Susan May Warren's Blog, page 34

Winner Announced from the ‘Duchess’ Kindle Fire Giveaway

 

I’m happy to announce that Lisa Wielosik from Brookhaven, Pennsylvania, is the winner of the Kindle Fire giveaway I held! Congratulations, Lisa! My assistant will be in touch with the details.

When Someone Took a Chance on Me | Contest and Giveaway

Take a Chance on Me: It’s a story of forgiveness and second chances. Has someone taken a chance on you? Share your story below in the comment section, and next Monday, I’ll pick a winner. He or she will win:

—A mystery book pack

—This ice-cream maker for some summer fun

—This ice-cream cookbook to take full advantage of your new ice-cream maker

By the way, keep your eye on my blog and social media accounts this week because I’ll be announcing some exciting news that you won’t want to miss!

*Only those in the continental U.S. are eligible to win.

Take a Chance on Darek Christiansen

 

Hello, yeah. Hi. So, I’m Darek Christiansen, and Susie told me I had to show up and introduce myself. So here I am. Listen, it’s no mystery that I don’t want to be here. I really need to be getting home to Tiger, my five-year-old son. But apparently the resort needs a little public relations, so here I am.

I run the Evergreen Resort, a handful of cabins and an outfitting service for campers and canoeists located on a lake in the north shore of Minnesota. It’s a family operation; my parents inherited it from my grandparents. I never really wanted to take it over, but I had to do something to give my son a stable life after I lost my wife in a terrible car accident. Unfortunately, the man who killed her lives in our town. OK, he was actually my best friend, but that seems so long ago, it’s hard to imagine that Jensen and I were ever anything but enemies.

OK, so yes, I struggle with forgiveness. And the guilt that I never really wanted this life. I was going to be a HotShot, a fire manager, fighting wildland fires. But life doesn’t give you what you want—it gives you what you deserve. Which means I’m not going to end up with the cute new assistant county prosecutor who just arrived in town. Even if she did buy me in the town fundraiser/bachelor auction. Because what she doesn’t know is that I’m the last man she should hang out with.

But deep inside, I’m hoping she’ll take a chance on me. Because what I really want (and don’t tell anyone) is to start over. To build a new life. I am just not sure how to get there.

I hope you’ll go on the journey with me in Susan May Warren’s newest novel about me, and my family, and life on a resort in the north shore of Minnesota. Take a Chance on Me is available now!

The Pursuit of Imperfection by Beth Vogt

Welcome to Pearl Girls™ Mother of Pearl Mother’s Day blog series—a nine-day celebration of moms and mothering. Each day will feature a new post by some of today’s best writers (Tricia Goyer, Lisa Takeuchi Cullen, Beth Vogt, Lesli Westfall, and more). I hope you’ll join us each day for another unique perspective on Mother’s Day.

AND . . . do enter the contest for a chance to win a beautiful handcrafted pearl necklace and a JOYN India bag. Enter at the bottom of this post. The contest runs 5/4-5/13, and the winner will be announced on 5/14. Contest is only open to U.S. residents.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info, subscribe to our blog, and see what we’re all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Mother of Pearl: Luminous Lessons and Iridescent Faith to help support Pearl Girls™.

 
And to all you MOMS out there, Happy Mother’s Day!
~
The Pursuit of Imperfection by Beth Vogt

In my early mommy-ing years, I was all about perfection. I wasn’t going to be just a good mom—oh, no. I grabbed the virtual performance bar and shoved it way out of my reach.

It didn’t take long for that bar to come crashing down on my head. Perfection was toppled by the harsh reality that, at times, I was an angry mom. I hit my knees and begged God for forgiveness, for patience, for the ability to love my children one day at a time . . . sometimes one hour at a time.

I embraced 1 Peter 4:8: Love covers a multitude of mistakes, even altering it a bit so that it met my need. My version of 1 Peter 4:8 became: Love covers a multitude of mommy-mistakes. There was no way I could pretend that I was perfect, but I could do everything possible so that my children knew that I loved them, despite my imperfections.

Fast forward through toddlers and teenagers to being the mother of a twenty-something son, two late-teen daughters, and one (surprise!) elementary-school-age daughter.

During lunch one day with Katie Beth and Amy, my two oldest daughters, Katie Beth looked at me and asked, “Do you want to know what the best thing was about you as a mom?”

