Author: gettingofftheinterstate

by Donna Poole

Kathleen had wondered about Mr. Ken a few times during the week.

Has he been able to fix the pen? Did he even remember to take it out of his overcoat pocket?

He’d said she could come up to his apartment and get Grandpa’s antique fountain pen he was supposed to be repairing for her, but she’d felt funny doing that. After all, he was practically a stranger, even though, in some strange way, she felt close to the old man.

You must be desperate for human connections, Kat.

Wait. So, now I’m calling myself “Kat,” my childhood nickname, the name I never use but gave to Mr. Ken for some unknown reason?

She thought back to their taxi ride home from church the previous Sunday. Ken had told her she reminded him of someone.

“A granddaughter, maybe?” she’d asked.

“No, Ruth and I never had any children.”

“So, Ruth was the love of your life?”

“Ruth and Jesus! But Ruth would say it was Jesus who came first!”

Not for the first time he’d reminded her of Grandpa. That’s what Grandpa had always said about Grandma. “The loves of my life, Grandma and Jesus.”

And sweet little Grandma had said, “Tell it like it is, dear. You know I come second. It’s always Jesus first with you. And that’s okay with me. Like you say, ‘a Christian marriage is a triangle, two people and Jesus. Keep Jesus at the top, and the closer the two people at the sides of the triangle move to Jesus, the closer they get to each other.’”

Kathleen suspected maybe it was because Grandpa loved Jesus best, he had so much love to give to others.

“Who do I remind you of if not a granddaughter?”

“It’s your smile. You remind me of a friend I had once.”

“You remind me of someone too. My grandpa.”

“Tell me about him.”

But they were back at the apartment building by then. She’d helped him out of the cab and to the elevator. They’d parted ways when she got off on her floor.

Kathleen didn’t know if she’d see Ken at church on Sunday. She had no idea if he attended often. But when she slipped into the pew where she always sat, there he was.  

“You’re here! And sitting right where you sat last week,” she said.

He chuckled softly. “I’ve sat in this same pew far longer than you’ve been attending church here. I’ve been sitting next to you for five years now.”

Her face flushed. “Would you believe I never noticed?”

He chuckled again. “I’d believe. You’ve probably never noticed the handsome young man who sits two pews ahead and sometimes glances back at you.”

What handsome young man? The only man I see in that pew has a bald spot on the back of his head.  

But she couldn’t ask Mr. Ken about it now; the prelude was beginning, and the pipe organ’s swelling music reached the rafters. “O Come, Let Us Adore Him.”

Kathleen forgot about Mr. Ken, her grandpa’s pen, and the supposedly handsome young man as she worshipped the Lord Jesus, the One she’d learned to love long ago when she’d been a little girl in Grandpa’s country church.

During the sermon Mr. Ken once again took copious notes with his antique fountain pen, the one that matched her grandpa’s broken one.

Kathleen’s mind wandered during the sermon. How did I not notice the person sitting next to me for five years? Well, he sits to my right, and I always go left to exit the pew, but still….

She remembered something Grandpa had taught her to pray, “Love through me, love of Jesus.” She had a feeling Jesus wouldn’t sit next to someone for five years and never notice them. Had she really let a decade ago broken heart make her that cold toward people?

Well, he’s never said anything to me either. Or has he? I don’t remember. Pay attention to the sermon, Kathleen.

“What can you give the Lord this Christmas?” the pastor was asking. “He said whatever we do for the least of His children we do for Him. I’m asking you to leave your comfort zone and do something you’re unaccustomed to doing in this church. I’m going to stop talking for sixty seconds. Look around you, to your left, your right, in front of you, and behind you. Who do you see that might need a smile, a helping hand, a meal, a friend this Christmas?”

Sixty seconds can seem a long time. Kathleen knew she wasn’t the only one who felt uncomfortable. Uneasiness hung thick in the air. In this beautiful, professionally decorated cathedral, something like this just wasn’t done. She stared at her folded hands in her lap.

Okay, Kathleen, it’s not like he asked you to go on a yearlong mission’s trip.

She looked up and smiled at the woman in furs to her left. The woman didn’t smile back. She glanced at the people in front of her. The man with the bald spot looked directly at her and grinned. His eyes were the brightest blue she’d ever seen. She forced herself to look away and glanced at Mr. Ken. He was smiling.

