The last time I wrote an actual pen-on-paper, lick the stamp, and address the envelope kind of letter was a few weeks ago when I penned a thank-you note to an Amish family with whom we’d had dinner up in Sugarcreek, Ohio.

I had been there on a research trip for my first contracted book. Since the book has an Amish theme, my bed and breakfast hostess used her connections to get me an invitation to an Old Order Amish family’s home–where I could ask questions.

It was, for me, a magical evening filled with the sight of beautiful Amish children playing on the lawn while we enjoyed a delicious meal served picnic style outside around a campfire. The Amish father politely and formally answered all my questions about the nuts and bolts of the running of an Amish church, etc, and then the conversation fell into a more natural rhythm as twilight fell and we began to share our hearts.

I asked my hostess what, if anything, she would change about her church if she could. I was astonished at her reply. She said that she wished that her church was “more spiritual and less bound by man-made tradition.” She then asked me the same question–what would I change about MY church if I could. I had to honestly reply that the one thing I would change was that my church become “more spiritual and less bound by man-made tradition.”

At this, the father rushed to the house and brought out his Bible, surprisingly an English translation (instead of German) and he and my preacher-husband began to share their faith and their concerns about their churches. The woman confided her concern that her husband might some day be chosen by their church to be a minister. She said that she feared for her children if that came about because, she said, other children are sometimes hard on preacher’s kids. It seemed to comfort her to hear that my three sons had somehow managed to wade through the rough waters of being preacher’s children, with their faith still intact.

I was honored to be invited to their home. Even more honored to be allowed an in-depth conversation. I had assumed that in living near Sugarcreek, they would be so inundated with tourists that they would be sick of all of us. But the Amish are a friendly people.

Today, to my great surprise, my gentle Amish hostess wrote me a letter. She told me all about how their garden was doing, and mentioned that she keeps thinking about our conversation around the campfire. She addressed the letter “Dear Friend” and ended it by saying she would like for our friendship to grow.

This morning, I have already checked and responded to my e-mail, written a couple comments on Facebook, and am writing this now for my blog. But the thing I’m truly looking forward to doing, later on when I’ve succeeded in accomplishing the daily word count on my book–is sitting down with a good pen and some nice stationery and writing my Amish friend a nice, long letter. I’ll tell her about our blueberry crop, and how many pints of jam I put up. I’ll tell her how my husband’s shoulder surgery went. I’ll send her that recipe for homemade cake we’d discussed.

It has surprised me how much I’m looking forward to this.

I’ve been working toward this moment for over ten years.

Writers fantasize about getting “the Call” — the moment when an editor or agent informs them that a book they’ve crafted will actually see print. Ask any published novelist where they were when they first got “the Call” and they’ll lovingly describe that exact moment in time with as much detail as someone describing a marriage proposal. Actually, in some cases, more.

For me, it came on a bad day–a day when I sat down at the computer to write and felt an overwhelming sense of failure so intense I gave up. I shut down the computer and poured my heart out into my prayer journal–asking God if my sense of mission in writing inspirational fiction was misguided. I apologized to Him for misinterpreting my own selfish desire to write–as a directive from Him.

Folded into this emotional storm was various writing articles I’d recently read saying that in this bad publishing economy, absolutely no editors were buying new authors. No how. No way.

Later that evening I was sitting on our front porch visiting with my husband and two of our sons when my cell phone rang. It was my long suffering agent, Sandra Bishop, so I went inside to talk with her and hear which editor had rejected me this time. After all these years, I’m used to rejection. In fact, I’ve even begun to take pride in how good I am at it. I can take a blow, shrug it off, and keep writing. A weird little habit to take pride in–but it was what I had.

I was absolutely not prepared to be told that Summerside wanted to buy my book. I surprised myself and her by bursting into tears. Sandra chuckled and asked if I wanted to get myself together and call her back. I told her that I’d waited too long for this phone call. I didn’t want to miss a second of it.

After she’d outlined the deal and we’d hung up–I went back to the porch and told my family that I had a book deal. Could not believe the words were coming out of my mouth. We whooped and hugged and hollered and high-fived and jumped up and down. A car passed. I didn’t pay attention to who it was, but there is probably a neighbor who now thinks we’re a bunch of crazy people. I really don’t care.

And now the real work begins. Rewriting. Editing. Outlining (hopefully) future books.

I’m so ready.

God’s timing is never our own–but it is always perfect. To Him be the glory forever.

Military men and women with whom he’d served drove hundreds of miles to attend the funeral. One spoke about the young man’s heroism, his courage, his loyalty. His brother spoke about their joyful childhood.

His mother wrote about his enthusiasm for life and new experiences—how holding onto him as he grew up was like trying to “hold back the wind.” He came home to a loving family.