Did I? How could I say no to an unexpected “her children will rise up and call her blessed” moment? I assured Katie Beth I absolutely wanted to know the best thing about me as a mom. She looked at me and said, “The best thing about you as a mom was that you weren’t perfect.”

Oh. I admit I expected something . . . more. I joked with my daughter, telling her I wished she’d told me this sooner, as I wasted too much time trying to be perfect. We all laughed and the conversation moved on.

A few weeks later as a prepared a talk on motherhood and perfection for a moms group, I asked Katie Beth, “Can you tell me again why not being perfect was the best thing about me as a mom?”

She emailed me a letter that read: So many kids grow up thinking their parents are up on this pedestal. They think their parents can do no wrong, but then when they fail at something or make a mistake . . . it can tend to devastate those kids. Also, it taught me that being a Christian does not equal perfection. So many people think because they are a Christian they have to be perfect, and I learned from you that, while you are a very loving mother, you are not perfect. It helps me know you don’t expect me to be perfect. 

Our children don’t want perfect moms—but they do want to know we love them. And maybe by admitting we’re not perfect, our kids will avoid the perfectionist trap too.

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Beth K. Vogt believes God’s best is often behind the doors marked “Never.” After being a nonfiction writer and editor who said she’d never write fiction, Beth has proudly authored two novels, Wish You Were Here and the newly released Catch a Falling Star. Connect with Beth at bethvogt.com.

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Water Spot Mothering by Cynthia Ruchti

Welcome to Pearl Girls™ Mother of Pearl Mother’s Day blog series—a nine-day celebration of moms and mothering. Each day will feature a new post by some of today’s best writers (Tricia Goyer, Lisa Takeuchi Cullen, Beth Vogt, Lesli Westfall, and more). I hope you’ll join us each day for another unique perspective on Mother’s Day.

AND . . . do enter the contest for a chance to win a beautiful handcrafted pearl necklace and a JOYN India bag. Enter at the bottom of this post. The contest runs 5/4-5/13, and the winner will be announced on 5/14. Contest is only open to U.S. residents.

If you are unfamiliar with Pearl Girls™, please visit www.pearlgirls.info, subscribe to our blog, and see what we’re all about. In short, we exist to support the work of charities that help women and children in the US and around the globe. Consider purchasing a copy of Mother of Pearl: Luminous Lessons and Iridescent Faith to help support Pearl Girls™.

And to all you MOMS out there, Happy Mother’s Day!
~
Water Spot Mothering by Cynthia Ruchti

For years, a friend and I met weekly for prayer and Bible study. More than twenty years older, Jackie often prayed for her high school children while I prayed for my toddler children who were supposed to be napping.

As any mother will attest, when we get serious about praying for our children, we can find plenty to pray about.

Jackie and I often laid our Bibles in front of us, open on the table. The day I learned the meaning of water spot mothering, Jackie and I had prayed intensely for our children and their wide variety of crises—large and small. We prayed about their uncertain futures and the certainty that God loved them even more than we did. Tears formed, unbidden, as we poured our hearts out to God.

A series of whispers from the stairway told me my children had found dozens of ways to bypass their naps. But they’d grown to respect the time I prayed with my friend. Even at their young ages, they waited patiently for the “Amen” before interrupting.

When Jackie left and life pulled me into other things, my Bible remained open on the dining room table. I walked through the room a short time later to find my four-year-old daughter Amy kneeling on a chair, tenderly flipping through the pages of my Bible. I knew she was unable to read more than the simplest words on the page, so I asked, “Amy, what are you doing, honey?”

Her answer resonates now, decades later. She said, “I’m looking for the tears.”

She knew I’d prayed for her. Finding the water spots, the tear stains, meant something to her young heart. She wanted to see evidence that my prayers for her had moved me to tears.

How triple true that would be through her teen years! We were just getting started on the water spot mothering concept.

I’ve relived that scene many times since that afternoon. My daughter bent over my Bible, her tiny hands turning the pages reverently, her eyes searching for a wrinkle in the page, looking for the assurance that I cared so deeply, prayed so fervently, and wasn’t afraid to let the tears fall on the sustaining resource for parenting and all of life—God’s Word.

Water spot mothering. Praying with the Bible open. Letting the tears fall on the pages.