Invite Mr. Ken Fisher to dinner next Sunday. It’s Christmas, and no one should eat alone, including you, Kat Jones.

She pushed aside the thought. She was a terrible cook. No one should have to eat her food; she could barely stand to eat it herself and ordered take out whenever possible.

When the service ended, Mr. Ken took forever to struggle to his feet. Bent nearly double, he craned his head, looked up at her and smiled.

“Would you like to share a cab again?”

This week the foyer wasn’t empty when they finally got there. The young man with the bald spot and incredibly blue eyes was waiting there.

“Pastor Fisher!” He bent down and hugged the older man. “I don’t expect you remember me, but you baptized me the last year you were pastor here.”

Ken smiled. “Of course, I remember you. Little Johnny Dryden. You were nine years old. You probably go by John now.”

The man laughed. “Nope. Johnny Dryden, physician’s assistant, at your service. How do you remember me after all these years?”

“Because,” Ken said, “I’ve prayed for you every day, you and all the others I’ve baptized.”

Johnny’s eyes filled with quick tears. “You’ve prayed for me for twenty years?”

Kathleen did the math. Johnny was the same age she was. But he wasn’t here to talk to her; he hadn’t said a word to her.

The next thing she knew her hand was in his two warm ones. “I’m glad to finally meet you. I’ve been trying to catch you to talk to you for a long time, but you usually hurry out and are gone before I can get out of my pew.”

She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Ken laughed.

“Johnny Dryden, meet Kat Jones. She’s my neighbor, and we’re just about to share a cab home. Don’t suppose you’d care to join us?”

“I wish I could,” Johnny answered Ken, still looking at Kat, “but I have a deacon’s meeting. It’s probably already started. I’m late, but I’m going to be later, because I’m going to help the two of you get a cab.”

Johnny helped Ken get his overcoat from the rack and waited patiently while he buttoned it and knotted the red and green plaid scarf around his neck, tying it just so. Johnny acted like he had all the time in the world as Ken slowly struggled into his leather gloves.

Johnny linked one arm into Ken’s and the other into Kat’s and walked them out into the snowstorm. This Sunday, one cab was left from the long line that always formed in front of the large church. He helped them into it.

Before he shut the door he said, “Kat Jones, I’d like to get to know you.”

She smiled. She still hadn’t said a word. Her thoughts were reeling. After a few minutes she turned to Ken.

“Mr. Ken, you were a pastor? Here at Christ Calvary Cathedral?”

He nodded. “I was. I retired twenty years ago.”

“But last Sunday you told me you didn’t know many people here anymore.”

He sighed. “I don’t. The congregation now is mostly newer people, and the ones who were here when I was a pastor seem to have forgotten me now.”

“Johnny Dryden remembers you.”

He raised white, bushy eyebrows and smiled at her.

“That young man doesn’t seem like the kind likely to forget anyone who matters to him.”

“Mr. Ken, would you like to come to dinner next Sunday? I’m a terrible cook.”

He laughed. “I had a friend long ago who always said that. She really was a terrible cook too, but I enjoyed every meal I ever ate in that house. I’d love to come. And I should have your grandpa’s pen fixed by then. I had to order some parts.”

“Oh! I’ll pay you!”

He waved one hand. “No, you fix me a terrible dinner and we’ll call it steven-even.”

She caught her breath. “Grandpa always said steven-even instead of even-steven.”

He smiled again. “Did he now?”

The End

Be sure to come back for The Christmas Pen Part Three

***

These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

All of my books are available at amazon.com/author/donnapoole

by Donna Poole

The house was quiet except for John’s soft snoring and the white noise whirring of the fans in our bedroom. My pillows were soft, the covers cozy, and the midnight sky dark. Everything was perfect for sleeping, except for one thing. I was high on steroids and bouncing off the proverbial walls.

Legit steroids—the kind they give you to counteract the cancer treatments. They work well unless you want to sleep. I needed sleep. This was day five of steroids and very little sleep, but we don’t always get what we think we need.

So, I prayed. I read some in the book of Revelation. I played spider solitaire. I came this close to waking John and asking if he wanted to watch a Christmas movie with me. And then I did what I’ve often counseled others not to do when tired, discouraged, and sleep deprived. I started thinking.

