tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-213105022024-03-13T13:42:05.108-04:00The Write LifeShirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.comBlogger236125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-66372717508215471922017-07-25T18:46:00.000-04:002017-07-25T18:53:43.217-04:00Release Day (And Beautiful You)Today is release day for <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1420139312/ref=x_gr_w_bb?ie=UTF8&tag=x_gr_w_bb-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1420139312&SubscriptionId=1MGPYB6YW3HWK55XCGG2">Bittersweet</a>!<br />
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This book is darker and grittier than the other two Home Sweet Home books. Both the hero and the heroine have traumatic pasts. Both have lost people they loved. Both had their childhoods stolen. Both are strong and resilient characters who refuse to let their pasts define them. </div>
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The book is getting good reviews. Publisher's Weekly said: <span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><a href="https://www.publishersweekly.com/978-1-4201-3931-0"><span style="font-size: 17px;">McCoy (</span><span style="font-size: 17px;">Sweet Haven</span><span style="font-size: 17px;">) impressively mixes traumatic history, gritty reality, and resilient hope in the final book of the Home Sweet Home contemporary trilogy....</span></a></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">That makes me happy, but what makes me happier is knowing that the book I wrote during some of the most difficult times in my life is out in the world and being read by people who just might need to be reminded that the past is only a small part of who they are. </span></div>
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We are molded and shaped, pummeled, broken and patched together by our experiences. Everything we've been through becomes part of who we are. Yet, it isn't our hardships, our triumphs, our failures, our mistakes or our successes that define us. We are defined by a creator who sees the essence of who we are- all the darkness, the sadness, the anger, the hurt and the ugliness- and still calls us loved. </div>
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Whatever your past, no matter your struggles, I hope when you look in the mirror you see the truth: You are innately valuable, uniquely beautiful and undeniably worthy of love. </div>
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Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-14553214742151405522017-05-27T20:31:00.002-04:002017-05-27T20:48:08.484-04:00Benevolence (And Other Good Things)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's been a long while since I blogged.<br />
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In November of last year, my niece ran a fever and had minor swelling in her belly. She went to the doctor, was diagnosed with a mass in her abdomen and was sent to the hospital. It happened very quickly. No warning signs. No hints that something was growing in her 9-year-old pelvis until the fever and that little stomach bulge. She was healthy as a horse until she wasn't.<br />
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The scans were alarming:<br />
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That dark stuff? It was tumor. We didn't know much. Just that there would be a biopsy and that it didn't look good.<br />
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My sister and her family live in Houston, so my mother and I hopped on a plane and flew to Texas.<br />
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We were there the day of the biopsy. We were in the waiting room when the surgeon came to get my sister and brother-in-law. When my brother-in-law came out alone, we knew it was bad news. That was the day Sara and Nate learned that their daughter had cancer. I'm not going to go into details of the aftermath. I'll only say that it was the most heartbreaking moment of any of our lives.<br />
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Aaliyah's cancer is rare and aggressive. It had invaded her pelvis to the point where it was impossible to see where it had begun. She would need many rounds of chemo, then surgery, then radiation, then more chemo. Even with all that, there was a chance the cancer could not be removed completely.<br />
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So, we prayed, we planned, we feared and we hoped.<br />
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Chemo began - 3 and 5 day rounds that were in-patient treatments. That meant Sara or Nate had to be at the hospital. They have three other children. It was tough. It still is.<br />
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My mother flew out several times to help. My father went with her twice. My sisters flew out. Nate's mother flew out a couple of times. We wanted to be there <i>all</i> the time, but our lives are in other places. We all have families and commitments.<br />
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There were gaps when none of us could be with Sara's family, and in those gaps, Sara's community stood.<br />
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Meals were made. Money was donated. Toys were bought for a Christmas that was coming much too quickly after such a horrifying diagnosis. One of Sara's friends owns a cleaning service and sent maids in to clean Sara's house. Kids were picked up from activities. Ribbons were hung from trees.<br />
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Love was shown.<br />
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I've been writing a series of books set in a town called Benevolence.<br />
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I chose the name because it made me think of gentle things at a time when I really needed to believe that those things existed - kindness, honesty, love and sacrifice.<br />
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Life can be hard.<br />
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Lupus makes it harder.<br />
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I could dwell in that or a dozen other unhappy things.<br />
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But, Benevolence exists. It lives in the same places that hatred resides - families, churches, synagogues, communities and neighborhoods. We choose what to look at, what to focus on, what to hold close to our hearts.<br />
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<i>What to be</i>.<br />
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Because the things we hold close, the things we focus on, those are the things we become.<br />
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So, I hold this close:<br />
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<i>The exceptional generosity of a community to a family in need. </i><br />
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<i>My niece's scan after several rounds of chemotherapy. There is no visible sign of tumor.</i><br />
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<i>My writing which continues despite my illness</i>. </div>
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<i>The joy I feel when I spend time with those I love</i>.<br />
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<i>The satisfaction of knowing that I am doing what I am meant to</i>.<br />
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<i>Puppy kisses. (This is Clover. We plan to train him for therapy work!)</i>.<br />
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<i>Love. Which, at its core, is empathy, compassion, sacrifice and service, and which leads to heroic deeds, to small acts of kindness, and to everything wonderful in between.</i><br />
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In March, the first book in my Bradshaw Brothers series will be released. Like the Home Sweet Home books, this series is set in Benevolence, Washington. I love that quaint little fictional town and the characters who live there, and I am very happy to dwell there for a while longer.<br />
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Three bachelor brothers. Six orphaned kids. Finding the one place that is home. I hope those things will be a winning combination for my readers.<br />
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But, I want you to know something.<br />
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As I'm writing, I won't just be thinking of the fictional town with the lovely name. I'll be thinking about Cypress, Texas, and the wonderful people who live there. I will be thinking about the way they exemplified benevolence when my sister needed it most. I'll be thinking about family. I'll be thinking about the best things in life and how they shape us to be our best selves.<br />
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And, I'll be thinking about you, hoping that you will find soft and gentle places to land.<br />
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<i>If you have time and inclination, please pray for my niece. Aaliyah still has a long journey ahead, but our hope rests in Him. And, He is able to do exceedingly and abundantly more than we could ask or imagine (Ephesians 3:20). </i><br />
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<br />Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-91831090799933857102016-10-28T16:30:00.000-04:002016-10-28T16:49:15.688-04:00Goodbye (to the me I used to be)<br />
So, here I am.<br />
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Thinking about how quickly summer passed and how swiftly winter is approaching.<br />
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The last time I blogged, I'd just had a book released.<br />
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About a week after that, I had a run in with a bug. He left me with this (can you even see it?):<br />
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Which (over the course of a couple of weeks) turned into this bit of loveliness:</div>
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It's been a Lupie couple of months since then. I've had a lot of appointments and blood tests, and I've found myself waking up in the morning wondering where the me I used to be went.<br />
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I look in the mirror and I see someone I don't know. She's this oddly disjointed version of the person I was. Thinner and sallow-looking, haggard and worn. At times, I feel like a shadow of myself, and I miss the person who could jump out of bed and race through the day, who could stay up late into the night writing and wake up in the morning refreshed. I miss the person who didn't get tired out from conversations, who didn't spend half of her day wondering if she had time to take a nap. The person who didn't spend the first fifteen minutes of every morning hobbling around on stiff feet and painful ankles.<br />
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I miss her, but I don't want her back.<br />
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Don't get me wrong. I want my health. I crave that more than just about anything. I want to wake up one morning and feel great. It hasn't happened yet, but I'm holding out hope. My primary doctor and I had a nice long chat about how insidious lupus is and how difficult to treat. It effects everyone in different ways and until there is a cure, all the doctors can really hope to do is keep the immune system under control and prevent destruction of healthy organs and tissue.<br />
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"I'm waiting," she said. "For the cure."<br />
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So, am I.<br />
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But, even if a cure were to happen tomorrow, I will have been changed by this disease.<br />
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And, while I mourn who I was, I can't be sorry for who I've become.<br />
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I find myself much more gentle as I go about this thing called living. Mostly, I have realized that my journey does not have to be a mad dash to the finish line. It can be a slow waltz at midnight, a rambling stroll at dusk. It can be standing in the shelter of an old sweet gum tree and finding a luna moth there.<br />
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The world is filled with so many wondrous things.<br />
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And, I have no choice but to walk slowly and see them.<br />
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I can't be sorry about that.<br />
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I think as you read my newer books you will see what I have seen - the velveteen sheen of twilight roses, the soft golden glow of dandelions at dawn, and the gently sloping road that leads us all toward home.<br />
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This month, my Apple Valley Novella was released as part of a Fern Michaels anthology. Next month, the sixth book in my Mission:Rescue series will be released.<br />
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I am so blessed to continue to do what I love. As much as I despise Lupus for what it has taken from me, I must acknowledge what it has given: a clear sense of time and mortality, a pristine view of the miraculous hidden in the stillness of a foggy fall morning, and a deep desire to share what I have seen in the only way I can. I hope that when you read my books, you will hear the spring rain pattering on the windows, you will smell chocolate and wood-burning fires, you will see through my eyes how the world could be if we loved a little more and griped a little less.<br />
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Peace to you on your journey. Wherever it may lead!<br />
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<span class="small-caps" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">God</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">made my life complete</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-18-20-Ps-18-24" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">when I placed all the pieces before him.</span></span></div>
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<span class="text Ps-18-20-Ps-18-24" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;"></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="text Ps-18-20-Ps-18-24" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">When I got my act together,</span></span></div>
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</span><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-18-20-Ps-18-24" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">he gave me a fresh start.</span></div>
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Now I’m alert to <span class="small-caps" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-numeric: normal;">God</span>’s ways;</div>
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<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-18-20-Ps-18-24" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">I don’t take God for granted.</span></div>
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Every day I review the ways he works;</div>
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<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-18-20-Ps-18-24" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">I try not to miss a trick.</span></div>
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I feel put back together,</div>
</span><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-18-20-Ps-18-24" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">and I’m watching my step.</span></div>
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<span class="small-caps" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-numeric: normal;">God</span> rewrote the text of my life</div>
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<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-18-20-Ps-18-24" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">when I opened the book of my heart to his eyes.</span></div>
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Psalm 18:20-24</div>
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<br />Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-86134925229397355962016-07-26T10:40:00.001-04:002016-07-26T10:56:15.797-04:00Release Day!<br />
It's release day for SWEET SURPRISES.<br />
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Another book written during the toughest times of my illness, this book was produced through sheer grit and determination. It seems appropriate that the heroine of the book is also filled with grit and determination. She's had some tough turns of fortune, and she's returning home to gain perspective and come up with a plan to begin again.<br />
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In some ways, her character is a grown-up version of my oldest daughter - tough and strong on the outside with a soft sweet spirit that always longs for home and family.<br />
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Brenna doesn't plan to stay in the tiny little town of Benevolence, Washington, but family and love are calling her back. What she finds there? It's something she didn't even realize she was missing.<br />
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I have said before that we should write what we know, and when it comes to the Home Sweet Home series, I am living that trite advice.<br />
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Last summer, family called me home.<br />
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After being diagnosed with an incurable and chronic disease, I realized how far away from home I really was. My husband, kids and I had moved to Spokane, Washington eight years before. I had friends, a nice group of church family, and (of course) Marge.<br />
