Diane shook her head and shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic chair of the waiting room. Her dark curls fell forward over her lean face, casting deeper shadows on eyes already drawn by pain. “I don’t see how.” But she gave Carla’s hand a gentle squeeze.

Carla took hope and sat straighter. “I know it’s just part of God’s plan for—”

Diane jerked away and stood up, a scoffing noise echoing from her throat as she crossed to the window. “God. Right. You know good and well God left both of us when we were ten. I certainly haven’t seen Him since.”

Carla rose slowly, considering what to say as she joined Diane at the window. Five floors below, steam rose in spiraling tendrils from the rain-soaked streets, turning the air from a sauna bake to a steam bath. Carla knew she’d have a hard time breathing in the muggy air so different from the chilled air of the hospital. She dreaded leaving.

She dreaded staying even more.

“When we were ten. . . ” Diane’s words hung between them, both of them all too aware of what she meant. Ten. When both their lives had been ripped apart, forever changed by the man who now lay three doors away, trying to die. He’d destroyed their innocence, their families, and their faith. Carla had regained the last two. Diane still wouldn’t talk about it.

“He’ll make it. He’ll live.”

Diane snapped her head around, her words sharp. Her eyes narrowed, the pain giving way to fury. “And then what, Carla? Will you kill him for real next time?”

The Stars Cry Out Their Names

Last night, while I was staring up at the stars, two passages from Psalms came to mind, making me sigh with a feeling of relief – and blessing.

The first was Psalm 8:3-5:

When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,

what is man that you are mindful of him,
the son of man that you care for him?

You made him a little lower than the heavenly beings
and crowned him with glory and honor.

For me, this is the ultimate sense of perspective. We are but specks in God’s universe. Atoms. Quarks. So why should we matter to Him?

But we do. Each of us. Scripture tells us this over and over, as it does in Psalm 147:

He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds.

He determines the number of the stars
and calls them each by name.

Great is our Lord and mighty in power;
his understanding has no limit.

The same God that names each star binds every wound, heals every heart. Trusting Him may be difficult, but we should never doubt His love for every ache, physical or mental.

This is why I seek solace in the night, looking up at the stars, listening for their names, and finding reassurance in God’s care.

Second, Eva Marie Everson tells the story of Mariette and Thayne Scott with such rich detail that the 1960s returned to life in my mind, causing a number of distracting flashbacks. Images of my own childhood kept popping up, from the way my mother ran our house to that day in 1963 when the world came to a halt as people grieved in unison.

Yes, Revell sent me the book in exchange for this review, but Eva Marie is a master storyteller, and I own all her books, dating back to her first novel from Barbour. Be assured I would have bought and reviewed it anyway.

So why did This Fine Life capture me so? Let’s start with the tale itself. Mariette is typical of many young women who came of age in the late 1950s. The world sat before them with an overwhelming banquet of choices. College and careers previously not open to women awaited. Marriage, always a great option at any time, no longer formed the boundaries of our world.

So when Mariette chooses marriage to local “bad boy trying to make good” Thayne Scott over college and a respectable lifestyle, she comes into conflict with her family and most of her community. Those conflicts soon merge with the normal struggles of newlywed life, but Mariette eventually finds herself settling into her “new normal” and looking again toward an idyllic future.

Then real life hits hard – and Thayne drops a bombshell that will change all their lives forever.

This Fine Life is a riveting story that drags the reader into an unforgettable journey filled with twists and turns as unexpected as those life sometimes throws all of us. Heartache blends with laughter; joy is laced with bittersweet moments. The reader will hang on for the ride not just because of the engaging story but the lush characters who make you laugh with them and weep for them.

Pick up a copy . . . and relish every word.

This Fine Life
Revell, $14.99
978-0-8007-3274-5

It’s been a strange time; one of transition and fear, prayer and tested trust. My mother has been repeatedly ill, a combination of heart and lung ailments—some recent and some long standing—and I’ve made a number of trips to Alabama . . . and the ER. I’m now as familiar with Decatur General Hospital as I once was Vanderbilt’s Children’s Hospital. But Rachel is stable and reasonably healthy these days, while I feel as if I’m watching my mother’s descent in to that infamous good night.

Earlier this week, I headed home again, only this time I skipped Interstate 65 and drove Highway 31 almost all the way home. Once the major thoroughfare from Decatur to Nashville, it’s now one of the “blue roads” – those 2-lane beauties that meander with the land (as pointed out in the movie Cars) instead of cutting through it.

It is some of the most beautiful country in the world. In spring, the trees are laced with dark and light greens, and wildflowers line the side of the roads, their pinks, whites, purples, and blues waving wildly with each passing car. The weather alternated between sun-backed storm clouds (giving a whole new meaning to the term “blue road”) and brightly lit, rolling fields.

