If you need a break from the kids, the heat, the rain—or all three—consider heading out to Seagull Book this weekend or next.
Tomorrow I’ll be at the Spanish Fork Seagull from noon until two. Next Saturday, June 27th, I’ll be at the Provo East Bay Seagull from 12-2 as well. So if you’re in the area, stop by to visit and for another chance to win my new book.
Here’s hoping for a whole day of sunshine.
As usual, I am behind on life. This time I’ll blame it on my son’s first ear infection đ and bronchitis. He needs to be held a lot right now, which means everything else must wait—and rightly so. As all mothers know, the stage where our children want to be held goes all too fast.
But while he is taken in a rare moment of sleep (may literally be a moment, we’ll see) I thought I’d announce the winner of the book. My daughter pulled this name from the bowl this morning, and the winner is . . . Moddy! Many thanks to all who commented on my blog. I’ll try to get creative and do more contests in the future. Moddy, please email me your address, and I’ll send your book this week.
A couple of additional thank you’s are in order as well. Once again, the amazing Tom and April Dalton team have provided their talents for this blogsite. On short notice they added the cover for All the Stars in Heaven and gave poor, computer-challenged Michele the help she needed. I so appreciate you guys. The cookies (and a book) are in the mail and should reach you by the end of the week. Remember—pace yourself on the Grannie B’s. Too much pink frosting can make you sick!
Thank you also to Jennie Hansen who reviewed All the Stars in Heaven for Meridian Magazine. A good review from Jennie is like gold, so I’m feeling very rich right now.
And finally, for those who haven’t read an earlier version of this prologue (as with the title, some things were changed during the editing process), you can enjoy it here. This comes before the first preview chapter in the back of Counting Stars. If you’re on my email list, I’ll be sending out the second chapter of the book later this week.
Enjoy!
Prologue
December 1986
âHurry up, Sarah.â Grant Morgan lifted the collar of his overcoat as wind whipped through the cemetery, causing the twenty-eight degree temperature to feel even colder. Frowning, he looked down at the little girlâwith thin sweater, short dress, and bare legsâstanding three feet in front of him. The child wasnât shivering, wasnât moving at all, despite his attempts to get her going and this over with.
He looked around uneasily, wondering if the feeling that he was being watched was ever going to leave. He tried to shrug the worry away but, like the cold, it seemed to have seeped through his coat, through the pores of his skin, into his soul.
Another gust of near-arctic air swirled past them, stirring up the late-fallen leaves at their feet. The wind ruffled the back of the childâs dress, and Grant detected the slightest movement from herâan involuntary shiver as the cold danced around her legs.
So, she is human, he observed, feeling both relief and regret. Heâd hated that in the few hours theyâd been together heâd seen nothing of himself in her and no possibility of any connection between them, but he realized a child who displayed such little emotion would be that much easier to deal with.
A corner of the astro turf lifted, revealing the cavernous hole in the ground beneath the casket. Grant watched as Sarah leaned forward, then looked back at him, her blue eyes wide with fear and . . . questions.
âI said, hurry up.â He gave her a none-too-gentle push that sent her stumbling forward, her scuffed Mary-Janes barely stopping at the edge of the grave. Knees shaking, she continued to clutch the single flower in her hands as she caught her balance. Her small fists stacked over the slender stem, between two protruding thorns of the blood-red rose. She straightened and stood with natural grace and then remarkable stillness for a child of only five years.
âPlease get her out.â Sarahâs voice, though tiny, was calm and surprisingly full of authority for someone so small. âRoses are her favorite.â
âI know,â Grant snapped.
âSheâll wake up when she smells this one.â
Grant felt a minuscule stirring of pity. A very dangerous feelingâfor both of them. Stepping forward, he plucked the rose from Sarahâs hands.
âOuch,â she gasped.
âNo flower is going to wake her up,â Grant said as he tossed the rose on top of the casket. âLetâs go.â He looked down at Sarah and saw the shock on her face. She held her hands open, drops of blood welling on each, where the thorns had pricked her skin. A matching pair of tears gathered in her eyes.
He turned away and walked toward the car, feeling those hurt and betrayed eyes on him the whole time. Other eyes might be watching too, he reminded himself as he retrieved his keys from his pocket, opened the door, and climbed inside. A quick glance out the window told him Sarah still hadnât moved.
He started the engine, put the car in gear, and rolled down the passenger window to call to her. She didnât come after him, and he watched with growing concern as Sarah turned away from the car and threw herself across the casket, tiny fingers trying to pry it open.