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But, when I realized how sick I was, I knew that I wanted to go home. And, so, my family and I moved back across the country to the DC suburbs. I found myself wrapped in the comfort of the familiar, drawn deep into that tender dance that family does - the one that involves so many disparate people, moving around each other with grace and understanding, frustration and acceptance.<br />
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I discovered in those first weeks and months that everything had changed and nothing had. I was still my parents' daughter. My mother still love to feed me great food, and my father still loved to eat my homemade bread. They still liked to give me advice, and I still liked to do my own thing.<br />
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My siblings were still my staunchest supporters, my greatest allies. The people I had grown up with who had seen me at my worst and at my best.<br />
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We could still laugh together, tease each other, support each other.<br />
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It seems so strange now, but it it is the truth: While I wrote about Brenna Lamont, I lived a very small part of her story, learning to fit back into the rhythm of my family. <br />
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If you want to understand what I value and what I believe, you can find my world-view woven into every book that I write. The Home Sweet Home series gave me the opportunity to go deeper than that, to explore what family means, how it defines and shapes and changes us. We are -whether we want to admit it or not - created by our family experiences. Good or bad, they mold who we are. As we grow and mature and change, it isn't a bad thing to revisit that. Perhaps we need to heal from old wounds. Perhaps we need a place to hide from new ones. Perhaps we just need to understand a little more about who we are and <i>why </i>we are. <br />
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As SWEET SURPRISES hits the shelves, I'm beginning my newest project for Kensington. A trilogy about three brothers who return home to care for their six orphaned nieces and nephews, it's also set in Benevolence. It is about creating something strong and lasting out of the ashes of a very traumatic past. It is about binding family together with the frayed chords of childhood memories. Like every other book I write, it is - at its core- about love and belonging and acceptance. It is about hope and faith. It is about family and home.<br />
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It is about the things I know best and love most.<br />
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I'm looking forward to the new writing adventure.<br />
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I'm also looking forward to seeing the cover for the third book in the Home Sweet Home series. BITTERSWEET will be out next summer!<br />
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It has been a hard year, but it has been a good one.<br />
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Happy release day to me!<br />
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Happy Tuesday to you!<br />
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Whatever else this week brings, I hope it leads you closer to the place you call home.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">For You have been my help, and in the shadow of Your wings, I sing for joy. </span></div>
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<br />Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-67224630212177670612016-07-12T17:51:00.002-04:002016-07-12T17:57:26.637-04:00Just One StepI woke up this morning needing a nap. When I say I needed nap, I mean that everything inside of me was tired. Every muscle. Every cell. Every nerve.<br />
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I got out of bed and stood in the 6 o'clock gloom, and I knew it wasn't going to happen today: Driving kids back and forth to work. Writing. Cleaning. 10K steps. Conversations. <i>Life.</i><br />
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This is my reality:<br />
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In the past 18 months, I have seen 3 rheumatologists. I have had countless blood tests. I have been diagnosed with lupus three times, at three separate offices, in three different ways. Not once did I hear the words I wanted to: <i>Actually, you don't have lupus. You have (fill in the blank). It's completely curable. Pop these pills three times a day for a week, and you'll be good as new. </i></div>
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No matter how much I wanted it to be different, all those doctor visits led me to the same door - the one that opened into this new reality: I am in a constant battle against myself. And, it is exhausting. </div>
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I had big goals for today. Big plans. Huge amounts of work I wanted to get done.</div>
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And, I woke up this morning and I knew that I couldn't accomplish them.</div>
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But, then....</div>
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<i>Then,</i> I thought about what is expected of me. Not to finish first. Not to keep up with the sprinters, the marathon runners, the medal wearers. But, simply, to keep on. </div>
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Even if that means walking, limping, crawling to the finish line. </div>
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I have discovered this past year and a half, that life is not about the big dreams, the huge goals, the end results. It's about giving everything we have even when all we have is just a tiny bit of what is needed. I can't write the way I used to, but I can write. Not six-thousand words at a sitting, but one word and then another until what I want to write and need to write has been written. It is amazing what being faithful in the small things will bring: </div>
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And, so, today.....</div>
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Today, I told myself I only had to write one word, walk one step, sweep one floor. I told myself that I didn't have to do it all, I just had to do something. Because a little bit of something eventually adds up to a lot, but a lot of nothing is still nothing.</div>
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I sat down and wrote my word and was surprised to see it become one thousand. </div>
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I walked one step and was surprised to see that one step turn into six thousand. </div>
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I swept one floor and was amazed to vacuum three more. </div>
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And, now, I am here. Writing to you, because I told myself that I would do this, too. One sentence, but you can see it is much more. </div>
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This has been the story of my life this year. It has been the truth I have had to learn to embrace. I can't do what I used to, but I can do something. More importantly, no matter how small, how painful, how insignificant my faltering steps might be, if they are carrying me along the path God has set, they <i>will</i> be enough. </div>
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After all, He is the one who fed five thousand with five loaves of bread and two fish.</div>
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He is the one who praised the widow who gave her all even though her all was just two coins.</div>
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He is the one who sacrificed Himself once for all. </div>
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And in Him, our small gifts and meager accomplishments stretch beyond the limitations of our abilities and become more than what they should be, more than what we thought they could be. </div>
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I hope you remember that when your days are hard. I hope you think about it when you feel like nothing you do matters. When every step seems to lead to another dead-end or another closed door, I hope you know that as broken and wounded and hurt as we are, what we have in Him is always enough for the task ahead of us. </div>
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Blessings for your day, my friend. </div>
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H<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">e gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. </span></div>
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Isaiah 40:29</div>
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Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-1963815834037177472016-07-06T10:39:00.001-04:002016-07-21T09:41:46.820-04:00What I've Learned From Marjorie Mae (Life Goes On)<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I agree. But no one is asking us.</span></div>
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~Marjorie Mae Garrison </div>
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I have a few favorite people in my life, and Marjorie Mae is
one of them.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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We’re nearly 5 decades apart in age, but the moment I met
her, I knew we were cut from the same cloth. We are both strong and pragmatic
about our faith. We are both driven by our need to serve. We both love our
families and our church. We are both very stubborn, quietly opinionated, and
prone to think a lot of things that we’d never say (except to each other and
our closest friends and family). We have a fondness for IHOP pancakes, hash
browns and sausage. She likes coffee. I drink tea. But we forgive each other
for that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve known Marjorie Mae for nearly eight years, and I’ve
learned a lot from her. <o:p></o:p></div>
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How could I not? <o:p></o:p></div>
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She lived through the Great Depression, the Dust Bowl, WWII,
Korea, Vietnam. She attended college, married, taught school, raised children.
She planted churches, spread the gospel, sang in the choir and ran her home. She
witnessed Hitler’s attempt to take over world and communism’s success in taking
over China. She was alive when the bomb
dropped on Hiroshima and when man took his first step on the moon. She lived
through the Cold War, Cuban Missile Crisis, the assassination of a president, race riots,
gas shortages, Gulf War, 911. She’s seen it all – days when good triumphs and
days when evil seems to win and times when what is right is called wrong and
what is wrong is called right. <o:p></o:p></div>
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She has perspective born of experience and time. Those two things can’t be artificially created. Only
someone who has lived long and seen lots can really grasp the expansiveness of the human spirit and the fleeting breath of a person's life. </div>
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Knowing Marge has taught me a lot about pressing on during hard
times and being grateful and content during good ones. Being around her has taught
me that pain is only a thing we must put up with while we focus on the bright
and beautiful lives we’ve been given.There are many weeks when I sprint through my days,
forgetting how quickly time is passing. I sit at my desk writing my stories, or
I drive my kids here there and everywhere. I obsess on my pains and my illness
and my fatigue, and I worry that my life won’t be the beautiful story I want it
to be. </div>
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And, then Monday comes and Marge calls me or I call her, and
she catches me up on the lives of all the people she cares about. She tells me
that her back hurts and her knees bother her, but why complain? </div>
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When I talk to her, I am reminded that on the
other side of every problem is a solution, that there is a peak to every
mountain and a sweet down-hill slope on the other side that will always bring us
home. For every moment of ugliness there is a moment of stunning beauty, and for every aching beat of our broken hearts there is a pulse-pounding moment of pure joy. </div>
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That is life, my friends, and we are meant to live it. To hook deep into the eternal while we move through the temporary, to understand that it is not the daily battle that is important, but the tapestry that is being woven by the threads of every broken dream, every crushed hope, every deep sorrow, every pain, every extraordinary passion, every glorious victory, every moment of faith, of joy, of hope and of love. Our lives are not made of individual moments. They are made of every moment. </div>
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So, wherever you are, whatever hurdle you are jumping, whatever pit you are trying to climb out of, whatever sorrow or sickness or trial you face, I hope that you remember what Marjorie Mae has taught me. If there is faith in the darkest hour, there will always be joy when the light returns. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom. </span></div>
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Psalm 90:12</div>
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Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-15474016901838058242016-05-22T15:53:00.000-04:002016-05-22T17:19:12.241-04:00Write What You Know (Trite Advice That is Totally True)<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I still chase the ladies. I just don't know what to do with them once I catch them anymore. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">~ Bob</span></div>
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So...I got some great news. Which, I am not sharing (yet). Ha!<br />
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However, in the course of giving me the good news, <a href="http://knightagency.net/about-us/">Melissa Jeglinski</a> (my wonderful literary agent who is <i>the</i> best thing to ever happen to my writing career) said something along the lines of, "I can see this leading to blog posts about writing what you know."<br />
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<i>Writing what you know: </i>A sage piece of advice handed out to aspiring authors everywhere.<br />
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Years ago, before <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Still-Waters-Shirlee-McCoy-ebook/dp/B003FV7GVW?ie=UTF8&ref_=asap_bc">Still Waters</a> was published, I heard that advice all the time. It seemed so commonsense-ical that I paid almost no attention to the words or the meaning behind them. As an elementary school teacher and homeschooling mother, I had no plans to write about drug runners, mob families or, even, murder. Interestingly enough, I've written about all of those things.<br />
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Fact #1 about me: I have a good and very vivid imagination.<br />
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Fact #2: I have friends and family who have careers that give them insight into things that I know nothing about it.<br />
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So, yes, I've written about many things that I know almost nothing about, and, frankly, I have no desire to write about teaching or homeschooling. It's my life. Why would I want to write fiction about it? Honestly, I've never thought the write-what-you-know thing worked for me, because I write about things I don't know.<br />
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But, today....<br />
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Today, I met Bob.<br />
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Bob and I have run into each other before. Once in November, when I dropped a few dollars in his bucket and he handed me a red poppy. I know he doesn't remember that, but I do. When he appeared again a few weeks back, I dropped a couple more dollars in the bucket and took another red poppy. As I walked away, that little voice I should never ever ignore whispered that I needed to get to know the guy.<br />
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I ignored it.<br />
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Life is busy. I am busy. I am tired. I am sick.<br />
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I have many excuses for ignoring the voice.<br />
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Last week, I saw the guy again, and I put another couple of dollars in and I took another poppy and I walked away wondering who he was and what his story was and why I thought I was too tired and busy to find out.<br />
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Today, I ran to the store for some medicine. There he was again, and when I came out, I tossed a couple of dollars in the bucket, that little voice whispering frantically that this was my chance and I shouldn't blow it.<br />
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For once, I listened.<br />
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I asked him where he'd served. He told me Korea and Vietnam. He was a pilot, and he showed me a photo to prove it. I saw his name and a date scrawled across the black and white picture, and I was hooked.<br />
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And, so, Bob and I met. A forty-something writer and an eighty-something vet. He asked if I knew who Debbie Reynolds was.<br />
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I did.<br />