It’s a good thing the Lord came along and asked if I’d like to talk to Him while I meandered down a dangerous backroad where tree branches twisted ominously overhead and threatened to tangle in my hair.

“I’m not going to write anymore, and that’s final,” I told the Lord.

“Okay. It’s your gift. I gave it to you; you can do as you wish, but I thought you wanted to tell generations yet to come about me?”

“See, that’s just it. Who do I think I am, trying to give people a glimpse of Your tenderness, Your beauty, Your greatness, Your love? I’m a sinner. You know it; I know it.”

“Let’s take a detour,” Jesus said to me.

He touched my elbow, and the country road with the too dark trees disappeared. We stood on huge boulders and wild ocean waves smashed against them. The ground shook. I was cold, wet, and terrified.

“Please, can we leave this place?” I asked.

“In a minute. I want to show you something.”

Jesus pointed down. “Look.”

He held me so I didn’t fall, and I looked down, down into a whirlpool that sucked the water furiously into itself and seemed to plunge into infinity.

“What’s in there?” I asked.

“Your sins. I died for them, remember? I forgave you and promised to bury your sins in the depths of the deepest sea. I told you I’d forget them. Do you want to dive in there and bring them up?”

I pushed back into the safety of His arms and shook my head.

“Then never again mention to me the sins you’ve already confessed. Do you understand? And I don’t want you to think of them yourself. I paid a terrible price to throw them into that hole.”

I clung to Him in gratitude.

The Lord touched my elbow, and we were back on my walking together on my country road again. But the moonlight was shining softly through the branches now, and they didn’t look ominous at all. They wove an intricate design against the sky, almost like poetry. I could write about them, if…but no. I could write no longer.

I didn’t have to use my words. He knew.

“What’s your other reason for wanting to quit writing?”

“Lord! You need Michelangelos who can paint Your picture with words! I’m a child with a fat crayon. I’m clumsy at this. What if I use the wrong colors? You know I never was any good at staying in the lines! I’m afraid. I could mislead someone. I might paint a picture with words less than true.”

“Do you remember when your granddaughter printed her name for the first time and gave it to you? She printed the “C” backward. Did you throw it away?”

He smiled. He didn’t need the answer. He knew I’d kept that scrap of paper on my refrigerator until the paper turned yellow, and then I’d tucked it into a drawer to keep.

“That’s how I feel about what you write about me. But it’s good you’re afraid. It means we’re finally getting somewhere after all these years. How about if you let me put my hand over yours and guide that fat crayon and see what happens? But didn’t I teach you this lesson long ago? Perhaps you’re just so tired you’ve forgotten it.”

I stopped, right in the middle of the road. Now I remembered my forgotten lesson. I looked up at the stars; for a second I thought I could see the millions of galaxies beyond. Jesus had created all of this with the breath of His mouth; who knew what He could do with me and a few fat crayons?

“Lord! Do you think I could ever graduate to a paintbrush? Could I maybe someday be a Michelangelo with words and write a masterpiece about You?”

He chuckled. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. You may never get beyond your box of five colors on this earth, but creative work continues through all eternity. Who knows what might happen there? But for now, steroids or no steroids, I think you should probably try to get some sleep.”

“So, don’t wake John and ask if he wants to watch a Christmas movie? Or maybe go have a cup of coffee and look at our beautiful Christmas tree?”

“No.”

“Could you explain the book of Revelation to me? I have a lot of questions.”

“Some other time.”

“Okay, but before I go to sleep, I’ve always wondered what Your plans are for the billions of galaxies up there in outer space. Could You tell me something about that?”

“Goodnight, Donna. Go to sleep. I’ll leave your box of crayons on your night table. Draw me a picture in the morning.”

***

These blogs are now available in eBook and paperback on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

by Donna Poole

Solomon, the wisest of men, wrote, “To every thing there is a season…A time to be born, and a time to die…A time to weep, and a time to laugh, a time to mourn, and a time to dance.” –Ecclesiastes 3

Sometimes the laughing and crying, the mourning and dancing all come in the same week, and oh the conflicting emotions! I call them the roller coaster weeks.

Roller coaster are fun if you get on them because you want to. Our brother-in-law, Bruce, was a roller coaster aficionado! He knew his coasters; he loved his coasters, and if you wanted to ride them with him, you better be prepared to run, not jog, from one to the next. Bruce was at the half- century mark when he and Eve, my sister, treated extended family to a day at Six Flags Great America in Chicago. I love amusement parks and especially roller coasters, so I was excited about going, but I was also forty years old and expecting our last child.

