worm. All day long, the mama and papa birds take turns sitting on the nest and flying off for more worms—all day! Just watching them wears me out. Yet they continue doing it for hours on end for their babies’ sakes. That’s parenthood. That’s commitment. I watch the robins working tirelessly, getting the job done, raising children who will fly off and leave the nest one day—and I thank God for my steadfast, hardworking father. I miss you, Dad!

Never Give Up

Aspiring writers often ask me for my number one piece of writing advice. My reply? Never give up! I know that sounds obvious, but becoming a writer can be a long and difficult journey, a roller coaster ride filled with challenges and discouragement. I know. I nearly gave up before I ever got published.

I began writing more than 25 years ago when I was a stay-at-home mom, living in Canada with my husband and 3 children. After a great deal of work, I completed my first novel, Gods and Kings, and began the long, tedious process of sending my book proposal to publishers, getting rejected, sending it out again, and trying not to get discouraged. Then one glorious day I finally heard back from a Christian publisher in the U.S. who said, “We like your proposal—please send us your complete manuscript for review.”

       It seemed like great news, but after nearly a year went by, I was still waiting. At last they told me that the manuscript had one final hurdle to clear before they would decide whether or not to offer me a contract.

This was the era before cell phones, so I hung around my house for two anxious weeks, fearful of missing the phone call that would change my life and send me on the path to realizing my dream. But instead of the telephone, my doorbell rang. It was my mailman, delivering a black plastic garbage bag with my name and address taped to it. My first thought was, “Don’t I have enough garbage? Who’s mailing me more?” But when I opened the bag, there was my manuscript!

The pages were in complete disarray, tossed haphazardly into the trash bag as if someone had turned on a fan and thrown the pile in the air. Several pages had footprints on them. Others had tire tracks. This had to be a mistake! I rooted through the bag and found the box I had used to mail the manuscript, battered beyond recognition. It must have burst open somewhere between the U.S. and Canada and the post office had kindly shoveled the mess into a garbage bag to deliver it to me.



I sifted through the disheveled pages and finally found the letter from the publisher. It said, “We’re sorry, but we’ve decided not to publish your book.” The trash bag seemed like a prophetic sign to me. Not only had my book been rejected, it was garbage.

I gave up writing.

Since I had worked as a teacher before my kids were born and my youngest was now ready for kindergarten, I decided to sign a teaching contract for the coming school year. But God has His ways of turning us around when we’re headed in the wrong direction, and a few months into my new job, I began to feel like Jonah in the belly of the whale. I was under so much stress at work that I became ill three different times during that school year with three different stress-related medical conditions. After I found myself flat on my back for the third time, I surrendered and asked God to show me what He wanted me to do. His answer—

write!

And I was immediately successful? Not even close! I did resign from teaching but a few more years passed before Gods and Kings was finally published. It became the first novel in a five-book series that has been translated into numerous languages. Today I get letters from readers all over the world telling me how much the book has blessed and inspired them.

What if I had given up for good?

I can’t answer that question but I do know that I love this writing life and wouldn’t trade it for any other. And so my advice to aspiring writers will always be, never give up. Even if your dream comes to your door in a garbage bag.

 

A Giveaway Giveaway!!

As the Bible says, “It’s more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35). So, in order to launch  my newly renovated website, I’d like to give YOU  the opportunity to give away a copy of my most recent book, “All Things New.”  I would love to send “All Things New” to the person or place that you, my readers, think would enjoy a copy. You can choose a person, a church, a school, a library, or any other organization.

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Here’s how it works:

I will be giving away one SIGNED copy of “All Things New” every week for the next three weeks. All you have to do is visit my new website and go to the “Contact” page. Enter your name and email address in the message and tell me the name and address of the person or organization you’ve chosen.  That’s all. And see? Isn’t it more blessed to give than to receive?

***Please enter only one person or organization. And please, only one entry a week per person. Thanks!***

 

Double Blessing

Mother’s Day is doubly special for me. It’s not only a day to honor my mom and thank her for everything she taught me, but it’s also the day that my only daughter, Maya, was born in 1984. These two very special women bookend my life and fill me with joy and gratitude.

Mom, me and Maya in Jerusalem on the Temple Mount steps

The Synagogue in Capernaum

One thing I love about both women is their sense of adventure. After completing college and working for a year, Maya longed to fulfill her dream to live and study in Jerusalem. Trusting God, she packed her bags and left, all alone, to move to Israel. When my husband and I made plans to visit her, Mom decided to join us, fulfilling her lifelong dream to tour the land of the Bible, which she loves so much. Her age, 85, was never a deterrent. “How old would you feel if you didn’t know your real age?” she often asks me. Her own answer: “Oh, about 39.”

Mom at the cave of the Dead Sea scrolls

What gives both women their sense of adventure is their faith in God. I’ve already mentioned in this blog that my mother is a prayer warrior and a woman of great faith. She is also a lover of books.

Mom & me making olive oil with my son Benjamin

Mom was trained as a nurse during World War II but her passion for reading led her to become the town librarian in the tiny community where I grew up. With contagious enthusiasm, Mom soon transformed that dinky library into the town centerpiece with programs for people of all ages. She later became the elementary school librarian, as well.

Exploring a first century house near the Sea of Galilee

The three of us shopping in Jerusalem

Mom was a writer, too–magazine articles, newspaper columns, and feature pieces. I remember how proud she was when Highlights for Children published one of her stories and the sample copy arrived in the mail. My passion for scripture and my love of writing both come from her, and I’m so grateful for that legacy. And although I confess to great fear when Maya first moved to Israel, I knew she was following Mom’s footsteps too, building a lasting spiritual foundation for her life.

Exploring a tunnel beneath the Old City of Jerusalem

Picnic near Engedi

The memories of our trip together will always be very precious to me…

Eating wonderful meals…

(And getting to know our amazing future son-in-law, Snir, standing on the left… but that’s a love story for another day.)

 

 

By the Dead Sea

The time we spent exploring Bible history and learning new things  helped all three of us to grow in faith as we walked where Jesus walked.

Overlooking Jerusalem at night

So thanks, Mom, for the legacy of prayer and faith and writing you gave me. And thanks, Maya, for keeping me young, for teaching me new things, and for sharing your own spiritual journey with me. I’m honored to know both of you as more than my mother, more than my daughter—but as my friends.