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He'd flown her to Korea during the war. According to him, she wanted to learn how to fly, and he let her sit in the cockpit. I learned a lot of things in a very short amount of time, today. I learned that Bob once had a German girlfriend who got him a fake passport on the black market (for the price of a pack of cigarettes). I learned that he snuck into the Russian part of Germany to meet his girlfriend's parents. When he was stopped, he showed the fake passport and pretended to be a deaf mute. I learned that Bob's uncle served during WWII, and that he passed away last year at the ripe old age of 101. Bob's other uncle is currently going strong at 99. Bob is hoping to do the same, but he says that if I don't see him in the same spot in the fall, I can look for him in the obituaries.<br />
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I don't plan to find him there.<br />
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I plan to see him in November when he's collecting for VFW again. I want to hear more about Bob and his ordinary extraordinary life. Now that we've met, I won't forget him, and I won't let him be forgotten.<br />
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If you read my books, you'll get a chance to meet Bob. He'll be written into the pages as a secondary character. Look for him, and you'll find him, wearing his VFW cap and his grin. He'll tell his story in his own way. I'll just be the narrator, writing what his hat and his grin and his words have told me.<br />
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So, maybe I do write what I know, because what I know are people. I'm not good at many things, but I am good at being a friend. I am good at listening. I am good at hearing what people say and what they don't. Maybe it's because I am an introvert. Maybe because I was always a little awkward, a little shy, a little quiet when I was a kid. Maybe it is because I find people fascinating, their stories beautiful and ugly and wonderful and horrible and everything in between. <br />
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If you read my books, you will see them. You will learn their names and their gestures, their personalities. You will learn what drives them and what scares them and what their deepest beliefs are. In every word I write, there are hints of the people I love, of the relationships I have, of the sorrows and joys and friendships I've shared. Often, there are people who I have run into just once- men and women who, like Bob, need their stories told- woven into the fabric of my books.<br />
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The truth is, if I don't write Bob and Marge and Radley and Raina and Gertrude and Byron and Old Zimmerman Beck, if I don't put down on paper the story of the strange sad woman in Silver Spring who screams for hours as the sun sets, who will?<br />
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How will the world know, in a hundred years, that they existed?<br />
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Will their names be forgotten or will they live on, written into books that might, one day, be discovered on dusty shelves or in dimly lit attics? Will someone, many many years from now, read about Bob or Marge or Radley or Gertrude, and wonder if their characters were based off of real people, living real lives, doing real things?<br />
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Write what you know....<br />
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It has more meaning than I thought, and a lot more depth than I imagined. It's not just about careers or hobbies or knowledge. It's about heart, about soul, about values and connections. It is about putting down on paper what lives inside us.<br />
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That is a scary thing, but it is also wonderful, because when we truly write what we know, we spell out the messages of our hearts in words and sentences and paragraphs. In black and white, we describe the world as only we can see it.<br />
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So, my friend, write what you know, because what you know should be shared.<br />
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Write what you know, because what you know is valuable.<br />
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Write what you know because you must, and then be happy with what you've written. No matter what the critics say or the world says or your friends say. Be happy, because you've done what only you can do: Written pieces of your heart into the world and left them there for someone else to find.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As water reflects the face, so one's life reflects the heart.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> Proverbs 27:19</span></div>
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<br />Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-82857971416677558692016-05-01T15:07:00.000-04:002016-05-01T15:16:56.771-04:00The Beauty of My Emptiness<div>
Lupus life is hard. I'm not going to lie. </div>
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Still, I've completed two books since my last blog post, and I've written two proposals. I've seen cover art for two projects and copy edited two others.<br />
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I've dutifully walked ten-thousand steps every day, driven kids all over creation, corrected school work, vacuumed floors, dusted furniture, washed clothes. </div>
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I've had conversations with people I love, and I've had conversations with people I don't know.</div>
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I've met a stranger and learned his name, and now I call him Ricardo when I pass him on the street. He calls me Sweetie, and we smile. </div>
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I've been living my life while you've been living yours. Some days are good and some days are hard, and some days it seems like too much effort to even stand. </div>
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Today is Sunday. </div>
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I have been to church. I have sung the songs. I have listened to the sermon, and I have heard the word of God spoken with reverence, but now I am sitting, because my feet hurt, my knees ache, my fingers throb when I type. My inner ear inflammation is back and I list to the right when I walk. I feel as if I'm staggering around like a drunken sailor. </div>
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Truth? I am at the crossroads of self-pity and faith, and only I can choose which direction to turn.<br />
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So, I sit and listen to the silence and find the stunning beauty of my emptiness. </div>
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<i>Empty things can be filled, </i>I tell myself. <i>Broken vessels can be mended. </i><i>Beauty can be found in the ugliness, if we look hard</i> <i>enough</i>. </div>
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Even when I am so tired I cannot stand, I know these things are true. It is in our very imperfection and incompleteness that God meets us. It is in our emptiness, in our silence, in our deep need for connection, that He makes Himself known. </div>
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He is the God of the broken.</div>
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And, we are all broken vessels waiting to be mended and filled. </div>
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That is good to remember on a day like today.<br />
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It is good to remember always.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;">How exquisite your love, O God!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-36-7-Ps-36-9" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">How eager we are to run under your wings,</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-small;"><span class="text Ps-36-7-Ps-36-9" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px; position: relative;">To eat our fill at the banquet you spread</span></span></div>
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</span><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-36-7-Ps-36-9" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">as you fill our tankards with Eden spring water.</span></div>
</span><span class="text Ps-36-7-Ps-36-9" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px; position: relative;"><div style="text-align: center;">
You’re a fountain of cascading light,</div>
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<span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-36-7-Ps-36-9" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">and you open our eyes to light. ~Psalm 36:7-9</span></div>
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Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-38641375596465982382016-03-31T16:19:00.002-04:002016-03-31T16:27:21.156-04:00Thursday's Thoughts: Sometimes We Have to Lose to Win<div class="MsoNormal">
It is the last day of March, and it is my daughter's birthday.</div>
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She is fourteen. We have shared 7 birthdays together. She spent 3 birthdays in an orphanage and 4 birthdays with her foster family in China. </div>
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7 without.</div>
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7 with. </div>
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She lost a lot to become ours. </div>
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I am never more aware of that than I am on the day of her birth. </div>
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I think it could be a sad story, this one that she has to tell. It could be about losing and about mourning and about knowing that you have a biological family somewhere in the world that you have not met and, maybe, never will. It could also be a happy story. One about being found and being loved and settling into a family that will last forever. </div>
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But, it's her story to share. At fourteen, she may not be quite sure how she wants it told. </div>
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And, while it is true that the books of our lives are now intricately connected, that ours and hers has become simply and beautifully <i>ours</i>, there is still the prologue, the set-up, the beginning that came before<i> our </i>beginning. The time when we were only six, and she was only one. </div>
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This is the first glimpse we had of our daughter:</div>
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And, the first glimpse she had of her siblings. </div>
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We sent the picture to China along with a few others. We sent her a book and we sent her a cake, and she celebrated her 7th birthday with her China family, eating cake and being told that someday soon she would leave everything she loved to be with another family. </div>
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An incomprehensible thing for a child who'd started life here:</div>
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to have to lose everything to gain something else. It is not surprising that she didn't want to come. </div>
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Today, I mentioned that this was her seventh birthday with our family. She had now had the same numbers of birthdays with us that she had had without. The discussion meandered along as it usually does, and I mentioned her first official birthday cake. The one we'd sent. I asked if she remembered telling her China mom that she didn't want to come to America. </div>
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She laughed. Just like she always does when I mention it. </div>
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Of course she remembers. Just like she remembers that she thought I'd be skinny and blond with fancy clothes and lots of money. </div>
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Yeah. That's not quite the person who went to China to get her!</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A_K7igWib5c/TOMfr8Vt1NI/AAAAAAAACjI/1Wl70Gm8oU8RYUupZj2ypcrS2E0SYOxeQ/s1600/672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-A_K7igWib5c/TOMfr8Vt1NI/AAAAAAAACjI/1Wl70Gm8oU8RYUupZj2ypcrS2E0SYOxeQ/s320/672.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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"You lost out on that one, kid," I said, laughing.</div>
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She grabbed my hand, and she looked into my eyes.</div>
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"You know what, Mom?" she said. "Sometimes we have to lose to win." </div>
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Today is the last day of March.</div>
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It's my daughter's fourteenth birthday, and she thinks she won when she met me. </div>
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I think we both did. </div>
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Happy birthday, Cheeky girl! I would lose a million times over if it meant getting to be your mom!</div>
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Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-28780504122996257592016-03-19T18:28:00.001-04:002016-03-19T21:48:29.131-04:00Saturday Secrets: Sometimes Love Wins<div class="MsoNormal">
My son bought me lunch yesterday. </div>
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This is the third time in
two months that I’ve picked him up from work and been handed a Subway sandwich
and a cold drink. He always remembers
the straw, and he always hands me the bag with just a hint of bashfulness and
pride written on his face.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I always take his offering, and I eat every bite and drink every sip. Whether I am hungry
or not. Whether my lupus has made me sick again or not. I eat that sandwich,
and I drink that drink, and I thank him sincerely for the gift because, really,
his thoughtfulness means the world to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Because, that sandwich? It’s a symbol of how far we’ve come
and how much we’ve learned. It is a symbol of love that persists even as it is
challenged and changed. It is a statement, and it says -<i>Sometimes, love wins</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Seth was a darling baby and an adorable little boy. Everyone
who met him loved him. He had (and has)
the greatest smile, the cutest dimples, the bluest eyes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>The strongest will.</i></div>
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We fought epic battles, the two of us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He threw screaming tantrums over simple requests (Like –
Please, pick up your toys). He slammed doors. Kicked walls. Threw toys with so
much passion they dented walls. I constantly felt as if I were in a war I was
destined to lose. I was <i>that</i> mother. You know the one – standing
in the grocery store, her kid lying on the floor, screaming his head off. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Things were so bad that my kids’ pediatrician – after seeing
Seth throw a raging tantrum in her office – asked if I wanted a referral to a
behavioral psychologist. <o:p></o:p></div>
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He was four. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was tired. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’d been in the midst of this battle since the day he’d
kicked me in Target because I’d refused to give him a toy. I’d said, “If you
kick me again, I’m going to take off your shoes (the ones he loved, the ones he
always insisted on wearing).” </div>
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He looked me square in the eye, pulled off a shoe
and tossed it as far as his ten-month
old arms could manage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Ten months old</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Wrap you minds around that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>I</i> couldn’t, and I’d lived it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, by the time the pediatrician suggested a behavioral psychologist,
I was tired. I’d been loving this kid and battling this kid for three years. There seemed to be no end in sight. I
would lie awake at night, imagining my little boy as a grown man with a raging
temper and a desperate need to be in control. It terrified me. How would it feel to have a fourteen or
fifteen or sixteen-year-old kid screaming and slamming doors and punching walls
and throwing things? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I wanted a quick fix, an easy answer. I wanted all the seeds I'd planted to sprout into a child who could love and be loved. </div>
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Instead, I had a raging, shrieking, shouting child who, at the ripe old age of 4, might need a psychologist. </div>
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I looked at my son, the one with the red hair and the cute
smile and the bluest-of-blue eyes, and I could see that he was absolutely in
control of himself. He never hurt anyone. He didn't hit, bite, spit, kick (not since that day in Target). He didn’t have a mental illness. He didn’t have a disorder
that was causing the problem. He was <i>choosing </i>to tantrum. He was <i>choosing</i> very deliberately
to scream. He wanted what he wanted. He
wanted it now. Come hell or high water, he planned to get it.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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And, I planned to make sure that he knew he <i>couldn’t</i> get it.