I wear the picture of my daughter kneeling on the chair, bent over my Bible, close to my heart, like a silver locket I click open to remind me of my primary responsibility as her mom…even now.

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Cynthia Ruchti tells stories of Hope-that-glows-in-the-dark through her fiction, nonfiction, and speaking events for women or for writers. Her recent release—the novel, When the Morning Glory Blooms, observes the heart-and-faith journeys of three eras of unwed moms. Her July release—the nonfiction book Ragged Hope: Surviving the Fallout of Other People’s Choices—touches on life circumstances that send us to tear-hemmed prayer for those we love. Connect with her at www.cynthiaruchti.com, Facebook, Twitter, or other network spots.

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I Went to Paris!

I thought I was prepared. After all, I’d spent weeks immersed in researching Paris, read A Paris Wife and Hemmingway’s A Moveable Feast, studied journals about Lindy’s flight to Paris, and surveyed maps of the city. Paris? Pshaw! I had this. Five days — we’d see it all! Starting with the Eiffel Tower, we’d visit the Palace of Justice where Marie Antoinette stayed before being guillotined, and then to the Bastille for a little revolutionary fervor. We’d visit castles and Versailles and Napoleon’s grave, the tomb of Victor Hugo, and of course the Louvre. We’d mosey down to the Arc de Triomphe, then over to the Luxemburg gardens before hitting the Latin Quarter, where we’d ferret out Le Select, Hemingway, and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s luncheon spot. I’d buy a book at Shakespeare and Company and then feed pigeons while sitting in front of Notre Dame.

See, all planned.

Except, in all that planning, I forgot to check the weather. I just thought — hey, it’s Paris! It’ll be warm!

Nope.

We arrived to 37 degrees, and as I got off the plane, I stopped and bought gloves. I bundled the first day, but our itinerary included mostly outside events. By noon, I thought I might have hypothermia.

I was miserable. As we walked by ancient buildings, I could barely lift my chin out of my scarf to glance at the landscape. Whatever, I said. If you’ve seen one ancient cathedral, you’ve seen them all.

I just wanted to be warm. But I hadn’t brought warm clothes, and I wasn’t about to scratch off the palace of Versailles to go hunt down a coat. Where would I find a coat my size in Paris, anyway? Everyone is the size of a ten-year-old.

So, I sulked. I didn’t want my husband or daughter to know my misery as I looked forward into the chilly week, but apparently I couldn’t hide my mood. “I don’t want to tell you,” I said, embarrassed at my own childishness.

My daughter coaxed it out of me. And then she said, “Well, let’s ask God to give you a coat.”

Hah. Because I needed God to virtually drop a coat out of the sky and into my lap. I didn’t have time to hunt for one — and not a clue where to go. So, I prayed, “Lord, could you give me a coat? Under fifty dollars, and I’m going to need you to just sort of . . . dangle it in front of my face.”

I admit I didn’t hold out much hope.

Shame on me.

Susie and Andrew not so warm on top of the Eiffel Tower!

We had crossed the street, a little lost, looking for the subway. I spied it and headed toward the entrance, when, on my way, I saw a little bin of scarves sitting on the sidewalk. A woman was looking through it. I stopped, her scarf catching my attention, and happened to look up at the storefront behind her. A tiny green door hung open, and inside . . . a thrift store. No larger than a galley kitchen, clothes hung on either side, leaving an aisle about as wide as a person. I heard the words, “I’m just going in here for a sec” emerge from my mouth, and I found myself walking inside.

I started down the row of clothing, then stopped. There, on the lefthand side near the back hung four jackets. I picked up one — the cutest one —and put it on.

It fit perfectly.

I found the tag. 40 Euros. If you do the math we’re at roughly 50 bucks.

Five minutes later, I had a coat. No less than fifteen minutes after I started praying.

I was warm the rest of the vacation.

Yeah, I should have planned ahead. Or not. Because even when I don’t . . . God is already there, saving the day.

I had a blast in Paris! It was so amazing to visit the places I’d researched for Baroness and Duchess — they came alive to me. I could imagine Dash and Rosie meeting in the park, and Renaud and Lilly strolling the Left Bank. Paris is well worth the visit — and may I suggest taking Baroness and Duchess with you?