“You better ask the doctor what you can ride,” my sister Eve advised.

“Oh, he’ll let me ride everything,” I assured her. “I’ve been jump roping 1,200 times every day, and he said that was fine because I’ve been doing it for years.”

I wasn’t too happy with my doctor’s reply, “Don’t go on anything that goes around or up and down. Except the merry-go-round. You may go on that.”

So, when we got to Six Flags, I hung out with my sister Ginny, and we enjoyed talking and watching her youngest have fun on the rides for the littlest ones. The rest of the family disappeared, and those wanting to ride the roller coasters took off with Uncle Bruce. He might have been fifty years old, but the teenage boys soon found out it wasn’t easy to keep up with him when he had a gleam in his eye and a coaster in sight!

I didn’t ride the roller coasters that day, but I did many other times, and had a wild, fun, exhilarating time, unlike some others on the rides who were crying, begging to get off, or, worst of all, puking.

I never wanted off a roller coaster ride. But sometimes I’ve had enough of life’s roller coaster extremes of laughter and tears, mourning and dancing, and I’d like a plain, old, ho-hum boring merry-go-round.

Last week was a roller coaster. John and I were heading home after buying more paint for a room he and Kimmee, our daughter, were furiously painting, trying to finish before Thanksgiving. They didn’t have time to run out of paint, but they did. We were almost home when Kimmee called. I knew by her voice something was wrong. Through tears she told us that her sweet calico cat, Peggy, was dying.

Peggy, like all but one of Kimmee and Drew’s cats, showed up uninvited but found two of the best people to love and care for her.

Kimmee has been loving stray cats since she was old enough to walk outside and gather them into her lap. And she has been crying over them for just as long. Peggy was older when she found Kimmee; we think she must have been someone’s house pet before they dropped her off to make her own way in life. She was a funny little thing, walked like an old lady, followed Kimmee everywhere, and had the most gorgeous eyes. She almost always kept her tongue out.

When we got home, we could see Kimmee was right, Peggy was dying.

Kimmee and her husband, Drew, brought Peggy into the kitchen, wrapped her in towels to warm her up, and put a little electric heater near her. Peggy seemed to perk up for a few minutes, but then she had a seizure and was gone. God took her wherever He takes animals. You do know, don’t you, who sits beside every dying sparrow? The Bible answers that, and if God cares about the dying sparrow, He’s also there for every sweet Peggy.

Just a cat? Some might say that, but not God. Think, for just a minute, of the incredible creativity God used to make each of His creatures, and they all say something to us about Him. And the way we treat the animals He created says something about us to God. A godly person is kind to their animals (cf. Prov. 12:10).

No one is kinder to animals than Kimmee. The grief Peggy left behind was deep. Kimmee’s heart once again crumbled, because love anything, and you’ll get your heart broken.

But is it worth it to love? Through tears Kimmee returned the very next day to doing what needed to be done, finishing the painting. The day after that she made wonderful desserts for the family who was going to join us for Thanksgiving. But her hurt showed on her face, and my heart broke for her.

After two days in the kitchen, the day we’d been preparing for finally arrived, and family joined us. Because of the two nasty C’s—cancer and Covid, this was the first family Thanksgiving we’d had since 2019.

Love and laughter filled our house. We feasted on the roast beasts—turkey and ham and all the fixings. We welcomed a new family member; a great niece’s husband joined us for the first time and fit right in. We talked about Thanksgivings past, and how Bruce would have scolded us for having too much food.

I heard young cousins talking about one of their Thanksgiving traditions. Apparently, they bring Walkie-Talkies and send out distress calls no one pays attention to. It warmed my heart to see the kids making memories of their own they’ll talk about someday when they’re older and hopefully still celebrating the holiday as a family.

Yes, part of my heart was still mourning, not just because of Peggy. We’d lost someone too that week, a wonderful pastor friend, Clyde Wonders. John would be preaching his funeral on Saturday. Not only did I love Pastor Wonders, I love his family, and my heart hurt for them, knowing they were having their first Thanksgiving without him. And yet, a mourning heart can still dance. My heart was doing both.