Not always, because sometimes life is unfair. Sometimes, we have to do what we don't want to. </div>
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Sometimes? We have to give love even when we're not getting it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I declined the referral, and I went home with my still angry
four-year-old.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For a while after that, we continued to dance our dance. Me setting boundaries. Seth
pushing them. Me saying no. Seth protesting. On and on it went until I was
absolutely sure that I couldn’t do another day of tantrum-listening, consequence-giving, time-out enforcing. And
then, of course, I would do another day and another, because I loved him.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I loved him with the kind of love that couldn’t give up. I
loved him with the kind of love that was endlessly hopeful. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes that kind of love disappoints. Sometimes it is
used up and tossed away and we are left with empty hands and hollow hearts and
a bone-deep weariness that we think we’ll never recover from. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes, though, it triumphs. Ever so slowly, what we plant sprouts and blossoms and grows into something astoundingly beautiful; what is difficult is transformed into something easy
and sweet and lovely.<br />
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Because, sometimes - just like in the books I write - love wins. </div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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And, sometimes, the one we have loved through extraordinarily tough times buys
us a sandwich and a soda and hands it to us with a bashful smile and hint of pride
and lot of love. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Thanks, Sweetie. You have grown into exactly the kind man I hoped you would be! </div>
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<i><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: "trebuchet" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;">Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. </span><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: "trebuchet" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px; text-align: justify; text-indent: 25px;">And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. Col. 3:13-14</span></i></div>
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Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-12730945852871047272016-03-05T10:18:00.001-05:002016-03-05T20:39:13.774-05:00Saturday Secrets: But.... What If You Can?<div style="text-align: center;">
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Sometimes pictures lie.<br />
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Take this one for example:<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YofxkcX9630/VtsBjPObFOI/AAAAAAAAE9I/q4RVe0enzns/s1600/10353519_10208544047028165_737755004914606226_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YofxkcX9630/VtsBjPObFOI/AAAAAAAAE9I/q4RVe0enzns/s320/10353519_10208544047028165_737755004914606226_o.jpg" width="277" /></a></div>
<br />
I posted it on FB about a week ago. I look so happy in it, and why wouldn't I be? There is my book. Right on the shelf next to all those wonderful authors that I've been reading for years. I <i>was</i> happy in the picture, and I look really healthy with that nice pink glow on my cheeks.<br />
<br />
But, sometimes pictures lie.<br />
<br />
The fact is, I felt like crap when my son snapped the photo. The glow? Lupus rash.<br />
<br />
I've had two really bad weeks.<br />
<br />
I spent about ten of the past fourteen days mentally saying, "I can't do this, God. I can't."<br />
<br />
I'd lie in bed watching the early morning light crawling across the bedroom ceiling, and I'd just want to cry, because I couldn't do it.<br />
<br />
I couldn't:<br />
<br />
Get out of bed.<br />
Get dressed.<br />
Engage with my family.<br />
Walk.<br />
Talk.<br />
Move.<br />
Write.<br />
Drive this kid here and that kid there and get those kids ready for this weird and time-consuming transition into adulthood.<br />
Home school.<br />
Answer emails.<br />
<br />
Repeat it all the next day.<br />
<br />
I couldn't, and I knew it, and I'd lie there and just watch the day dawning and feel the time ticking away.<br />
<br />
Then that voice, the one that always tells me the truth, would say, "You <i>can't</i> do it, but you<i> will</i>."<br />
<br />
So, I'd sit and then stand and then go about my day, the words chanting quietly in the back of mind, <i>"I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't</i>." That other voice saying, <i>"But, you will."</i><br />
<br />
And, now, here I am. It is Saturday, and it is my youngest son's eighteenth birthday. I shopped for his gifts and baked his double-layer red velvet cake. I got up early this morning and hugged him hard and told him how much I loved him.<br />
<br />
And, I realized that I'm through the worst of my lupus flare,and I feel a little better. Maybe, just maybe, I can do today.<br />
<br />
I'm not telling you this because I want you to feel sorry for me. I have a great life that I live with joy. Some weeks are just harder than others.<br />
<br />
I'm not writing it so you can say, "Wow! She has this chronic illness and she still manages to do x,y,z." Trust me, there are a whole lot of people going through worse and doing more.<br />
<br />
I'm laying it all out for you because maybe you're lying in your bed staring at the ceiling. Maybe you're watching dust motes dancing in the air, counting your heartbeats and thinking, "I can't."<br />
<br />
Maybe, you're sitting in your car, waiting for the next kid to come out of the next activity, and you're saying, "God, I can't. I can't do this."<br />
<br />
Maybe you're driving to work or running the track or sitting in a chair with everything you built crumbling around you, all the things you hoped for and worked for and longed for slipping through your fingers, and maybe you're saying, "I can't do this. I can't."<br />
<br />
And, maybe you want to quit, because your body hurts, and your hands don't work, and your brain is mush and your relationships are difficult and it just all suddenly seems so very hard.<br />
<br />
And you <i>just can't</i>.<br />
<br />
But, what if you can?<br />
<br />
What if you do?<br />
<br />
What if you write the story of your life on the pages of your pain and disappointment and struggles? What if you reach the end of your time here on earth and, instead of a pretty little book of wonderful things, you have a giant tome filled with the insurmountable odds that you have overcome? What if there is heartbreak and fear and failure and struggle written into every line?<br />
<br />
Will your story be less beautiful?<br />
<br />
Or will it be more so?<br />
<br />
So, today....<br />
<br />
Today, you can't. But, you will, because you are you - powerful and strong and capable even in your weakest most vulnerable moments.<br />
<br />
If you doubt that, let me be the voice of truth, the one that will whisper in your ear as you drag yourself up and get on with it - You can't, but you will. <i>You will.</i><br />
<br />
<i style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', serif; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">Whatever </span><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;">I</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"> have, wherever </span><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;">I</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"> am, </span><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;">I</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;">can</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"> make </span><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;">i</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">t through anything </span><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;">i</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;">n the One who makes me who </span><span style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px;">I</span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px;"> am. Philippians 4:13</span></span></b></i><br />
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Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-33175769019562178092016-02-27T12:06:00.005-05:002016-02-27T12:06:54.350-05:00Saturday Secrets: Keep Going<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>If you're going through hell, keep going</b>. </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">~Winston Churchill</span></i></div>
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With book 39 on the shelves and books 40, 41, 42, 43 and 44 written, I am tired. Lupus sucks, but book 45 will not write itself.<br />
<br />
Saturday secret number 1. Keep going. Even if it's just a step. Because moving forward is better than staying in the same place, and writing one page is better than writing none.<br />
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Early morning routine. Read, write, swallow pills. Repeat.<br />
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Words of <i>wisdom</i> that I chant to myself : <i>No one can do this except you (so get your head off the desk and get on with it). </i></div>
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A Pilates instructor once told me that motion is lotion. Stay in one position for too long and we freeze-up and limit our ability to move. So...I'm looking very rough on this fine Saturday morning, but I'm moving. </div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">That's what you do when you've got a chronic illness, a great family, a good career and a sovereign God. You just keep moving. </span><span style="text-align: left;">Blessings for the day, my friends! May you find your motivation and your joy and your will to keep on going through whatever mucky mess you might find yourself in! </span></div>
Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-50283417145861451402016-02-23T09:05:00.003-05:002016-02-23T14:24:22.849-05:00Time Flies, So I May as Well Be Writing (Lupus Life)So.....<br />
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Today is release day for Sweet Haven.<br />
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This is book number 39 for me.<br />
<br />
That's a lot of books. It's also a lot of words and sentences and paragraphs. One of my kids calculated that I have written 2.6 million words during my twelve-year writing career. It's a good estimate, but I figure I've far exceeded it. All those words that I've written and deleted, the books I started and then scrapped, the journal entries that will never see the light of day, the blog post and unpublished books and secret beginnings of secret stories that may or may not ever be finished, they add up to a lot more words and sentences and paragraphs.<br />
<br />
You might wonder if book number 39 is as special to me as book number 1. Maybe you wonder if I will get the same thrill from seeing Sweet Haven on the shelves as I did when this one was released:<br />
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Trust me when I say that it is and that I will.<br />
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Sweet Haven is not just book number 39. It is proof of the fact that I am still alive and kicking. It is evidence that the thing that could have stolen my career has not. Lupus is no joke, friends. It steals a lot of things - energy, joy, creativity. If we let it, it will steal so much more.<br />
<br />
It is a silent disease, but it is loud for the person who is living with it.<br />
<br />
Pass me on the street, and you will never know that I am ill.<br />
<br />
Truth? This year, I finally reached a healthy weight. My friends and family tell me how wonderful I look. I guess I can understand why. In our culture, weight is indicative of health, and lupus has graciously helped me lose a lot of it. You can see the progression here. The first picture is summer 2014 when I was just beginning to suspect something was very wrong. The next picture is this past summer. I'd lost 35 pounds by then, and I knew I had lupus. The last picture is from my birthday in December. At that point, I'd lost 45. I've lost a little more since then.<br />
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For the record, I am not trying to lose weight. I am losing weight because it is difficult for me to enjoy food. Which is really not fun, but maybe I'll share more about that another time. Today is not for mourning what isn't. Today, is about celebrations, so I'll simply say that all the medicine in the world can't completely mask the symptoms of lupus. Today, my fingers ache and my feet have pins and needles. My stomach hurts from the medicine I take to keep my immune system from attacking healthy tissue, but I woke to hear rain pattering on the window and a bird singing a joyful song. It was 6 a.m, and my body was stiff and my back ached, and I thought I could lie in bed forever and still not feel like I'd rested.<br />
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<i>But, you are alive</i>, a voice whispered, <i>so get up and live</i>.<br />
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And, so I did.<br />
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I opened up a manuscript that I am working on, and I started writing, because I <i>am</i> alive and time is flying by, so I may as well be writing and loving and living and celebrating.<br />
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Today, is release day for my 39th book, and I can still hear the rain dripping from the eaves and feel my heart thumping in my chest and my fingers throbbing as they tap the keyboard. I can still hear all the words from all the stories that I have yet to write, scratching like fingers on a chalkboard in my brain, demanding my attention.<br />
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Time is flying, and we all have to choose what we will do with it.<br />
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Today, I choose to love and be loved, to write and to read, to bake some bread and make some whoopie pies with my girls, because the rain is still falling and the day is calling, and I may as well live it joyfully.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The whole earth is filled with awe at your wonders;</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: monospace; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-65-8" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">where morning dawns, where evening fades,</span></span></span></div>
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</span><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; line-height: 24px;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="box-sizing: border-box; font-family: monospace; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-65-8" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">you call forth songs of joy.</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="text Ps-65-8" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">Psalm 65:8</span></div>