I pass through a half dozen unincorporated towns, maneuvering through curves and hills like a child at play. The land around Nashville undulates like the ocean far from shore, so that even the open horse fields rise and fall like great swells of verdant seas.

It also brought back memories of the first time I rode this stretch of highway, almost fifty years ago. It was Summer 1964, and we were on the way from Alabama to Nashville to see the Grand Ole Opry. I was a kid, but almost every mile driven in that unair-conditioned 1964 Impala is etched in my mind. It was good to look back, remember the way my parents used to be, what we were as a family.

This year, I turn 53; my mother will be 84 in June. We don’t look much alike; I carry too many of my dad’s Welsh genes. But there is kinship in our spirits, in our experiences, in our faith, in our love.

Life is not simple or easy for me right now—not financially, emotionally, or spiritually. But in caring for my mom and making her a priority, I’m reminded, almost daily, that remembering what has gone before can make us strong, bind us together, help us face the future.

So here’s to remembering Highway 31 in 1964 during the year we turn 53 and 84. And God’s staying power.

Joy, please email me your address, and I’ll get the books in the mail to you this week.

Thanks to EVERYONE who entered. The next prize package, Spring in the South, will be given on May 15. Click here for more details, including links to the books.

More to come.

Prizes include:

* A Murder Among Friends, The Face of Deceit, and The Taking of Carly Bradford, autographed
* Field of Danger, autographed
* New Hampshire: A Living Landscape, Peter E. Randall
* Assorted teas in a gift basket
* Assorted chocolates

Just email me at ramona@ramonarichards.com with CONTEST in the subject. Everyone who has already done so will be entered.

Thanks!

Hm.

Now, I’ve been single a long time. But immediately my mind leaped backwards, over two boyfriends and into a time when I pondered the same thing about my husband. And before I could stop it, out of my mouth came, “Used books and lead figurines.”

Lord, what a memory.

Once upon a time, before Amazon, before eBay, there was only one way to collect your favorite author’s backlist: used book stores. And I spent many an hour searching dusty, cluttered storefronts, prowling through unorganized stacks of books, looking for old editions from Piers Anthony, Roger Zelazny, Michael Moorcock, Philip K. Dick, and dozens of other authors.

My ex and I read a lot of science fiction, but on top of that, he was a gamer, and discovered a pastime that helped him relax…and made me nuts. He painted 25mm lead figurines for his role playing games. Preferably from Ral Partha, a high-quality company started in 1975 by a 16-year-old sculptor and 5 gaming buddies. Some of his prized favorites were the complex, expensive dragons.

So the best gifts wound up being acid-yellowed books and lead dragons. Not easy to find, and it made finding a store like South Bend’s The Griffon akin to digging up treasure in your backyard.

The point?

“Follow his interests, and do something special,” I told her. “Forget the card and buy him a lead dragon.”

Yeah, ok, she looked at me a little funny at that last part.

She did get that Valentine’s Day isn’t really about chocolate hearts and Hallmark cards. It’s about paying attention.

The world is simply different at night. I love night sounds, the way the air smells. I enjoy life in a relatively safe neighborhood, so I’ve gone for many a midnight walk. You learn things about your neighbors that you wouldn’t otherwise, such as who leaves their dog out, which house the raccoons and possums prefer, and who else is a night owl. The fact that I know who watches Colbert or Letterman tells me whose house I could knock on if trouble did arise on the street.

Music plays a part in the night owl’s journey. If I’m not out wandering into one of the venues here in town, I’ve got it cranked on the speakers, especially if Rachel isn’t home.

I write a lot at night, usually until the creative part of my brain slows, then halts. That’s how I know that it’s bed time. Even then I may not give in, switching over to things like blogs . . . or something that just strikes my fancy.

Tonight it was Plenty of Fish, a dating site. I set up a profile, posted a few pictures. Probably nothing will come of it; I don’t play well on paper, and I’ve never been particularly good at talking with strange men.

Make that men who are strangers. I actually do OK with strange men, geek girl that I am.

Yeah, that’s a writer’s comment. That’s OK. It’s three in the morning, the music is jamming, and I’m wondering if I have another chapter in my head. I’m also wondering if it would be safe to go alone to this little hideaway place in Madison; I hear they have bluegrass jams twice a week….

I’ll probably come to my senses once the sun is up.

Maybe.

But probably not.

Below are the February releases from members of the American Christian Fiction Writers. I have already read, and highly recommend, Jennifer AIlee’s The Pastor’s Wife and Christa Allan’s Walking on Broken Glass. And those of you who’ve heard me gone on and on about my favorite female in the Bible know I’ll be recommending Jill Eileen Smith’s Abigail.