âMommy! Mommy! Wake up, Mommy.â
âSarah,â he barked. âStop this nonsense and get in the car.â
Tears tumbled down her face as she looked at him, the imploring in her eyes reaching out across the twenty feet between them to sear his heart. The pity swelled. He fought it, taking his foot off the brake to let the car idle forward.
Sarah turned back to the casket. More anguished cries came from her throat. Grant pressed his lips into a thin line as the car nudged nearer the cemetery gates. The door to the caretakerâs shed was ajar, and Grant wondered if the manâor someone elseâwas inside watching him.
I canât just leave her.
His glance strayed to the rearview mirror as he turned the dial on the stereo, pretending to be searching for a station, pretending that he didnât care about his daughter.
The car rolled half-way through the open gate. Grantâs foot edged toward the brake. He was going to have to go back and get her. Heâd be swift, stern. Heâd spank her and show anger. But anyone watching would still know he cared enough not to leave her behind. Anyone watching would realize theyâd found his new weak link. His hand went to the gear shift as Sarah began running toward the car. Relief washed over him.
Pasting an irritated, impatient look on his face, he put the window up and waited for her.
A second later he cringed as she slipped on the gravel and fell face first onto the road. His hand automatically gripped the door handle, butâremembering the open door of the caretakerâs shedâan inner restraint stopped him before he could get out and go after her. Returning his fist to his lap, he clenched his teeth and silently counted the seconds it took Sarah to get off the ground and begin walking again.
When his nerves had just about worn thin, she reached the car then spent several seconds fumbling with the handle before her little hands found enough strength to pull the heavy door open. Again, Grant resisted the urge to lean across the seat and help. But when she climbed inside and he took in her bedraggled appearance, he wavered, reaching into his suit pocket for a hanky so she could wipe away some of the bloodied gravel embedded in her knees. He tossed the white cloth at her.
âClean yourself up,â he ordered in his sternest voice.
Without looking at him, she snatched the hanky and swiped it across her face. Tugging at her thin, too-short dress, she managed to cover one of her knees. Then she realized blood was also dripping from her chin, and she pressed the handkerchief to the wound. Staying well on her side of the seat, she turned away from him and looked out the window.
The car started forward, and from the corner of his eye Grant studied Sarahâs reflection in the glass. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks, though she didnât make so much as a whimper. Her hair was in need of a good brushing, and it hung long and wispy half-way down her back. He thought perhaps tomorrow he would take her to get it cut short; it would certainly be easier to care for. But then he thought of Rachel and reconsidered. Sarahâs golden hair, when washed and brushed, would no doubt be as beautiful as her motherâs had been. It was comforting to know there was something in her to remind him of Rachel.
Sarah shifted on the seat, tugged her dress down again, then removed the handkerchief from her chin and placed it carefully across a four-inch tear down the front of her dress. She wiped a dirty hand across her cheeks, drying the last of her tears, and turned to her father with a positively mutinous expression.
Grant nearly smiled. âYes?â
âIâm hungry, and I want my kitty.â
âIâll feed you shortly, but there will be no kittens at my house.â
âKittyâisnât real.â Her eyes were hopeful.
âHmm.â
âI canât sleep without her.â
âToo bad.â Grant stopped at a light and caught the driver in the car beside them looking at him.
Unnerved once more, Grant eased the car into the intersection when the light turned green. The car in the other lane moved ahead and turned three streets later. Grant headed toward the Boston University Bridge, thick now with rush hour traffic leaving the city.
âKitty is at Mommyâs house,â Sarah said.
Grant heard the desperation in her voice. âWe canât ever go back there,â he said with a note of finality.
âWhy not?â Sarah demanded. âThatâs where I live.â
âNot anymore it isnât.â
âI donât want to live with you,â she said.
âYeah? Well I donât particularly want to live with you either,â Grant lied. Heâd wanted nothing more for the past two years than to have his wife and daughter back in his life. Every time he and Rachel had tried to patch things up their differences became more apparent, but heâd never stopped loving her.
And now she was dead.
âThen take me home.â Sarahâs voice was quieter.
He glanced across the seat and saw her blue eyes filling with tears again. He suddenly felt helpless. âListen, Sarah. We canât go back there because the police wonât let us. They have to look at everything in the house and see if they can find out why Mommy died. How about you tell me what your kitten looked like, and weâll see if we can find you another one.â
âNo.â Sarah shook her head and turned away from him. Her shoulders lifted up and down in a dramatic sigh.
Grant thought he saw her lip quiver again, but she remained silent. His daughter had his wifeâs coloring and features, but she wasnât schooled in how to use them to her advantage. And she never will be, he vowed. Sarah need never know how beautiful she wasâand would certainly be when she grew older. She would never learn what could happen to a man when she tossed that halo of hair over her shoulder and looked up at him with those baby blues filled with tears.