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<br />Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-63779575158200368282016-02-04T12:13:00.002-05:002016-02-04T12:57:09.019-05:00The Ordinary Miracle (Byron's Peanut-buttery Fudge)<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The world is a series of miracles. But we're so used to them, we call them ordinary things. </span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Hans Christian Andersen</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The fact that I’m shoulder deep in the third book in my HOME
SWEET HOME series has made me think about fudge, chocolate and candy more than
I ever have in my life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m not keen on chocolate or candy, by the way. I don’t like
fudge. I knew just about nothing about making any of those things when I began
writing SWEET HAVEN. I still don’t know why I decided to write a series about a
family that owns a chocolate shop. Except that, maybe, I just wanted to write about
family and heritage and tradition. Whatever the case, I love the little town of
Benevolence, Washington, and all the disparate people who live there. I love
the Lamont family, and the three sisters who are desperate to find what they
don’t even realize they’ve lost.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As is always the case, art imitates life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In the process of learning about chocolate and tasting fudge
and creating recipes, I found a lot of things I didn’t realize that I’d lost. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Which is the funny (or not) thing about life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">You can be traveling along, doing your thing, thinking that
you’ve got everything you started the journey with. Then, all of the sudden,
you hit a roadblock and realize that somewhere along the way you dropped your
climbing gear or your shovel or your life vest or some other very important
tool that you’re going to need to A) scale the mountain that’s in your way B)
Dig under the concrete wall that’s blocking your path C) Forge the raging river
that’s swallowed the road D) somehow someway provide what is necessary to get
past the thing that is keeping you from moving forward.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', serif;">Let’s say…just for the sake of conversation…you happen to hit
the roadblock, and you look at this thing that has stopped you cold, and you
start thinking, “It’s going to take superhuman effort to move that thing. It
looks too tall and too steep and too wide, and I’m just this puny little person
who’s been plunked down on this path and told to walk it, and suddenly God has
just dumped this GIANT </span><i style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', serif;">thing</i><span style="font-family: georgia, 'times new roman', serif;"> in front of me, and I will never ever ever get
past it.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So you decide that what you lack is strength, that <i>that’s</i> what you’ve dropped somewhere
along way. If only you can find it, you'll surely be able to overcome the obstacle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Off you go, searching and hunting and
trying to find what you’ve lost. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Again, for the sake of conversation alone, let’s just say
that you begin to panic, because no matter how hard you look, no matter how
desperately you hunt, you can’t find it. Your strength? It is well and truly <i>gone</i>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At this point, you may
begin to despair. You may also decide that somehow someway, you’ve made
a terrible error, that you’re actually not even on the right path, because this one is just too difficult. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And, maybe you’ll be peeking behind trees and searching
ravines, and calling out for the strength you lost, and you’ll suddenly realize
that strength isn’t really what you need. Because there…like a pretty little penny
glinting in the sunlight, like a shiny drop of dew on the velvety pedal of a
rose, like a beautiful chocolate bonbon…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>There</i>…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Just sitting on the side of the road where you dropped it, you’ll
see the tattered remnant of the faith you didn’t even realize you were missing. You will recognize it immediately, of course.
You will look at it and you will wonder, “How is it that I didn’t know that I
dropped this? How is it that I ever thought that <i>all</i> I was missing was
strength?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Because, suddenly, you will know the truth. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That mountain? It <i>is </i>bigger
than your ability to climb it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That river? Your stamina is <i>no</i> match for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">That concrete wall? It will <i>never</i> be dug beneath, climbed over, plowed through. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not by you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It simply is not possible – even with all the strength
you’ve misplaced, all the power you seemed to have dropped along the way. Even
if you could gather all those things up, it still would not ever be enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And, maybe, as you look at that crumbled tattered bit of your faith,
you’ll have this moment of absolute clarity, and you will <i>finally</i> understand - the heaviness of the task before you? It isn’t yours to
carry. It is being carried for you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, you will march your butt back to the thing that’s
standing in your way, and you will do the only thing you can. You will wait in
its shadow, knowing that it<i> will </i>be moved. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Trust me when I say it <i>can</i>
happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Trust me when I say that it <i>did</i> happen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The little ordinary miracle of faith. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We take it for granted, don’t we?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We forget how important it is to keep believing and trusting
and hoping.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">We get bogged down by the darkness and the despair and the
pain and the heartache, and we start looking to ourselves for solace and rest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Only,<i> we</i> will never be enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not on our own. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And, maybe that is the <i>real</i> reason I wrote the HOME SWEET HOME series, because I needed to be reminded that the impossible is made possible by faith. That mountains<i> can</i> be moved. Rivers<i> will </i>be forged. Cement walls <i>will</i> fall. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And a bunch of ordinary ingredients will make something extraordinary. If we let them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>Byron's Peanut-Buttery Fudge</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">2 cups white sugar</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">2 tablespoons butter</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">1/2 cup milk</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">1/4 cup heavy cream</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">1/4 cup peanut butter</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">1/4 cup chopped peanuts</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Combine sugar, butter, milk and cream in sauce pan. Cook over low heat until mixture reaches soft-ball stage. Remove from heat. Stir in peanut butter and chopped peanuts. Pour into a pan and cool. Cut into squares and share with someone you love. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Full disclosure - My father is eating homemade bread. Not fudge. We did share the fudge, though. We just don't have a picture of anyone eating it!</i></span></div>
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Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-15569784320362556432016-01-13T11:17:00.002-05:002016-01-13T20:05:42.198-05:00The Things That Go Bump in the Night <div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: large;">~ Ambrose Redmoon</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
I've never been brave. Not ever. When I was young, my older sister always led the way into new and alarming situations, because I was too chicken to go in alone.<br />
<br />
First day of kindergarten? I cried.<br />
<br />
First day of new Sunday school classes? I cried.<br />
<br />
First day on the bus? I cried.<br />
<br />
Horror movies, roller coasters, midnight walks in pitch black forest? Nope. Not for me. <br />
<br />
Public speaking? Writing conferences with lots of new people? Traveling alone? Driving in cities? No. Thanks, anyway.<br />
<br />
Of course, as I've gotten older, I've learned to pretend. Tell yourself you can do it enough times, and eventually you might believe it, right?<br />
<br />
So, I've told myself I can handle things. I don't need my older sister to hold my hand or my family to flank me as I move from one new adventure to the next. Nice as having people around is, there are times in life when we have to face the monsters without anyone standing beside us. It's good to be prepared. Or, at least, tell ourselves we're prepared.<br />
<br />
Recently, I've seen a lot on Facebook about anxiety and the fact the the Bible admonishes us not to be afraid. Apparently we are told that 365 times. One for every day of the year.<br />
<br />
I haven't fact-checked that, but I've read the Bible enough to know that "Do not fear" and variations on that appear a lot.<br />
<br />
No matter how often I remind myself of this, I still sometimes find myself afraid.<br />
<br />
Not of the things that go bump in the night, not of the monsters lurking under the bed, the villains hiding in the closet, the inevitable moment of death, or the long stretched out pain of living with chronic illness.<br />
<br />
No. I'm afraid of other things.<br />
<br />
I'm afraid of disappointing the people I care about. I'm afraid of missing opportunities. I'm afraid of never saying the words that will make someone realize how valued he is.Sometimes, I lie in bed at night, and I worry that I'm missing the boat. That I'll wake up one morning and realize that my life has passed and I haven't accomplished what I should have.<br />
<br />
Mostly, I'm afraid that I'll miss God's calling on my life, that I'll blink my eyes and it will all be over,and I won't even remember where I've been or why, because I didn't care enough, love enough, serve enough.<br />
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<br />
My husband once told me that I feel things more deeply than other people. I don't think that's true. I just see a lot of beauty in the world, and I don't want to miss any of it. The old house standing abandoned on the hill, the mean elderly man who lives on the corner of the street, the harshest winters and the hottest summers, the prettiest landscape and the loneliest vistas, they are fantastic stories waiting to be told, and I wish I had the words and the heart and the ability to tell them all. In those stories, I find the truth about my own life, and I don't ever want to forget it. I don't want to ever stop feeling the little tug on my heart, the little pull on my soul, the constant subtle reminders that this world is not about me, that it swirls and whirls all on its own, without me guiding it.<br />
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Shocking, I know.<br />
<br />
But, true.<br />
<br />
God<i> is </i>in control, and I am <span style="background-color: white;">certain </span>enough about that to keep stepping out in faith, to keep moving forward even when I'm not sure exactly where I'm going.<br />
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<br />
Because, really, courage isn't about being brave, it is about believing that The One we trust in is much much more powerful than the things we fear.<br />
<br />
I'm not one for making new year's resolutions. Mostly because I'm not much for keeping them.<br />
<br />
This, year, though, I do have a goal - to just keep moving forward in faith, to accept that I am not the one in control, and to allow myself to believe that even now - in the midst of all the hard stuff- He has me exactly where He wants me to be.<br />
<br />
Over the next few weeks, I'm going to be posting some yummy chocolate recipes on this blog. My girls and I have been working hard to create some family recipes. It seemed like a fun thing to do since SWEET HAVEN will be released in March.<br />
<br />
If you have any good candy recipes, feel free to share them! We're game to try new things, and we're having a blast working in the kitchen together!<br />
<br />
Even when our efforts are less than stellar!<br />
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Godspeed, my friends. May you look to Him as you travel the path He has put you on.Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-48261560016794566042014-10-21T14:45:00.002-04:002014-10-21T14:45:34.701-04:003 Sisters WriteI know. It's been a while. I've been working and schooling and living. I've also been watching two of my sisters pursue their writing dreams. This year has been a stellar year for the family as both of those sisters received contracts to write for Love Inspired Suspense. <br />
<br />
Sara K. Parker's first book releases in January 2015. <br />
<br />
Mary Ellen Porter's first book will release in May 2015.<br />
<br />I have a couple of books coming out right before and right after theirs.<br />
<br />Crazy, right?<br />
<br />Three sisters all published and all writing for the same line?<br />
<br />
Who would have thought it? <br />
<br />
<em>Me</em>. I thought it. I knew it could happen. <br />
<br />
We've been encouraging each other for years, and I'm thrilled to see them achieve their dreams.<br />
<br />
If you're interested in knowing more about the three sisters who write, you can visit us here - <br />
<br />
<a href="http://3sisterswrite.blogspot.com/">3 Sisters Write</a><br />
<br />
We're also on Twitter - @3SistersWrite.<br />
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Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-36842316100261002122014-02-28T08:19:00.001-05:002014-02-28T08:19:53.317-05:00Why I Didn't Toss My Laptop Out the Window<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sometimes when I am really tired and on deadline and have a sink full of dishes and a pile of laundry that is nearly to the ceiling (okay. It's only to my knees, but still...), I want to toss my laptop and whatever manuscript happens to be driving me batty into the nearest trashcan or out the nearest window (which, at the moment, is a tempting two foot away). Generally, right around that point where the laptop is heading for the window and I am heading for the nearest vacation location (or loony bin), God sends me a little boost to keep me going. The other day, at one of my lowest points of the year (I'm sure there will be more seeing as how it is only the very end of February), I received this:</div>