But almost any of these will give you a warm, relaxing afternoon or two in the recliner, especially during these cold days.

1. Abigail: A Novel, The Wives of King David, Book 2, by Jill Eileen Smith from Revell, a division of Baker Publishing Group. Turmoil marks her life – what price will she pay for love?

2. A Valentine Wish, by Betsy St. Amant from Steeple Hill Love Inspired. Lori, chocolate-lover extraordinare, is unemployed, single, and out of brownie mix. But when a secret admirer pops up at her new job running a chocolate boutique, she might have the ingredients for a special Valentine’s after all!

3. Deliver Us From Evil, by Robin Caroll from B&H Publishing. When a female helicopter pilot rescues a US Marshal escorting a heart, they must race against time to uncover the largest child trafficking ring in history.

4. Hometown Promise; First in the Kellerville Series, by Merrillee Whren from Steeple Hill Love Insired. Kellerville: Finding family, community and love in one small town

5. Love’s Winding Path, by Lauralee Bliss from Heartsong Presents, Barbour Publishing. A prodigal’s life is never out of God’s reach and His love as two lonely adventurers are about to discover.

6. The Marriage Masquerade, by Erica Vetsch from Heartsong Presents, Barbour Publishing. Sometimes running away brings you right back where you started.

7. Meander Scar, by Lisa Lickel from Black Lion. When Ann is ready to jump back into life with a new love, she discovers the devastating truth behind her husband’s disappearance.

8. My Deadly Valentine, by Lynette Eason and Valerie Hansen from Steeple Hill Love Inspired Suspense. Two suspense-filled stories about stalkers and the men determined to protect the women they love.

9. On Wings of Love, by Kim Watters from Steeple Hill Love Inspired. A dedicated nurse devotes her life helping others, only to discover the man who steals her heart doesn’t want her help..

10. The Pastor’s Wife, by Jennifer AlLee from Abingdon Press. A woman must face the husband – and the congregation – she ran from six years earlier.

11. Walking on Broken Glass, by Christa Allen from Abingdon Press. Leah Thornton stops numbing her pain with alcohol, but discovers the road to redemption might still be under construction.

Sometimes I may just “wax poetic” because a book moves my heart, whether or not it’s a “great” book. We all have our guilty pleasures, and the overall quality may not matter as much as how much I fall in love with the hero or think the heroine could be a good friend. After all, I’m always going to cheer when Lynryd Skynryd breaks into “Sweet Home Alabama” (my home state) and melt whenever Han Solo comes flying out of the sun.

I’m just a softie.

If you’d like to suggest a book, I’m open, but I’m not going to be soliciting new releases. I only have 24 slots a year, and I want to feature books I love. Mostly new books, yes, and mostly inspirational fiction, but occasionally, I’ll indulge in a book of the heart. As a result, I want to start this with a book recommended by someone I respect a great deal, agent Sandra Bishop.

In a recent post on Chip MacGregor’s blog, Sandra made this comment: “And as much as I love Steinbeck, Leif Enger’s Peace Like a River replaced Tortilla Flats as my all-time favorite novel.”

Until that moment, I’d never heard of Mr. Enger’s book.

I had no idea what I was missing. I finished it a few weeks ago, and I barely waited for this post to gush about it. Not only is this a book of the heart; it’s a work of enduring quality that’s sure to entrance readers for generations to come.

The storyline is deceptively simple. Set in Minnesota during the early 1960s, the story follows its 11-year-old asthmatic narrator, Reuben Land, through a coming of age story that grows from the choices his family makes: mostly his eccentric, highly spiritual father’s decision to give up medicine for the life of a small-town school janitor and his older brother’s choice to take revenge on the town bullies then flee town.

Yeah, not my kind of tale. I never would have picked it up on my own. Good thing I value Sandra’s opinion.

Reading Peace Like a River is akin to diving into a wondrous world of unforgettable imagery, characters that imbed themselves skin and nail into your soul, and a tale that will make you believe in miracles all over again. I didn’t want it to stop, but Mr. Enger draws it to such a real, inevitable, and satisfying conclusion that I released it with a sigh. It’s a glorious reminder that “Christian worldview” isn’t a category. It’s a way of life; a way of telling your story that has as much to do with the author as the characters that emerge from the tale.

And it’s a first novel.

I share Sandra’s high opinion of the book (obviously), although I can honestly say it didn’t usurp the #1 book in my head. That place was grabbed when I was only 14 and never relinquished. Someday, I may talk about that one. For now, I can only offer up a book that will live long in the memory of anyone who slips between its covers.

Peace Like a River
Leif Enger
Paperback: Atlantic Monthly Press
ISBN-13: 978-0802139252
$13.95