He would keep her away from men. Heâd raise her to be strong and sensible.
What am I thinking? The safest, most practical thing would be to ship her off to a secure boarding schoolâas far away from him as possible. As he drove, he mulled this overâthe pros heavily outweighing the consâand made up his mind to do just that. For the remainder of the drive he ignored her, thinking instead about his recent job change to the small police department in Summerfield. It was his chance to start over. To keep things honest, simple.
Pulling into the driveway, he cut the engine and looked over at Sarah. Her eyes were closed, and she was curled up in a ball on the seat. Grant got out of the car, made a point of slamming his door, and walked to the box at the curb to retrieve his mail. He shuffled through the envelopes as he came back up the drive, then rapped his knuckles against the car window. Sarah didnât stir.
So much for not being able to sleep without Kitty.
He stuck the mail in his coat pocket, opened the door, and carefully lifted Sarah in his arms. She stirred for a second, turning her face into his chest.
He froze, a sudden deja vu overtaking his senses. She weighed next to nothing and still had that same little girl smell he remembered. It seemed just yesterday heâd cradled her like this when she was a baby.
Walking toward the house, his lips were set in a stern line. He opened the front door, kicked it shut behind him, and carried her to the couch. He placed a pillow beneath her head and covered her with a blanket, tucking her slender arms inside.
Stepping back, he watched as her tiny chest rose in a shuddering breath. Her lips puckered for a brief moment, and Grant wondered if she was having a bad dream. Something much more than pity stirred deep inside, causing his throat to constrict. Leaning forward, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.
âItâll be all right, Sarah,â he whispered, praying it would because he suddenly knew he couldnât send her awayâjust as he knew he already loved his little girl even more than he had once loved her mother.
Saturday afternoon I received this letter in the mail. As it is only the second fan mail I’ve ever received via the postal service
(reader emails are equally thrilling, I assure you), it was a very big deal. It arrived at the end of a couple of hectic, stressful days—days I had literally no time to write anything at all, days I wondered why I put the stress of one more thing (my looming deadline) on my already full life plate. Bonnie Jones’ letter was the uplift I needed, all the reward a writer can ever hope for, and I thank her for taking the time to send it to me.
More on Ms. Jones in a minute, but first a few random thoughts that I hope to tie together by the end of this post.
First . . . One of my very favorite pictures of my maternal grandmother was taken shortly after her marriage. In this tiny, black and white photo, I can tell she is wearing something black and very sheer. She’s leaning against the wall in a striking, seductive pose. No doubt my grandfather took this photo, and no doubt—when I someday see her again on the other side of the veil—my grandmother will give me a good talking to about describing this picture to you readers đ But I love this picture. In it I see a young, healthy, vibrant woman. She is happy, confident, romantic . . . sexy. This is my grandmother long before I knew her. Before the hardships of life—divorce, poverty, cancer—had grayed her hair, wrinkled her face, and stolen her breast.
Though taken years before I was born, it is also a picture of the grandmother I did know. The one who sent me boxes of Christian romance novels. The one who stroked my hair and let me cry my heart out the weekend of my senior prom, just days after the love of my life (now my husband) left for his two year mission. This is the grandmother who could ill afford the phone bills she ran up, listening to me drone on and on about castles and knights and damsels in distress as I told her, week after week, about the romance novels I was writing and would someday publish. This grandmother, though physically weakened by age, still held onto—in at least a corner of her heart—the young woman she was in that picture.
Taking after my grandmother, and being a true romantic, I loved the movie, Titanic. One of my favorite scenes is toward the beginning of the film, when the older Rose sees a mirror that once belonged to her. She picks it up and looks in it, remarking that the image staring back at her is somewhat different than she recalls. When she says this, it is almost as if she’s startled to find she has changed so much. It’s as if inside she is still the young girl who boarded the Titanic for its maiden voyage so many years before. Much like my grandmother, she may have aged physically, but her feelings and emotions are still that of a young woman. Her heart loves just as deeply.