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<br />
<br />
<strong>Dear Mrs. McCoy,</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>I was astonished of your book Cold Case Murder Without A Trace. Personaly I think you should win a Gold medal for it. </strong><br />
<strong>My favorite line was when you said your bluntness is charming. When you write me back I hope you can tell me some more names of your Books because your book that I've read is the best one yet and I really don't like to read but you have inspired me to read more.</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>Sincerly,</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>Dion Henden</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
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It made me smile. It actually made me laugh. No one has ever told me I should win a gold medal for a book. I smiled. I laughed. I remembered exactly why it was that I didn't want to toss my laptop out the window and abandon my latest project forever. I wrote the student and mailed a copy of my newest release, and then I got back to work. <br />
<br />
So, Dion, wherever you are, thank you for saving my laptop from death by two-story fall into a snowy yard and inspiring me to work through another mucky middle of the manuscript!<br />
<br />
I personally think you should win a gold medal for your effort!<br />
<br />Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-71219110897964082772014-02-25T18:31:00.000-05:002014-02-25T18:35:11.660-05:00So, My Sister Got THE CALL (or, so you want to get published)If you're an aspiring writer, you know exactly what that means. <br />
<br />
She got THE CALL. The one that brought her from unpublished novelist to published novelist. <br />
<br />
The phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. There it was, bold as you will - Harlequin. <br />
<br />
Seconds later, she had an offer she couldn't refuse. <br />
<br />
Well, she could have, but it would have been a little strange seeing as how she'd actually spent time writing a manuscript that fit the Love Inspired Suspense line. <br />
<br />
Now, to be clear, Sara was already published in the non-fiction arena. This isn't her first sale, but it is her first BOOK sale. <br />
<br />
She is now officially writing for Harlequin, and, to make things even more fun, she's writing for the same line I write for.<br />
<br />
I'm over the moon with excitement for her, and I'm already planning the book signings we'll do together, the research trips we'll go on. Who knows? Maybe one day we'll even work on a continuity together!<br />
<br />
I'm getting all twiterpatted just thinking about it!!<br />
<br />
How is it that we both ended up in the same house in the same line? <br />
<br />
Well, it's like this. Love Inspired Suspense needs authors. Really. Seriously. The editors are <em>looking </em>for authors. They are going above and beyond the call of duty to find authors. To do this, they are running fast track events that give writers a quick way to get their work in front of the editors' eyes. <br />
<br />
I heard about these fast track events and encouraged a friend to submit. When another one came along, I called my sister Sara Parker (remember that name and look for her book next year) and told her she should do it. She already had a couple of manuscripts under her belt, and this was another opportunity. Why not take it? She listened to me (because who wouldn't?) and just as quick as that, she got an editor's attention. It wasn't long before she got THE CALL.<br />
<br />
Why am I telling you this?<br />
<br />
Well, first, I am proud of my sister.<br />
<br />
Second, if you're an inspirational writer and want to try your hand at romantic suspense, Harlequin is a great company to work for. Manuscript are 55-60K and the books go out in book club (read that as instant sales!). They're also on store shelves all over the country. <br />
<br />
Interested?<br />
<br />
Check <a href="http://community.harlequin.com/showthread.php/1947-Announcing!-The-Search-for-a-Killer-Voice!">this</a> out. You can read the rules, chat with editors about what they're looking for, ask just about any question you want. <br />
<br />
What could be cooler?<br />
<br />
Not much.<br />
<br />
So, really, check it out! This might be the golden opportunity you've been waiting for. Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-90312020229558489072013-12-28T19:54:00.001-05:002013-12-28T19:54:31.138-05:00Just Keep Going (or what I'm learning from my daughter's ballet journey)So, I have five kids. Three boys. Two girls.<br />
<br />
Four of them study ballet. <br />
<br />
And, when I say study...I mean <em>study</em>. My oldest son and daughter spend countless hours trying to perfect technique, line, form. My youngest daughter and son are in it more for the fun, but they work hard too. My middle son...he reads science books and writes middle grades fiction. <br />
<br />
Now, you may be wondering how I am so.....blessed as to have four children who all enjoy classical ballet. <br />
<br />
It all started with this one. <br />
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She has always been busy. Really busy. The kind of person who, if left to her own devices, will quickly attempt to take control of everyone and everything in her path. She is a leader. No doubt about that, and I admire her for it. She is strong, feisty, kind and helpful. <br />
<br />
But, she is busy and I am not.<br />
<br />
I like to think things through, plod along at my own pace. Which is not to say I don't move forward, but simply that I don't move forward at my Sassy-girl's break-neck speed. <br />
<br />
When she was two, Sassy said she wanted to dance ballet. <br />
<br />
But, she was <em>busy</em>, and I just couldn't imagine my busy girl enjoying something as slow as ballet. <br />
<br />
When she was three, I signed her up for gymnastics. Along with being busy and eager, she was also very flexible, so she moved quickly from recreational gymnastics to pre-team. She liked it and she was good at it, but while other little girls in the gym threw double back handsprings and begged for second and third and fourth turns on the equipment, Sassy would dance to the music playing over the intercom. <br />
<br />
When we moved from the east coast to the Inland Northwest, Sassy was seven. She was still asking to dance. I gave her a choice - gymnastics or ballet.<br />
<br />
She chose ballet. <br />
<br />
I signed her up for a ballet class at a classical ballet school. No competition stuff. No shaking her butt or shimmying into tiny little mid-drift baring outfits. Just ballet. Walk into class, hair scraped into a tight bun, body encased in a leotard and pink convertible tights. Nothing exciting or busy about that. Just stand at the barre and do the same thing over and over again.<br />
<br />
I figured she'd quit at the end of the year. I thought she'd take a couple of classes and beg to go back to the gym.<br />
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By the third or fourth week, I was called into the office and told that Sassy would be moving up to the next level of ballet. Even more serious, this level contained girls a couple of years older than Sassy who had all been dancing for several years. <br />
<br />
So, up she went. To the next level.<br />
<br />
She was rather a mess. <br />
<br />
Sure, her teacher said she had talent, but she was always slightly off...a little ahead, a little behind. She was too energetic. Too excited. Too everything. I got called into the office several times to discuss this....problem. Finally, I told Sassy that if she wanted to play, I'd take her to the playground. If she wanted to dance, she'd better settle herself down and get to it. <br />
<br />
And, I thought she'd quit.<br />
<br />
But, she just kept going. <br />
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<br />
We are five and a half years and three more kids into this ballet thing. <br />
<br />
This week, Sassy has some time off, but her brothers have rehearsal, so she heads into the dance studio with them and spends an hour running through her Fairy dance for Midsummer Night's Dream. Then, she works on the ever elusive arabesque en pointe, and I shoot picture after picture which she soundly rejects has horrible. <br />
<br />
Except for this one. Which she said was okay but not great. <br />
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And this one...which we both think is cute. <br />
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A friend saw the pictures and said Sassy was a natural. <br />
<br />
Sassy laughed, because she knows something she didn't know when she was two and asked to be a ballet dancer. She knows that there is nothing natural about what she does. Every day, she spends a couple of hours turning out at the hips, standing on the tips of her toes, moving her body into positions that most people can't achieve. While she <em>does</em> have a natural sense of movement and certain spark that goes a long way in conveying theme and story, she does not have the flexi-feet that her some of her friends possess. Rather than a long delicate figure, she has a long strong build. Just look at the muscles in her shoulders and legs. Those aren't from lifting weight. They are from dancing.<br />
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<br />
Talent is great, but it takes a lot more than that to be a ballet dancer. <br />
<br />
Especially when female dancers with talent and facility are a dime a dozen. <br />
<br />
This is the year when my daughter has realized that there are a lot of very talented very beautiful girls out there, and I really thought it might be the year when she decided to give in and give up. Ballet, after all, is hard work. Being a dedicated dancer means giving up time with friends. It means missing out on birthday parties and sleep overs. It means saying no when you really want to say yes. It means giving up a lot.<br />
<br />
To be blunt, it also means being passed over for parts because your legs aren't as thin as someone elses or because your feet aren't as bendy. It means that when you are twelve and look like you are sixteen, you need to try to dance like you are sixteen or people will think you aren't trying. <br />
<br />
Sassy has learned all of this, but she still keeps pushing.<br />
<br />
In the face of everything, she <em>still</em> has a deep passion for dance. She loves it the way I love words. To her it is music and expression. It is feeling and emotion. <br />
<br />
It is work she loves. <br />
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Even when she's tired and discouraged and wondering where it's all going to lead. <br />
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She still keeps going. <br />
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Joyfully even!<br />
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<br />
Which is why when I am tired, when the next book seems impossible to write, when the words won't flow and the ideas are all locked up inside, I think about what Sassy said to me this past summer. She'd had a tough day. A friend had been told wonderful things about her future as a dancer and Sassy had simply been told what she needed to work on. She cried. Which is something she almost never does.<br />
<br />
I said, "Sassy, do you want to stop? Is it even worth it?"<br />
<br />
She looked at me like I was crazy and said, "Of course it is." <br />
<br />
"So, what do you want to do?" I asked. <br />
<br />
"Mom," she said in all her twelve-year-old wisdom. "I'm just going to keep going the way I am. I'm going to keep working hard and I'm going to keep trying. Someday that's going to bring me to the place I'm supposed to be. And wherever that is, I'm going to be much happier there than I will be if I quit and end up nowhere."<br />
<br />
Yeah. <br />
<br />
She's a busy one, that girl.<br />
<br />
But, she's a smart one, too, and I'm learning a lot from watching this journey she's on. <br />
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<br />Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-57509608384937458412013-12-09T11:28:00.000-05:002013-12-09T11:29:19.765-05:00My Child is Not a ThingShe is also not (in no particular order) -<br />
<br />
A piece of art.<br />
<br />
An exotic creature.<br />
<br />
A different species of human being. <br />
<br />
A circus freak. <br />
<br />
My child <em>is</em> a young girl with white hair and gorgeous blue eyes. She is clever, bright, hard working and sweet. She loves everyone she meets, but she loves me and her older sister the most. <br />
<br />
For the most part, Ms. Cheeky is exactly like her peers. Being slightly biased, I would say she is a bit smarter than the average girl her age. A bit quicker. A bit kinder. A bit more accepting. <br />
<br />
The last comes, I think, from years when she was not accepted. Years when she looked so different from her peers that all she could ever be was an outsider looking in. <br />
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<br />
Here in the States, that is not the case. Her white hair is very white, but most people assume she is a platinum blond. Her hair is deeply admired by teenagers and young adults who often stop and ask me how I managed to get it so white. As if I would bleach my 11-year-old's hair!<br />
<br />
It is true that Cheeky's vision stinks. Corrected, it is 20/200. She has no depth perception. Somehow, she manages to dance, to knit, to read, to run, to play. Just like any other child, she enjoys being with her friends. Most of them don't realize how bad her eyes are. Most adults don't either. I don't usually bother mentioning it unless I know Cheeky is going to be playing outside. My daughter does not, after all, need pity. She just needs to be allowed to be herself. <br />
<br />
We were at the dance studio a few weeks ago. The mother of one of the new students was sitting next to me. She asked which girl was mine, and I pointed Cheeky out. She commented on her beautiful hair and then mentioned casually that Cheeky holds books very close to her face when she reads. She asked if I'd thought about getting her vision rechecked, because it seemed her glasses weren't working. <br />
<br />
I explained that my daughter was born with poor vision, that it couldn't be corrected to anything close to perfect. <br />
<br />
"Tsks, tsk, tsk," the woman said. "Poor baby."<br />
<br />
"Why," I asked, "is she a poor baby?"<br />
<br />
"Well, because, she can't see well."<br />
<br />
"But she can sing well, dance well, knit well. She is an A student reading above grade level even though she only learned English four years ago. She has friends and a family that loves her. There is nothing poor about that." <br />
<br />
The woman looked at me for a moment and nodded solemnly. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure she agreed with my assessment of things, and I'm not sure I care. <br />