P.S. Don’t forget to enter my Kindle Fire giveaway, which was extended! Enter here.

Winners Announced from ‘Duchess’ Hollywood Star Giveaway

I’m happy to announce that the following people were chosen at random to receive a copy of Duchess from my Who’s Your Favorite Hollywood Star and Why giveaway! Thanks to all who answered and participated, and congrats to the winners! Winners, my assistant will be in touch via email, so keep an eye out for an incoming message!

Karen Hellman

For me, I would have to say Audrey Hepburn, or Julie Andrews Both, just seemed to me, to be classic. Never over the top. Audrey’s sense of style was/is timeless. Julie is just a class act. I enjoyed watching any of their movies when I was growing up.

Growing up in a church that did not allow us to go to the movies, we could only watch what was on the television. We were also taught that movie stars could be considered idols, so it is hard for me to look at the current Hollywood stars and not think about my upbringing. They can be so over the top sometimes trying to stay “current”

Christie Murrow

There are many great Hollywood actresses but I’d have to say my favorite is Carol Burnett. She’s hilarious, she’s clean, and she’s just smart while being funny. Her skits are classic and have stood the test of time. Even when informericals come on, I’ll still laugh.

Sharon Wilk

- Bette Davis Why? She kept going and going and going for around 50 years.

- Tom Skerritt Why? I just like his voice.

Sara Ella

My favorite Hollywood Star is Kirk Cameron because of how he has continued to stand up for Christ, even when the media and other actors bash him. He is a good example to us all of what it means to be bold in the faith.

Alisha Woods

Michael J Fox, I have loved him forever. As he has gotten older and seen what he has done with his life makes me proud to say he is my all time favorite.

Take a Chance on Claire

Hi. I’m Claire. You might have already seen me at the Deep Haven pizza joint, Pierre’s Pizza. I make a mean spinach pizza. I also tend the flowers at the Deep Haven Community Gardens. Yeah, that’s right, exciting stuff.

I’m going places.

Actually, OK, I know that’s not funny. My entire life seems to be on hold since I graduated from high school seven years ago. It’s not that I don’t want to do something amazing or exciting. It’s just that . . . well, I don’t know what that might be.

See, since my best friend, Felicity, died, I seem to be stuck in Deep Haven. I can’t seem to find my groove. I spend most of my time watching over my grandfather, Gibs, and looking in on Tiger and Darek. And Jensen—yes, I see him hanging around also. My heart just hurts for him, even though I can’t bring myself to talk to him.

I know the accident wasn’t his fault. Exactly. No, he has other reasons to feel guilty. And it’s for those reasons I can’t forgive him.

Even if I’ve never stopped loving him. But he never loved me, so I’m not sure why I’m still pining for him.

No. Not pining. Just . . . wishing life could have been different for all of us. Wishing that once upon a time Jensen had possessed the courage to take a chance on me. Then, maybe everything would have been different.

Maybe we all would have had a happily ever after.

So, I’m stuck here in the no-man’s land of grief, regret . . . confusion . . . and unless something changes, I guess I’ll be in Deep Haven forever, making pizza, playing in the Blue Monkeys and tending the garden.

And really, nothing exciting ever happens in Deep Haven, right?

Read my story in Susan May Warren’s newest novel, Take a Chance on Me.

Meet Caleb Knight, from My Foolish Heart

Caleb Knight just wants to be the new high school football coach of the Deep Haven Huskies.  After all, he not only played college ball, but he also spent years teaching young men how to play the game.

Until he went to Iraq.

Until he lost his leg.

What if you had a secret that you knew might make others see you as less?  Would you hide it?  Journey with Caleb as he discovers the strength to reveal his weaknesses…and teaches the girl next door just what it means to let perfect love cast out fears.

Meet Caleb….From My Foolish Heart!

Caleb Knight had been in Deep Haven less than three hours and God had given him his first opportunity to be a hero.

 "How many people in there?" The petroleum odor of the asphalt poured through him as he laid his cheek against the soggy ground, peering into the overturned Caravan. The driver hung upside down, his belt securing him. A laceration separated his eyebrow, dripping blood into his scalp, his skin white and pasty. He opened his mouth, but nothing emerged.

Already the rain plastered Caleb's T-shirt to his body, his jeans turning to paste, stiffening his movements. Good thing he'd finished moving in the last of his boxes and fallen asleep fully clothed in a heap on the sofa or he'd never have reached the accident so fast.