Last week Annette Lyon wrote a great post about being “Kicked out of the Young Club.” After reading it, I took a second to reflect on my own age—a whopping 40 years old now—and how I felt about that. I have to admit 40 was a difficult birthday, but only because I was nine months pregnant and totally miserable! I fully expect 41-49 and beyond to be much, much better. Now that I am healthy and wearing jeans with zippers again, I am not at all bothered by my age. I know the numbers say I’ve hit the middle-aged mark, but in my heart I only feel about twenty-five—and on some days it’s more like seventeen. When my sixteen-year-old daughter and I shop for prom dresses, I still get very excited at the prospect of finding the perfect lovely, floor-length, take-your-breath away dress, though now it’s for my daughter instead of me. I still love dancing and get that delirious, so-in-love feeling on those rare occasions my husband holds me in his arms and leads me around a dance floor. I’ll never feel like I can kiss my husband, or have him kiss me, enough. There’s nothing quite so wonderful as curling up with a good love story on a rainy day, as I did last week. Last night I smiled as I heard “The Happiest Millionaire” playing downstairs as my daughters and their cousins munched popcorn and giggled while watching that fun, classic, Disney romance. Why was I upstairs washing dishes? Instead I wanted to join them before I missed the really good part. In short, I don’t feel forty. Nor, I am guessing, does Bonnie Jones feel like she’s in her seventies.
As I mentioned in a previous post, one of my very favorite lines was nearly cut from All the Stars in Heaven. I literally begged to keep it, citing it as one of the most romantic lines of the entire story. My editor and I went back and forth on this a few times. There were some concerns with this section of the story, as one of the readers for Covenant had remarked (in her review of my manuscript) that my writing could, “turn an eighty-year-old woman on.” At the time this really made me laugh (though the editors at Covenant did not find this particularly funny). I assured them this was not at all my intent. There is only one person on the planet I am interested in turning on, and that most definitely does not happen through anything I write! However, I am interested as an author, in reaching my readers, in touching them some way, evoking emotion that whisks them away for a short while, then returns them to their lives relaxed, uplifted—and hopefully better for having experienced a little romance.
To me this seems an incredibly tall order, a daunting task—one I surely cannot do on my own. Fortunately, I don’t have to. Bonnie Jones, my grandmother, and numerous other readers already have that spark of romance in them. Perhaps something I write reminds them, but it’s what is inside that allows that to happen. It’s because through all their seasons of life, and no matter what stage they are in, they’ve remained young at heart. I thank them for that and hope, with all my heart, that I stay the same too.
Since the birth of our son about five months ago (five months already!! Why does time have to go so fast?), I’ve had very little time to write. It isn’t just that having a baby again—after so long— has thrown me for a loop. Though yes, it certainly has. Rather, it’s the combination of all my children and their various ages and needs, which it seems I can never quite meet. The result has been that my new writing pattern is to start at about 9:30 in the evening and write until 11:00. It isn’t much time each day, but I can’t seem to get started earlier and I can’t seem to stay up later, as I’m still getting up with our baby a time or two in the middle of the night.
During these short sessions the most I’m able to get on paper is about 5 pages worth of story. If you do the math, at this rate it’ll take me about 100 days to complete my usual 500 page length manuscript. Factor in editing with my critique group, and I’ll be working at least a month beyond that. But that’s not too bad, so long as those five pages I draft each night keep taking the story where it needs to go. And, for the most part, they do. I have to admit that it’s still always a little bit thrilling to open up that document the next night and reread the pages I wrote the previous night—and find that they make sense! They entertain me. The characters are talking to each other like real people; the story is speaking to me. What a blessing this continues to be in my life. There are plenty of talents I lack, but my imagination is still alive and functioning. And for that I am grateful.
During the crafting of each story I write, there are always a few sentences I come to love. Maybe it’s that they made me laugh as I wrote them, or they tugged at my heartstrings the way I hope they tug at readers. Or maybe it’s that I had to beg my editor to keep them—as is the case with one of my very favorite sentences in All the Stars in Heaven. Why, some may wonder, would I beg to keep a sentence? After all, it’s just one line out of the thousands in each book. Because each is important, as they are the details that make the story and characters ring true and form the tempo of my writer’s voice. That voice is a little different in All the Stars in Heaven than it was in Counting Stars but I hope readers enjoy it as well. Here’s a sampling of some of my favorite lines from the story.
Her father had said they were always watching, and she wasn’t taking any chances.
“Hey, whatcha doing? That’s my moose.”
“I’m a beached boy. You know, like the band, except old and all washed up.”
“You’re just that kind of guy–the kind that does things like clean out the fridge, help friends with their homework, and babysit.”
This was new and dangerous and . . . she could hardly bear to think of giving it up.
I do what I have to to keep her alive, and you’d better remember it keeps you alive too.”
“Get your shirt on Jay, This is a G-rated house.”
“I’m going to have nightmares down here. The Jolly Green Giant attacking on one side, and Charlie the Tuna on the other.”
Let-me-run-my-fingers-through-those-curls-and-taste-that-flavor-on-your-lips—yeah, that’s it.