<br />
The fact is, there is nothing to be pitied about my daughter. She is amazing. Maybe she won't ever drive a car, but she won't be sitting on her butt feeling sorry for herself, either. She has everything she needs to be a happy successful human being. <br />
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Which brings me to back to the beginning. </div>
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A couple of weeks ago, a friend found this while she was researching contact lenses for her daughter (who was also born with albinism). </div>
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<br />
Yes. It is. My daughter. In oils. The painting is on display in an art show. If you think I'm pulling your leg, go<a href="http://essenziale-hd.com/2013/10/18/the-children-of-the-moon/"> here and take a look</a>. <br />
<br />
I've known for a while that the photo this oil painting was painted from had been taken from my blog and posted all over the Internet. If you do a google search of Asian Albinism, you'll usually see it in the photos. That's why I went private on my family blog. I got sick of the sickos who think my daughter is a thing. <br />
<br />
Seriously, people. She's a child. Not a piece of art. If you want to paint her, ask. If you want to post her photo all over the Internet for every creepy troll to see, don't. <br />
<br />
Because if she were your daughter, your sister, your niece, your friend you wouldn't. <br />
<br />
At least, I hope you wouldn't. <br />
<br />
But, maybe this world is a crazier place than I think it is!<br />
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<br />Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-33705634056288223662013-11-26T16:15:00.001-05:002013-11-26T16:15:45.086-05:00The Girl With Red Marker on Her FaceSunday, I went to church. Migraine and all.<br />
<br />
I don't go to a big fancy church. I go to a small church. Most of its members are in the over-fifty range. They are salt-of-the-earth types, and they know how to get things done. <br />
<br />
They also know how to cook.<br />
<br />
Which is great, because Southern Baptist churches are notorious for feeding the flock. :0)<br />
<br />
We have at least one potluck a month, and when I can attend, I do. Not just for the food (all of it made with real butter and real cream and real veggies and real meat and.... Well, you get the point!). I go because I love the people. They have maintained a community mindset that is sometimes missing from my peers. They think of the group before they think of themselves. They are always ready with kind words, hot tea, meals. There is never a sense that their time is more important than someone elses. Nor do they look at any task as menial. <br />
<br />
I think if we could shrink the wonderful group down to bee-size, they'd fit quite well into a hive. Bustling and buzzing and working for the good of all.<br />
<br />
But, that wasn't what I came here to write about.<br />
<br />
I came to write about the girl with red marker on her face.<br />
<br />
She was in church Sunday.<br />
<br />
She's been there before. A foster child who is sometimes in respite care with one of the older members of our church family, the girl has some challenges. She is probably my Sassy's age. She can barely write her name, though. She has a speech impediment and moves awkwardly. She has no social boundaries. No sense of other people's space. She is a little rough, a little rowdy. She moves a lot. From one seat to the next to the next. <br />
<br />
She loves my Cheeky girl. But, who doesn't? Cheeky is the most accepting and loving child I have ever known. So, the girl sits by Cheeky when she is not wandering the sanctuary. <br />
<br />
Sunday, I saw her from afar and thought she had terrible burns on her face. My stomach knotted up and my insides went icy cold. As I drew closer, I realized what I thought were burns were actually scribbles. Red scribbles. All over her face.<br />
<br />
ALL.<br />
<br />
OVER.<br />
<br />
Her nose was bright red with it. Her cheeks were smeared. It looked like she'd taken a sharpie and scribbled everywhere. I heard one of the kids ask why she had marker on her face. Her response didn't make much sense. Something about trying to be a character from TV. <br />
<br />
That was the last I heard about the marker. <br />
<br />
This girl? She sat next to an older couple for a while. They talked to her before church began. When she moved to sit next to Cheeky, no one stared. She talked to someone who was sitting beside her, and I didn't even see the elderly woman blink at the red stuff spread all over the child's cheeks. <br />
<br />
About halfway through the service, the kids went up to the front. The pastor always spends a couple minutes every week talking just to them. The girl with the red marker on her face plodded up to the front in shoes that were two sizes too large and about twenty years too old. They flopped off her feet, the use-to-be-shiny black leather scuffed and dull. Her socks were striped and her dress was checked. Like the shoes, it was several sizes too big. <br />
<br />
The pastor gave his mini sermon, and the girl with the red marker on her face listened. When she was asked what she was thankful for, she said her family, and I wondered what family meant to her. Her bio family? Her foster family? Her respite family?<br />
<br />
Here she was, this girl with the red marker on her face, with her too-big shoes, too-old clothes and her awkward ways. Here she was with red sharpie scribbled all over her face. Here she was with nothing that any of my kids have. Somehow, in the midst of all the things that were stacked against her, she was thankful. <br />
<br />
She sat down next to Cheeky again, and she took one of the visitor cards. She scribbled on it for a few minutes but must have finally realized what it was. She leaned over Cheeky and grabbed my arm. <br />
<br />
"I want a visit from the pastor," she said. "But that's already scribbled out on the card."<br />
<br />
I looked at the card. She'd written her name in shaky letters at the top and written her respite care parent's name in the middle. <br />
<br />
"See?" she said, jabbing at a typed line that should have read<em> I would like to visit with the pastor</em>. . "It's already scribbled out." <br />
<br />
Sure enough. It had been. Scribbled so dark with black ink, the words could barely be seen.<br />
<br />
I looked at the scribbles on the card and the scribbles on her face, and I wanted so badly to fix everything that was broken.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry," I told her even though the pastor was preaching and people all around could probably hear every word we were saying. "I'll fix it for you." <br />
<br />
I took her pen and wrote in big letters across the top - <em>I want a visit from the pastor</em>.<br />
<br />
I handed it back to her, and she smiled and thanked me and tucked the note in the pocket of her dress. <br />
<br />
I hope she gave it to the pastor. <br />
<br />
And, I hope she gets a visit from him.<br />
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Because, I can't stop thinking about the girl with the red marker on her face. I can't stop wondering if there was something more that I could have done for her. Because, it seems that writing<em> I want a visit from the pastor </em>isn't nearly enough. Not when it comes to little girls with red marker on their faces and thanksgiving in their hearts. Not when it comes to <em>any </em>child. Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-38695055095257844762013-11-24T11:29:00.003-05:002013-11-24T11:35:53.424-05:00It's Sunday MorningIt's Sunday Morning.<br />
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A little after seven.<br />
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I've been up for a couple of hours with a raging migraine, so I've had a chance to watch the sun creep over the distant mountains. <br />
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This is my favorite time of day and my favorite moment of the week. Even when I don't have a migraine, I'm up early on Sunday morning. Earlier than The Man and the kids. Earlier than the birds, even. <br />
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On Sunday morning, I get to sit in silence. I don't have to work or, even, think about work. Sometimes I do, of course. But, mostly I just try to listen. There is something in the silence that can't be found anywhere else. Not in the chaos of my daily life. Not in the busy-ness of my evenings. Not on walks with friends or dinners out. Silence is where I hear my own prayers and where I hear God's answers. <br />
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Not in an audible voice. Just in a simple nudging. A sense of purpose. A feeling that I am not alone in the quiet. There is a thickness in solitude, as if the air itself is energized. <br />
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It is difficult to explain, but maybe I don't need to. Maybe you have felt it, too. <br />
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This morning, I sat in the quiet with my horrible migraine, and I thought about me and God and the great world around me. I thought about my friends and my family, about the sun slowly rising and the cold air seeping through the window pane. I thought, too, about a reader who questioned what was hidden in my heart. She'd read The House on Main Street and was offended by the colorful language (to quote another reader). She posted a review and said something along the lines of, "What happened to Shirlee McCoy to make her turn to this? Or maybe this is what she's been hiding all along?"<br />
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She's changed it since the original posting, but I had the pleasure of reading it. <br />
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So, I was thinking about me and the darkness hidden away in my soul. <br />
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Foul language is not one of the things I hide away. I am, as the reviewer said, very articulate, and I can think of much more effective ways to express myself. <br />
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But, I <em>do</em> have things hidden away - insecurities, struggles, days when I just want to throw in the towel, crawl into bed and cover my head with the blankets.<br />
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But, then, I figure the vast majority of human beings are the same.<br />
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They are the people I am writing.<br />
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So, I am sitting in the quiet, and I am thinking of my neighbors and my friends and my family. I am thinking of my church and the people I love. I am thinking about how some are sweet and kind and loving, and how some are virulent and crass. I am thinking that in Apple Valley, Washington, people are exactly like that - a microcosm of the world in general, a little peek into every village, town, city, metropolis on earth. <br />
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The House on Main Street in an editor's pick in the Christmas edition of FIRST for Women Magazine. <br />
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And, I think it is because the town is exactly the kind of town all of us would like to live in. At least for a little while. The people who live there are the kind of people most of us have in our lives. Good people. Crass people. Funny people. Grumpy people. Christians. Non-Christians. People who want what we all want - love and acceptance and the chance to find the one place that is and always will be home. Yeah. It's a cleaner version of the real world. No sex. No clothes ripped off. Nothing graphic or explicit. It is "a cup of hot cocoa" kind of book.<br />
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And in the quiet, with my migraine, I'm thinking that's fine. <br />
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<br />Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-68395655294777567772013-11-03T19:41:00.000-05:002013-11-03T19:41:14.191-05:00This One's for You, NanaThis is Willetta Ruth Pothier AKA Nana. <br />
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Nana married young, just a few months shy of completing her nursing education. She'd met and fallen in love with a dashing older man. He'd been married before and had two children. I'm sure it was quite scandalous. </div>
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When I was a kid, Nana lived in Massachusetts and my family lived in Maryland. We'd visit once or twice a year. She always seemed rather high brow and exotic to me, her old house in a Boston suburb so much cooler and more interesting then the cookie cutter 1970s house I shared with my parents and four siblings. </div>
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Even the story of her long absent father showing up on her doorstep enthralled me. Granddad had gone off to the Merchant Marines after his wife died. He'd left his two daughters with their grandmother. According to the stories, he reappeared in Nana's life many years later, and she took him in. He lived with Nana until he died. </div>
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When we'd visit, he'd either be sitting in an old leather recliner or on a bench under the grape arbor. He kept butterscotch candies in his pocket and offered them to us. He also chewed tobacco. Because of him, I know the exact function of a spittoon and can describe what it sounds like when a gob of tobacco lands in one.</div>
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I will spare you that, though.</div>
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Nana had secrets. </div>
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For as long as I can remember, I knew that. </div>
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Her husband died when her oldest son was sixteen. My father, the youngest of five, was eight and has no memories of his dad. There were pictures of William Pothier in Nana's photo albums. She'd let us look through the pictures, but she never said a word about the husband she'd lost. </div>
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It didn't matter. I had a huge imagination, and I filled in the details that she wouldn't provide. In my mind, she and William had a love so deep and strong that Nana had barely survived losing him. I never put a word down on paper, but I created my first romance based on Willetta and William. </div>
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Years later, I found out the truth. William hadn't been a very nice man. He was harsh and probably abusive. I would say that Nana was more relieved than heartbroken when he died, but I'll never know the truth, because she would never say. She kept her thoughts to herself and raised her kids without piling her baggage onto them. </div>
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She was a great lady, my Nana.</div>
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She was also a writer. </div>