But that crash, practically right outside his front door, could have woken the dead. "Sir, look at me. Who else is with you?" Getting the victim talking and focused aided in preventing shock.

"My wife . . . my . . ."

Good, the man could speak. Shining his flashlight, Caleb located a woman, unconscious—at least he hoped just unconscious—hanging upside down and bleeding from a wound in her scalp. In the seat behind her hung a toddler still strapped in her car seat. He guessed the child at about three years old and when he flicked his light over her, she jerked, then screamed.

The passenger in the front—probably the father—came to life. He clawed at his belt. "Jamie!"

Caleb grabbed his hand. "I'll get her! Let's get you free." Glass glittered in the frame of the door like teeth, and Caleb shucked off his shirt, wrapped it around his hand, and broke the shards free before he reached in past the man, searching for his belt buckle. "Put your arms around me—I'll try to catch you, but brace yourself." He unlatched the buckle. The man slumped against him. Caleb hooked his hands around his shoulders and backed out, pulling the man with him.

Thank You, God—he didn't fall.

The toddler's screams tore at Caleb as he hobbled away, the man's arm latched over his shoulder.

"My daughter—my wife!"

"I'll get them. Stay here."

He set the man on the curb, glanced down the darkened road, dead and eerie this time of night. Where were the police? Across the street, the other car had begun to flame. He ran over to it, found the driver—a young man the size of a has-been linebacker who reeked like he'd taken the pub home with him—slumped at the wheel. Caleb pressed his finger to his carotid artery but found no pulse.

The flames flickered under the hood, stabbing out like blades around the edges. He tried the door once. It wouldn't move and he left it.

Where was the fire department?

The rain slickened the pavement, more so for him, but he scrambled back to the Caravan and climbed around to the passenger side. He'd done a few vehicle extractions while in Iraq, but then he'd had tools, of course. He leaned in but the woman's girth wouldn't allow him access. He slid his hand across her belly, trying to find the buckle and—

Pregnant. The woman was pregnant. Oh, God, please—

Behind them, the toddler's frantic howls ate at him. "C'mon!" He stifled a word, even as he tried once more to reach the woman's belt. When he yanked his arm back, his hand came away wet, sticky.

Blood.

Caleb pressed his fingers to the woman's carotid artery. Yes, a pulse. For now. "Ma'am, wake up."

"It's on fire—the van's fire!" The voice of the panicked father raked him out of the passenger window. The gasoline from the other car bled a lethal trail to the Caravan and eye-biting smoke blew into the window on the driver's side.

Caleb climbed over to the back passenger door, fought with it. Nothing. He put his weight into it. They'd need jaws . . .

The child's cries turned hysterical and galvanized him. He turned his back to the van, then, with everything inside him, put his elbow through the window.

It shattered, pain spiking up his arm. But he whirled around, sliding over the glass. Flames had already begun to devour the seats, the ceiling fabric, churning acrid smoke into the cab. The toddler thrashed in her seat. He unlatched the first thing he saw—the buckle holding the seat. Catching the car seat, he dragged it out behind him, the toddler still strapped inside.

The father struggled to his feet, and Caleb practically shoved the child into his arms. "Get back!"

"My wife—she's pregnant—"

Now—finally—sirens. Only the man's wife didn't have time, not with the flames now moving across the ceiling.

God, please don't let her burn! Caleb dove inside again, this time shoving himself against the woman, fighting for a handhold on the buckle. He touched it. It sizzled on his skin, but he depressed it.

The woman fell hard against him, He backed out of the window, grabbed her shoulders. He needed more leverage. He would have braced his foot against the vehicle, but of course, he couldn't do that—not and keep his balance.

You have to get used to the fact that you can't do the things you used to.

Collin's voice in his brain only strengthened Caleb's grip on the woman. He pulled her through the window, but her belly scraped against the frame, imprisoning her.

She roused fast, hard, her eyes on his. "I'm burning—I'm burning!"

Burning.

No, he wouldn't go there.

He found his medic's tone, the one he'd honed in Iraq. "I'll get you out." Preserve life in the living. Yes, that voice he'd listen to.

A fire engine pulled up, firefighters swarming into the scene.