I looked around the tables at the people, smiling, talking, eating, laughing. Love was there, and love is everything.

Our oldest granddaughter, Megan, is heading off to school in the spring to become a physician’s assistant. I don’t know if she’ll be here next Thanksgiving. We never know, when we sit at any table, who will be there when next we gather, so we love fiercely, we love with all the strength we have, even though we know that someday our hearts will be broken, because that’s the way it is.

Megan hugged me when she left. “Grandma,” she said, “that was spectacular.”

Yes, Megan, it was. Love is spectacular. It’s also a roller coaster. And we don’t really want to get off before we must. I’m grateful for the ride.

***

These blogs are now available in eBook and paperback on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Email Address

Photo Credit: Kimmee Kiefer

by Donna Poole

I followed you home down the winding gravel roads for the last time and watched you through my dusty windshield.

You’d never know to look at you that you were at the end of your days, and this was your last trip home. As you navigated those backroads home with ease, I thought about all those other roads you’d traveled and the sights you’d seen I’ll never see.

You were quite the boss truck back in your day, all muscle and no fluff, a 1999 Ford F-350 diesel. You could haul! When my sister, Eve, and my brother-in-law, Bruce owned you, you pulled their fifth wheel many times from Michigan to Florida, New York, Maine, Texas, and the epitome of trips, up the Alaskan highway. You did it all with ease and modesty.

No thanks needed here, folks, just doing my job.

***

Eve and Bruce loved camping, and they loved serving others. Many of their trips were to work with Wycliffe Missions. Whether for fun or ministry, they could always count on their truck.

And then Eve got sick. In the early years of her cancer, she could still go camping, but then she became too weak. And then God took Eve home to heaven. Without Eve the camper was just an empty shell of bittersweet memories; Bruce sold the fifth wheel and the truck.

We bought the truck. I wished we’d named her, but we always just called her “Old Truck.”

It was love at first sight; my husband, John, had always wanted a truck. Just about everyone has one in the farming community where he’s a pastor. True, John didn’t need one for the reasons the farmers, contractors, and the electrician in our church did, but he wanted one. I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget the joy on his face the first time he drove that five on the floor stick shift.

Old Truck pulled Old Bertha, our 1988 fifth wheel, on our many camping adventures. Our two favorite places were Brown Country State Park in Indiana, and the channel campground in Muskegon, Michigan. Old Truck did many other things for us too, hauled lumber, brought home pipes and other items necessary for home repairs, and made countless trips to the scrap metal place and the dump. This summer she pulled down an old garage the insurance company said had to go.

And then our trusted mechanic told us Old Truck could no longer pull Bertha; the frame and spring mount were too rusted. Our hearts sank. I don’t suppose anyone likes camping more than we do. I think we could still manage tent camping; John doesn’t agree. We took Old Truck for a second opinion, and then a third. And that’s when we found out she wasn’t safe to even drive anymore. The steering has rusted parts, and the right front wheel is about ready to fall off.

And so, we began her last slow trip home down the back roads, John driving Old Truck, and me following in the car. A few younger, stronger, more attractive trucks gunned it and roared by us as we slowly babied the old lady home. But they don’t know her history. They don’t know all she’s done and seen; the joy she’s brought to her owners.

I imagined Old Truck wistfully watching the landscape we slowly passed, corn ready to be harvested, bean fields already empty, the sky a brilliant blue, and a few trees still bright with color.

And then I cried.

I knew I was crying about more than Old Truck. Rust, decay, loss, death; they are such foreign intruders, aren’t they? The enemies! We weren’t created for them. We weren’t made to age and die. God made us to live eternally young in a garden where even the bean plants never rusted.  

And yet there is hope.

For God’s children, because of the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, there will one day be a new heaven—and a new earth!

Hold on a while longer, dear friends. Joy comes in the morning! –Psalm 30:5

Young Again

by Donna Poole

“I hate being old,” I heard her

 eighty-seven years say.

Why? Why do we mourn the

passing of our youth,

The prune-ing, rasin-ing,

Sagging

Bagging

Freckling

Veining

Of our skin when graying

happens to us all?

Our spirits sigh protest.

Dreams of ocean breeze and

morning dew and worship of a

newborn’s skin all whisper

The same truth.

We were not born to age—

To creak

To stoop

To slow

To stop.