He started college. He achieved a 3.9 GPA.

A twenty-four, he died by his own hand.

It is incomprehensible. Inconceivable. Unbelievable to all who knew and adored him.

My husband preached the funeral. He has done so many funerals, but this one was the hardest. He prayed for words that would comfort. He prayed that at the very least, he would do no more damage to this shattered family.

Words did come. Hopefully they helped a little. The crowd of loving people who came and surrounded the family helped a little. I’m fairly certain it would be infinitely more terrible to grieve a child and no one notice.

Before the funeral, in our hotel room, while my husband re-worked his funeral sermon, I honored the fallen soldier in my own way.

I ironed.

The white dress shirt I’d ironed back at home for my husband was pressed again—this time making certain every square inch was perfect. I ironed his tie, even though it didn’t need it. I discovered a stray fleck of glitter on his good suit, left over from a wedding the week before. This gave me something more to do with my hands—I welcomed it–I dampened a wash cloth and wiped down the entire suit. Then I pressed the suit for good measure. I shined his already shined shoes. And mine. I re-ironed my own outfit—even though it didn’t need it.

Absolutely nothing I did needed doing. Nothing I did made any earthly sense. I knew this even as my hands set up the ironing board.

As I look back, I realize I was trying to hold back the darkness of this evil day with perfectly ironed clothes. It’s a ridiculous image. Me wielding a damp washcloth and shoe polish while my husband prayed for wisdom. A middle-aged preacher’s wife waging spiritual warfare in a hotel bathroom with a borrowed Sunbeam iron. Me—also a mother for whom raising three sons has been like trying to “hold back the wind.”

Last night, back at home, I picked blueberries behind our log house. My heart was still breaking for the family of that fallen soldier. I hate this world in which bad things happen. I rail against the evil that befalls good people.

And yet—as the plump blueberries filled my pail, as the sun set behind the gorgeous forested hills of my home, as the birds sat on the nearby telephone wire and scolded me for stealing their snack—I felt cared for by a great God who gave me this small, healing, task.

There is emotional healing in the simple work our hands. I find it in ironing, weaving, folding sweet-smelling laundry, baking bread, braiding a granddaughter’s hair, putting up blueberry jam. These repetitious acts ground me and bond me with the endless line of women who have dealt with emotional bruising by continuing on with familiar tasks. It is our instinctual way of fighting back. Personal weapons of healing, given by God, in our constant war against Satan’s abuse.

I am only a bystander in this tragedy and yet still I struggle with sadness. I pray that the fallen soldier’s family can somehow, some day– maybe after this initial stage of wild grief passes–find some measure of daily, God-given respite.

At the moment, we’re house-sitting my mother’s 1800’s log home. There are lovely, antique pieces of crockery displayed, none of which are built to withstand the enthusiasm of an energetic little boy.

So I decided it was time to take Johnathan hunting. Outdoors.

Even though Johnathan is as brown as a nut from being outside all summer, I felt he needed war-paint, and he concurred. Before going on our hunt, we raided my lipstick stash and I painted stripes on his cheeks. That necessitated several minutes of preening in front of the bathroom mirror before he left for the hunt. There’s a lot to admire when you’re five.

In my universe, there is nothing quite as sweet as walking down a country road with a little grandson–unless it’s walking down a country road with a little grandson dressed like an Indian–who voluntarily and trustingly slips his hand into mine.

We talked about how he was a great warrior named Red Chief, who had to find food to feed the hungry people of his tribe. We also talked about the fact that he was such a big boy now, he would get to go to Kindergarten tomorrow.

I had intentions of pretend-shooting a couple of pretend deer to take back to our tribe (there’s a herd of beef cattle nearby.) But the wise steers had evidently anticipated the visit of Red Chief and were nowhere to be seen. So we made do with target-practice against the metal door of a friendly church that provided a satisfying landing place for the three suction-cupped tipped arrows.

We both got into trouble when we got home and found his mother waiting. Johnathan had an evaluation meeting with his soon-to-be teacher that I’d forgotten about, and lipstick is not easily removed. After much rubbing with a wet wash cloth, he skipped away to meet his teacher for the first time. His mother said she was going to explain his reddened cheeks by informing the teacher that he’d been playing Indians with his grandmother.

I’ve been accused of worse.

I adore my grandson. I hope his Kindergarten teacher will look past his skinny little arms and legs, his huge grin, his sudden bursts of talking, and his inability to sit still–not to mention his sometimes-too-late realization that he needs to go potty–and see the full potential of his warrior’s heart.

And I hope that when he’s a man, he smiles when he remembers having worn his grandmother’s lipstick as war paint.

She is now in the process of enduring several months of “preventative” chemotherapy. The prognosis is good.