She gripped his upper arms, her eyes wide. "Don't leave me—pull me out! Pull me out!"

He forced her body through the window even as she screamed.

Then water. He heard it more than felt it, the rush killing the fire, spitting into the Caravan, drenching him as he slipped, hit the ground.

He nearly cried out as his knee twisted. He struggled to push the woman away, wrenching his leg even more out of whack.

"We have survivors over here—"

He pushed up, lifting himself onto his good knee. Turned to the woman.

An EMT knelt beside her, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. "We need a stretcher over here!" She glanced at Caleb, at the way he held himself, probably at the angry rumpled skin up his rib cage, his arm and shoulder. "Where are you injured, sir?"

He didn't even know where to begin to answer, but that wasn't really her question. "I wasn't in the accident. I'm fine."

Confusion swept across her face; then she turned away, gesturing at two firemen who appeared with a litter to carry the woman to the curb.

Caleb made it to his feet and followed them, limping.

The EMT gave him another stray glance. "You sure you're okay, sir?"

"What took you guys so long?" Behind him, water had killed the fire, the generator for the jaws of life growling into the night as it gnawed open the door of the dead driver.

She frowned at him. "We're volunteers. Seven minutes isn't a terrible response time, considering that most of us were in our pajamas. You got a complaint, talk to the chief."

She gestured to a firefighter, the one with the black hat, and Caleb took a breath, hobbled over to the man. One look told him that volunteer was the operative word. Paunchy, with a day's beard growth and tired eyes, the man looked like someone had dragged him out of his feather bed where he'd been hibernating.

He glanced at Caleb. "You okay, sir?"

"No, I'm not—I want to know why it took you guys seven minutes to get here."

The man pursed his lips and turned away to supervise the removal of the other victim. "Joe, what do you see?"

The firefighter turned, appearing undone by the accident. "It's Zach Miller." He shook his head.

What looked like real pain flashed across the chief's face. He turned back to Caleb. "Are you new in town?"

His question swiped the anger from Caleb. "Uh . . . yeah. I'm the new football coach. Just got here tonight."

The chief stared at him, his eyes narrowing for a second. "Then you should probably know that kid in the car was one of the best defensive tackles in the state a couple years back. And now all his parents and the town are going to remember about him is that he died nearly killing three people."

Caleb had no words for that.

An officer wearing a rain slicker sidled up to them. "Pastor, you want me to talk to the parents?"

The chief shook his head. "I know Marci and Pete. I'll tell them."

Pastor? Caleb gave the man a long look. He could appreciate a preacher who ministered with action as well as words.

Caleb turned, watching the EMTs trundle the woman, now sedated, into the ambulance, the lights splashing red and yellow light across the nightmare. "I'm sorry about the kid." He didn't look at the pastor.

"I hate this intersection. In the winter, or whenever it rains, that hill becomes a sheet of ice. It's killed more people than I want to think about." The chief blew out a breath. "Listen—you probably saved three lives tonight. But if you have a complaint, feel free to get involved. Come down to the station, join the crew." He took off his glove, held out his hand. "Dan Matthews."

Caleb met his grip, nonplussed by the chief's offer. Maybe the darkness hid him more than he suspected. "Caleb Knight."

"Nice to meet you, Coach."

Coach. Yes, that had a ring to it Caleb craved. "I would love to, but . . . " That part of his life was over, despite his desire to save lives, invest in people. "I don't think so."

"Shame. We could use someone with your instincts."

Caleb backed away, to the curb.

The blonde EMT shut the back of the rig. "You should get that leg looked at."

Yeah, he should do that.

But, frankly, he spent way too much time looking at his leg. Or perhaps trying not to. That was the battle, wasn't it?

The rain began to slack as he limped home. He hadn't realized how smack in the center of town he lived—on the corner a half-block up the hill from the highway intersection, with a view of the lake, and within walking distance to the library, grocery store, gas station, and coffee shop. And, on the other side of the highway, a quaint downtown that overlooked Lake Superior.

Maybe here he could find a new life. A fresh start. A place where people saw Caleb Knight, not his scars.

The porch light sprayed out over the backyard of the house next door, although the lights upstairs had flicked off since he'd moved the last box in.

Maybe the neighbor, too, had voices in his head that kept him thrashing away the night hours.