Eden birthed us to eternal youth.

When young eyes hungered for

poison fruit

Sin and Satan stole the

Breathless freshness of our

treasure.

A cloud hid the shamed face of’

the sun,

And earth wept and grew her

first gray hair.

The lost will be found.

Our earth—

And we, her children, will yet be

young again.

Gloriously

Goldenly

Sweetly

Young again

In the newborn kingdom of our

God.

And who knows? Maybe in that new earth there will be a boss truck, all muscle and no fluff, a 1999 Ford F-350 diesel for an old preacher, now young again, to drive. If not that, something far better waits for him, I know.

But for now, I follow John down the dirt road. I can see the back of his head with his gray hair; I can’t see his face. But I know he’s sad because he’s driving Old Truck for the last time.

And I cry.

by Donna Poole

Meet the New Kid

by Donna Poole

Her first three daughters looked enough alike to have been triplets.

“What do you have, some kind of mold and you just keep turning out look-alikes?” her friends teased.

The girls all took after the Scandinavian side of the family. Tall, quiet, straight blond hair; their mother almost always knew what her blue-eyed beauties were thinking. They were well mannered children and so predictable. Her friends were envious.

Not that her girls were perfect; they fussed a bit when teething, and one of the three protested a bit at potty training, but all of them sailed through the terrible twos as though it had no meaning for them. The mother often marveled at her good fortune.

The relatives adored the girls, called them “sweetheart,” “honey,” and “doll baby.”

And then came daughter number four. Had the mother not just gone through twenty-nine hours, fifty-three minutes, and forty-nine seconds of agonizing labor—the first three had been easy births—she would have sworn someone had switched babies and given her someone else’s child.

She blinked hard twice when a nurse showed her the new baby. Red faced, short, chubby, and squalling, the infant had a head full of dark curls.

The nurse had to shout to be heard over the babies screams.

“I guess she didn’t much like being disturbed from her comfy, warm home and doesn’t think much of this big world. What will you name her?”

The baby’s older sisters who had all come into the world without protest and had calmly surveyed the world around them had Scandinavian names: Astrid, Agnes, and Annika. This one was to have been Alma, but she didn’t look at all like an Alma.

The mother wished she could ask the baby’s dad, but this child had chosen to be born two weeks early and he was out of town on a business trip. She fell back on the pillow, exhausted.

“Name? I have no idea.”

Someone put her still screaming little infant in her arms. She laughed.

“Do most newborns cry this loudly?” she asked. “My first three didn’t.”

“Most don’t make quite that much noise.” The doctor laughed. “Maybe you have a drama queen on your hands.”

Waving her tiny fists in the air, the baby looked more furious by the second. The mom kissed her on the forehead. It did nothing to stop the noise.

“With those dark curls you certainly look like your father’s Italian grandma, my little drama queen,” she said. “I’m going to name you Sophia.”

“You look exhausted,” a nurse said sympathetically. “Don’t worry; she’ll fall asleep soon. All newborns do. And then you can get some sleep. Or do you want us to take her to the nursery?”

The mom shook her head. “I always keep my newborns with me. You’re right. I know she’ll sleep soon. All my others did.”

Sophia did not sleep soon. By the time the mother fell into an exhausted sleep she hoped for sweet dreams. She didn’t get them.

She dreamed of a little girl almost always stubborn and unpredictable. By the time she was eighteen months old she was already the definition of terrible two. Her manners left something to be desired because she was too outspoken. None of the relatives called her “sweetheart” or “honey,” or “doll baby.” They called her “that little spitfire.”

In her dream her friends weren’t envious anymore; they were shocked. They didn’t know quite what to make of the new baby, so different from her sisters. They said to each other, “Have you met the new kid?”

The mother woke to more screams. She looked at Sophia, once again flailing her arms, tiny red fists batting the air, face red with effort. She had a hunch her dream was going to become reality, but she didn’t care. She desperately loved this new baby, so different from her sisters, born October 20, 2022, ready to add her own color to the beautifully colored autumn world waiting for her.

***

My new book baby is very different from my first three books; it had a mind of its own and took some unexpected twists and turns when I was writing it.  Meet the new kid: The Lights of Home published October 20, 2022. It’s available on Amazon. I hope you’ll like it. If you do, please leave me a review about the little spitfire.