Frankly, I don’t even like thinking about the word “cancer.” I don’t like using the word “chemotherapy.” I don’t like pondering anything that involves hospitals or illness or pain. I am infamous in my family for having passed out cold on the doctor’s office floor when he mentioned that my elderly mother might have to have open heart surgery.

And so, wimp that I am, I’ve been privately annoyed in the past by all the pink ribbons constantly in my face–annoyed because they made me think about a subject I wanted to ignore.

That has changed. My annoyance has now changed to gratitude. Within 24 hours of my niece’s diagnosis, the phone calls began. Phone calls from survivors. Women from her church, women who knew women from her church, women from our home town who know her mother. Encouraging phone calls. Strengthening phone calls.

What I’ve discovered is that there is a sisterhood of thousands (millions?) of women warriors who’ve fought the breast cancer battle and won.

The pink ribbon symbol doesn’t annoy me any more. Instead, it represents a celebration of life, of victory, of a society that is capable of linking arms and marching against a common enemy. Because of the money raised by the pink ribbon campaigns, my niece’s hospital is on the cutting edge of helping women beat the disease.

There is another sisterhood involved in the pink ribbon society–those who help their loved ones get through the chemo. At the present time, that’s where I am. I will be spending large chunks of time in another state, helping my niece take care of her family. I would give anything if my niece didn’t have to go through this, but since she does, it is an honor to be a small part of the sisterhood of the pink ribbon.

It’s Vacation Bible School week. Our theme is: “The World of Jesus.” Our whole family is involved. My daughters-in-law are teaching the two-year-old class, my youngest son is the videographer, and I’m helping out in the make-believe synagogue. My husband is the ringleader, dressed in an authentic outfit our son sent him from the middle east. This educated, intelligent, man leads songs each night along the lines of “I’m A Big Green Frog And God Loves Me.” Our grandkids “helped” all weekend by running through the church chasing each other and screaming–while we tried to decorate.

The most children we’ve ever had at VBS is 121. That was our all-time record. So, this year, we prepared for oh, about 130. On Monday night we were blessed (blindsided!) by 151 squirming little bodies, AND ran out of cookies. (It is not good when you run out of cookies.) On Tuesday night we had 174, and the craft ladies started to hyperventilate. Tonight, we calmed down a bit with 164. Tomorrow, we don’t know what to expect–but we’re preparing for 200.

I haven’t written a word in days, I’m beyond exhausted. I’m hungry, but too tired to fix myself something good to eat. The rest of the family is as comatose as I am–with the memorable exception of four-year-old grandson Johnathan, who had waaay too much red cool-aid tonight!

And yet–the laughter of the children is still echoing in my ears, as are the squeals of delight when the puppets appeared on stage. Happy little faces–proud of the craft projects they made. Tired adults, coming each night after work, trying to make good memories for their children.

VBS week is, hands down, the hardest week of the year for our family. And yet, I can’t stop smiling while I’m writing this. Sometimes it’s good to stop worrying about deadlines, or waistlines, or all the bad stuff on the news–and just make something nice out of popsicle sticks.

Anyway, while waiting for the traffic to clear, I caught a glimpse into the buggy, and did a double take. There, plastered all over the inside front, was a picture of Jeff Gordon, along with other NASCAR memorabilia. Emblazoned above Jeff Gordon’s face were large, reflective, press-on letters proclaiming “Git R Done!”

Obviously, this Amish man has some issues. While trotting down the highway at five mph staring at a horse’s behind, he’s evidently dreaming of whipping around a race track behind the wheel of a gas-guzzling NASCAR going 225 mph.

Now there’s nothing wrong with being a NASCAR fan, but I find it a tad inconsistent with what I’d assumed to be the Amish mentality. Which is why it’s so darn interesting.

Watching that buggy trot away, I remembered a workshop I attended in which Donald Maas advised us to imagine the one thing our hero/heroine would never do, and then make them do it. In other words, sometimes it’s a character’s inconsistencies that make them truly memorable.

I came home from the Amish buggy episode and tore apart a scene I’d written just that morning. In the scene, the hero’s gray-haired, elderly aunt is sewing quilt scraps when I introduce her to the reader. I wrote it as anyone would expect her to be—an expert seamstress, demurely making tiny stitches in an intricate quilt. But that scene’s changed now. My new, revised, aunt is an abominable seamstress. Her quilt squares never come out even, and her crocheted afghans keep unraveling. She eventually dumps the whole mess, buys herself a quilt at Big Lots, and puts her prodigious mind to work helping the hero and heroine. I like her much better now, and I think readers will, too.

It’s always such a TREAT to go bathing suit shopping.

Actually, it was an accident. I would NEVER intentionally leave my house with the sole intent of purchasing an article of clothing certain to make me cringe, shriek, cover myself with my arms, and dissolve into tears. (And that’s just in the dressing room.)