Your life is different now, but you'll get used to it.

There's no shame.

You're a hero for your country.

Your disability can be a good thing, if you let it.

Sure it could. Although it had opened his eyes to God's grace, to second chances, and set his eyes on being the man he should have been. The man he would be.

But it didn't make it any easier to sleep. Not when the sounds and smells of the desert, the taste of fear and his own tinny blood, could crawl back to haunt him. Hence his addiction to late-night talk shows. They filed his brain with sounds that couldn't hurt.

Hopefully he could get an Internet connection, pick up The Bean.

Caleb steadied himself on the porch rail as he climbed the steps. He stopped to rest, to breathe deep. He had to get inside before someone saw him.

Then again, it had to be after midnight Who would see the new football coach limping to his house?

He opened his door.

Closing it, he braced himself on the side table. Ten more steps. He could do ten more steps.

No . . . he couldn't, not with the heat in his leg nearly making him howl. He turned around, leaned his back against the door, and collapsed to the floor. Fighting with his cuff, he tried to pull up his pants leg. Shoot, he couldn't get at it . . .

So he unbuckled his belt and peeled down his jeans. Then, with hands that shook, he reached down and rolled off the elastic sock that connected his transtibial amputation to his artificial leg.

(excerpted with permission, Susan May Warren, My Foolish Heart)

Customer Service

For most of my high school career, I worked at Dayton's Department store, in the accessories department (hence, probably why I love hats, gloves, scarves, all those little essentials that make an outfit complete.  Stacy, you can call me anytime if you're looking for assistance.) I loved working there, helping people find just the right gift or accessory.  The week after Christmas, however, I wanted to hide behind my little glove-filled counter. We had piles of returns, hours and hours or restocking, not to mention the stress of trying to figure out the price for refund on some glove purchased in September of 1952.  People returning items, even without a price tag or receipt are often rude, even demanding of their money back (for a gift!)  I was appalled…but had to keep my mouth shut because…the customer is always right. 

Not, apparently, anymore. 

Even when yes, the customer is right.  What happened to just doing the right thing by a customer?

For example…two weeks ago, I dropped off my friend Sandra Bishop, very patient and amazing literary agent late to the airport, but in time for her flight to Portland.

The flight left early, stranding Sandra in Duluth. Even though she'd checked in at the hotel. Did they send her a text, informing her?  Nope. Just left early.  Did they make it right…?  Sorta…but they charged her $50 to change her ticket, and never mind the overnight lodging.

Did I mention they left early? 

Last weekend, I spent two extra days in Moline, Iowa because apparently one of the four runways at the Moline airport caved in, and according to Delta, they couldn't change runways to get my flight out.  (Or something like that.)  So, although other carriers were flying out, did Delta change my flight?  Did they offer me mileage or pay for my two day hotel stay? 

No. 

Did they care that I missed two days of work, or that when I called customer service, I was treated rudely, almost with annoyance?  Nope.  I'm just the customer, after all. 

I arrived home to discover our internet service was down.  It's still down, a week later.  Did we call the company numerous times?  Yes.  Did we use our inside voices, even four days later?  Yes.  Did we shout when, after a week, they said they were going to charge us $700 for a service call?  Nope. (but we wanted to).  We just cancelled our service.

Because, well, I'm tired of being the customer who is always, apparently, in the wrong.

Thankfully, God doesn't treat us like this. God has great customer service.  See, when life decides to cancel my flights, God sends me reinforcements. 

Enter, Gail and Suzy.  Suzy was my ride to the airport in Moline.  Gail was the woman who adopted me when I attended church with Suzy and her family instead.  Gail and Suzy babysat me all day Sunday (and offered more), and even took me to Whitey's Ice Cream Shoppe.  Gail and Suzy were God's customer service.

And, God gives me member rewards, too. The frustrations of the past three weeks lessened this weekend as I ran away for a sanity break with these rascals.

I admit, there are times when I wonder if God is listening to my struggles, if he is cognizant of the times life treats me unfairly.

Um…yeah. It is the Holy Week after all. Jesus got the worst customer service in the history of the world, so he knows a little about our struggles. In fact, I believe He has the best "customer service" policy in the universe.

God's Customer Service blows my mind, actually. Makes me put my hand over my mouth.

The ranting stops here.

Happy Holy Week!