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Years before I was born, she sold a story to a magazine. I don't know what the story was or if anyone has a copy of it. I didn't even know she could write until I submitted STILL WATERS to Harlequin. My father, being the proud papa he is, told his family that I'd queried a publishing house and gotten a request for my book. Nana was thrilled. She'd already had a few mini strokes and her memory wasn't as good as it had once been, but she remembered my submission and asked every week if I had sold the book yet. </div>
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When I finally did, Nana was thrilled. She couldn't wait to get her hands on a copy. </div>
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As the years went by and her memory got worse and her health failed, Nana never <em>ever</em> forgot that I was a published author. Near the end, when her children could no longer care for her at home, she stayed in a nursing home. She brought copies of my books with her and told all the nurses that her granddaughter had written them. I've heard rumors that she even slept with them sometimes. </div>
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Six years ago, Nana passed away. The morning of her death, my husband found a beautiful mourning dove in our yard. It didn't fly away when he bent to pick it up. He carried it into the house and put it in a box. My kids and I spent the day with the dove. It didn't seem sick, but it never flew out of the box. It didn't struggle when I picked it up, either. It had the softest feathers and the most beautiful eyes. If my Nana had been a bird, she would have been one just like that. </div>
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That evening, my husband carried the box outside and the dove flew away. </div>
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You can say it means nothing, and you will probably be right, but there was something magical about that day, something altogether unexplainable about that beautiful mourning dove. </div>
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When I wrote <em>The House on Main Street</em>, I spent a lot of time thinking about family, about love, about the things that bind us together and the things that pull us apart. I thought of Nana and her husband and her old house and the porcelain pig that sat at the top of her stairs. I thought about her secrets and her dreams and the way that she loved her children...unconditionally and without reserve. </div>
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I thought about how we can be so caught up in the daily grind, so steeped in the ordinary that we miss the extraordinary. </div>
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And the extraordinary really <em>is</em> all around us.</div>
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We just have to slow down long enough to see it. </div>
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Nana never said as much, but I'm pretty sure she knew it.</div>
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I wasn't asked to write a dedication for <em>The House on Main Street</em>, but if I had been, it would have read - <em>This one is for you, Nana, because you have proven that an ordinary life can be an extraordinarily magical thing and because you understand the power of family and of love. </em></div>
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Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-7503198183218403482013-08-08T15:24:00.002-04:002013-08-08T15:27:59.448-04:00Gertrude...or...those sweet and salty characters<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Well, here I am, a few days into August and nearly finished with my first Love Inspired HEART book. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Just a little rundown of the series - </span><br />
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<em><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;">Welcome to
HEART (hostage extraction and rescue team), where lives are redeemed, families are restored and true love always
prevails</span></b><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;">.<o:p></o:p></span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;">Hostage Extraction and Rescue Team was founded in 2008 by
brothers Jackson and Chance Miller, both former Navy SEALs who’s older sister
was taken hostage while on a missionary trip to Cambodia. She was never found. That
loss drives the team’s mission - to rescue men, women and children from
precarious situations and bring them safely home to their families. In the five
years since its inception, HEART has earned a reputation for freeing hostages and
rescuing people others have given up on. The members of the team are mostly
ex-military or law enforcement personnel who have lost loved ones and who want
to make sure that other families don’t suffer the pain they’ve experienced. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I'm not sure when the first book will be out. Probably in the spring or summer of 2014. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Whatever the case, the first book has been fun to write. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">And, good news! I included a sweet and salty character. I'm not sure how he found his way into the book, but suddenly...there he was...all tough and cantankerous and quirky. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">As I was writing a scene with this guy kind of stealing the show (so to speak), I thought about Gertrude. She's a prominent character in THE HOUSE ON MAIN STREET. Seventy-something and not afraid to shout it to the world. She's in a constant feud with her neighbor and has a penchant for dusty faded Santa hats. Blunt, a little rude and too willing to open her mouth when she should keep it shut, she has more than her share of character flaws. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">But, man, does she love her family and you couldn't ask for a better friend.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">If she sounds like someone I might know (0r, even, someone you might), it's probably because she is. I had the pleasure and blessing of knowing three of my great-grand parents. Grammy Goo is the one who just fills my memories. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">And, no. That is not a mistake. Grammy Goo. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Her real name...or at least what we were supposed to call her...was Grammy Goodwin.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">AKA, Gertrude Goodwin. My mother's grandmother. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">She was salty and sweet. She smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, swore like a sailor and loved her family like there was no tomorrow. She played the organ...by ear. Never took a lesson in her life, but still somehow played at church on Sunday morning (Yes...I do, indeed, mean that she did <em>all</em> the aforementioned things). </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">Perhaps she is the reason why there are so many older characters in my books, and why so many of them are quirky and sharp, witty and, sometimes, just a little wild. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">I loved Grammy Goo. For all her faults and foibles, because she always let me know that she loved and cared about me.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">In the long and short run, when all is said and done and our lives are played out, it is the love we had (or didn't) that will linger in the hearts of those who knew us. And, perhaps, if we are very fortunate, we will be immortalized in someones book or song or dance or painting, or...better yet...in the oral histories passed down through generations of our families. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Courier New"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">And, really, aside from the drinking, smoking and cussing like a sailor...I think the best kind of older person to be is one just exactly like my wonderful, witty and wild Grammy Goo!</span></span></div>
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Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21310502.post-2090099286232575652013-07-24T11:47:00.000-04:002013-07-24T11:47:13.733-04:00Writing Single Title Romance (Or Sweet Romance is on the Rise)<br />
Well, I've had to put my other blog into hiding. Sadly, the creepy people who like to troll the Internet can't seem to stay away. For the safety of my daughter, I'm keeping it private. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure I'll be blogging there again. Cheeky deserves her privacy. As much as I love to share my journey with those who are truly interested in adoption, I do NOT want to share it with voyeurs who think of her as some strange and exotic creature. <br />
<br />So, that is my story, and I am sticking to it.<br />
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I guess, though, that is part of life, right? Morphing into something different than what we once were? Taking steps into something new, developing that until it is time to step into something different? <br />
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I spent two and a half years focused on being the kind of mother Cheeky needed. I blogged about her and about us and about our family. At some point, though, she became completely us. Not at all seperate. Truly connected, her journey our journey. Yes, her past is always with us, but it is as much a part of our family story as the birth stories of our other children. <br />
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I suppose that there is a part of me that is tired of seperating Cheeky out, making her story somehow unique to us. She wants to feel the same as her siblings, and I want her to feel the same, and while we talk often about her life in China, her birth family, even a future where we might search for them, we are a family...complete without the use of words like adopted, biological, special need. <br />
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That is the way it should be. <br />
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And, so I am here, blogging about life in general. Everything from mothering, to faith, to being a wife and being a writer and washing the endless supply of dishes that are in the kitchen sink. <br />
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My life has changed drastically since the last time I posted here. <br />
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I was in a car accident that caused me chronic pain. I had moments where I thought that writing wasn't worth my time or effort. I almost gave up, tossed all the years of writing into a little drawer and left them there. But, I had contracts to fulfill, and I had to keep writing. <br />
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So, I did. <br />
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Write and write and write some more. In the deepest moments of depression and pain, I wrote. <br />
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It is very surreal when I think of it, now. I'm not sure how I did it. I prayed, but I wasn't even sure what to pray for. But, as Romans 8:26 says - <em>In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we
ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless
groans</em><br />
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In the midst of all this, I kept shooting toward my goals, because it was that or open the drawer and shove the writing life in it. <br />
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One of my goals has been to write both series romance and single title romance. I've had that goal from the day I sold STILL WATERS. Which was, btw, a single title. My second book was one of the launch books for Love Inspired Suspense. I've been happily and consistently writing for them for eight years, but I have never given up the goal of writing single title romance again. <br />
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I thought long and hard about where I wanted to sell a single title romance. The Christian market or the mainstream market? I wanted to write sweet romance but not necessarily Christian romance. I had heard a speaker at a local writing conference say, "The world needs sweet stories." <br />
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I wanted to write sweet stories. <br />
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The market was filled with erotica, paranormal, dark subjects that I don't and can't write. <br />
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And, then the pendulum swung. Mainstream publishers began to see a trend toward sweet romance, and they rushed to fill a hole in the market. It just so happened that I had written a proposal for a mainstream Christmas story, and it just so happened that it was sitting on my agent's desk and on my editor's desk. I had been waiting for over six months and figured the story was dead in the water. At the time, I didn't care. I was still in the midst of pain and depression from the car accident, and it was all I could do to keep writing.<br />
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One day, my agent sent me a short email. She said that Kensington press was looking for a sweet romance. An editor there had contacted her and asked if she had one, and she immediately thought of my Christmas story. Did I want to submit it?<br />
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It was a door, and I've always believed that God opens them when the time is right.<br />
<br />I said yes.<br />
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Two days later, John Scognamiglio called my agent and offered me a three book contract for a small town romance series. <br />
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My first book comes out in November. <br />
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It is a sweet story about a woman who finds that the one place she's never wanted to be is the only place she really belongs. It is about family, community, connections that tie us together...even when we don't want them to. <br />
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In many ways, it is like Still Waters:<br />
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Filled with quirky characters, centered around small town life and the wonderful people who live it. <br />
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There is no overt faith message, but the characters...like us...are searching for meaning and purpose in their lives. They are real people, living in a real world, facing troubles the best way they can. <br />
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It is the kind of book I love to read, and it seemed only natural to write one. <br />
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Sweet romance is finally on the rise again, people, and I couldn't be more thrilled to be part of that!<br />
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<br />Shirlee McCoyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10662958794531584917noreply@blogger.com2