Which explains why my one-and-only bathing suit is fifteen years old. And, according to my sons, not in style in any known decade.

But it fit. Kind of. The only problem was the seat had this big rip in it.

Now, in my opinion, although my sons would differ, I did a really good job of sewing up the six-inch gash in the seat. In case you’re wondering, it ripped when I got snagged on a submerged tree limb while tubing with our church youth group. Let’s just say I got “hung up” for awhile. This was a source of enormous merriment to the teenagers in our youth group who offered no help at all, probably because they were too busy doubled over laughing. (Okay, YOU try to get out of a wet inner tube while your rear end is snagged on a tree limb. See if YOU can do it gracefully.)

So me and my bathing suit have been around the block a few times together. It doesn’t mean either one of us is ready for retirement. Right?

Or at least that’s what I thought before I stopped dead in my tracks at Walmart, half-way down my shopping list, somewhere between bananas and Q-tips, and stared at a black number that I thought might actually fit.

I gingerly lifted it from the hanger. A one-piece. That’s good. All black. That’s slimming. It had a filmy little skirt (okay, “little” might not be an accurate adjective here, but humor me) that didn’t look entirely matronly. Hmmm. This might work.

I’m a bit superstitious, and my superstition takes strange forms. I can walk under a ladder without blinking, and black cats don’t scare me a bit. But I always try to appease the CLOTHES GODS by taking several items with me into the dressing room, hoping to distract them from the one thing I’m hoping to buy. So, I gathered five other bathing suits that I wouldn’t have worn on a dare, and tried them on in quick succession, saving the black bathing suit for last.

The Clothes Gods were appeased. As I held my breath, the bathing suit slipped over my thighs. Then it went over my hips. (Never a task to be taken lightly) A little tugging here and there, and voila’! I didn’t completely hate it.

Take note of that phrase. “I didn’t completely hate it.” That’s not the same as saying I actually liked it or looked good in it.

I’m just happy to once again have reason to hope that no one will point and laugh next time I go to the beach. That new bathing suit is tucked away in my drawer, (the old one went out with the trash, nostalgia will only take a bathing suit so far) and I have this really weird feeling of peace knowing it’s there. Who would have thought Walmart would hold the keys to happiness!

We know Bob well, and this is one more fight in a long list of battles. He still has physical scars from his biological father’s abuse. And he spent lonely, desperate years in an orphanage before a local couple adopted and loved him. He married a good wife–his best friend, he says–and adopted her family as his own. I didn’t realize how deep his love for her parents went, until her mother became bed-ridden. Bob, early retired, took over her care, while his wife went to her job. At the time, I wondered how he stood it—a man–turning himself into a nursemaid for his mother-in-law—day after day after day. When I asked, he shrugged and said it was an honor.

Cora’s mental state deteriorated until there came a time when Bob had to reintroduce himself to her every day. To while away the time, he began singing to her. She would clap and tell him what a good voice he had. Bob had not gotten many compliments in his life, and his mother-in-law’s gentle applause fell like rain on parched earth. He grieved hard when she died.

And so, we met Bob at the church building. And he was nearly sick with fear. Then one of my friends, a former opera singer, saw my car and dropped by. The timing couldn’t have been worse—or, as it turned out, better. She asked Bob’s permission to stay, he agreed, and then he trudged up the aisle like a man going to his execution. Without accompaniment, he sang one hymn. His head was down, his voice wavered, and he had to hold tight onto the pulpit to keep from sliding to the floor.

My opera singer friend went up and whispered something in his ear. His head lifted a few inches, and he made it through another hymn—this time a little stronger. Soon, he was singing his heart out, head thrown back, filling the auditorium to the rafters with such a big, rich, voice that I could hardly believe it was coming out of Bob’s throat. His singing made me cry—not only with the unexpected beauty of it, but with the incredible courage I was witnessing.

Later, I asked my friend what it was she had whispered to him. “To stop thinking about himself, and to concentrate on the words,” she said. “I reminded him that he was singing to the Lord, not to us. Keeping God as my focus helps me when I get nervous.”

I’ve been thinking about that morning ever since. Pondering courage—and baby steps—and overcoming the paralysis and defeat that succumbing to fear brings.

The thing is—I know that I also sing better and stronger when I push my fears–and myself–out of the way. I write truer when I ignore the negative, invisible editor who perches on my shoulder. My voice, whether singing or writing, is stronger when I forget myself and focus on God.

Bob achieved his dream of singing for the residents of the nursing home last week. My husband and I were there. Bob made no excuses. He didn’t demure or say how scared he was. He simply opened his mouth—and heart–and sang the Lord’s Prayer with such conviction and power, he gave us chills.

Courage takes many different forms. I’m honored to have witnessed this one.