There had been times of discouragement certainly, but a glimpse of the night sky sprinkled with stars or of the full moon was all it took to remind her to stay on course. After all, if man could walk on the moon, so far away, she could someday walk away from the life she hated.
A few days ago my middle daughter hollered up the stairs to me that we had a package on our porch. Assuming it was church related (we get everything from bulk tithing slips to sacrament cups delivered to our home), I told her to put it on her dad’s side of our bedroom (which, I’ve decided, will never be neat until he is released from being a bishop).
“But it’s really heavy,” she said. “It’s books or something.”
I thought it an odd time of year for lesson manuals to be arriving, but I went to help her out. And . . . books indeed! It was a box of my books—the ones I wasn’t expecting for another 3-4 weeks.
How wonderful. How exciting. How quickly panic set in! How was it possible they were arriving in stores already when I hadn’t even blogged about the release yet, hadn’t put the cover on my webpage, hadn’t sent out teaser chapters to my mailing list? Suddenly I was several days late–which would likely result in being many dollars short when my royalty check arrives. After all, no one is going to purchase a book when they don’t even know it’s in stores.
So, for all those I’ve given the June 28th release date to—I take it back. There have been confirmed sightings of All the Stars in Heaven on actual bookshelves in real stores. The need to wait is over. It’s finally time to find out what happened to Jay.
If, by chance, you are confused, let me clarify a couple of things. First, All the Stars in Heaven was previously titled Beneath a Canopy of Stars. It is a sequel—of sorts—to Counting Stars, and the first chapter can be found in the back of that book.
Though it is about one of the characters from Counting Stars, I hope readers are prepared for a completely different kind of story. It takes place on the opposite coast, and while Counting Stars made many readers cry, All the Stars in Heaven may have you biting your nails instead. It’s what I call a suspenseful romance—not to be confused with romantic suspense, as the romance element is definitely the focus. Though you can tell, simply from reading the back cover (below), that Jay and Sarah find themselves in a few stressful situations as well.
Ever since the woman he once adored told Jay Kendrich he was a chivalrous hero, he has tried to live up to the praise. But when things don’t work out with Jane, moving on and dating other girls proves to be a chore. That is until he meets fellow Harvard student Sarah Morgan. Although Sarah is a freshman studying music and Jay is in his third year of law school, he discovers they have much in common. He has also discovered that getting to know the shy pianist is painful. The last thing Jay expected from his friendly advances was to be assaulted by a brawny stranger. It is abundantly clear that someone wants him to stay away from Sarah. If only he could.
As long as she can remember, Sarah has lived under a watchful eye. While her father insists it’s for her own protection, Sarah feels imprisoned. As she begins to believe that those she has trusted most don’t have her best interest at heart, she is driven further from her respected father and closer to Jay. But their love will come at a high price as the pair edges closer toward a truth that is darker than either of them could have imagined.
So yes, there is a bit of a suspense element to this story, and I have to say to all those authors who write mysteries and suspense—hats off to you. As I’ve discovered, it’s a difficult genre to write. Now that I’ve tried it? Give me a good, old kissing scene any day đ That’s much more my style, but this was a lot of fun too (I can say that now that it’s over).
Lest you think this story is all seriousness, there are some fun (and funny) moments and characters as well. I’ll be highlighting some of those this week, posting some of my favorite lines from the book, reposting the prologue, and sending out the second chapter to all those on my mailing list. It’ll be the condensed version of what I’d planned to do over the next three weeks.
And because it wouldn’t be a book release without a contest, I’ll be pulling a name from all those who comment over the next week, and he/she will win a free copy of All the Stars in Heaven. So post a comment and keep checking in. I’ll have more tidbits in a day or two.
Those of you who write (whether you are published yet or not) know it’s all about perseverance. No writer knows this better than my good friend, Lu Ann Staheli.
When I first met Lu Ann, I was a terrible writer. I had a million great ideas rolling around in my brain and absolutely no clue how to get them on paper correctly, so that others could enjoy them. Enter my critique group. Yes, I’ve blogged about them before and likely will until the day I die. To this day I remain baffled why it was they allowed me to stay and learn from them.
Lu Ann taught me many things those first few years. Some were terribly basic, like not using the word that in every other sentence. Lu Ann literally edited 1000 thats from my first completed manuscript. She also taught me the evils of adverbs (never mind how many of those I had in my story), and dialogue tags that people physically cannot do (yes, we romance writers love for our characters to breathe their words).
Long story short, our little group began, one-by-one, getting published. Lu Ann, meanwhile continued to crank out some absolutely brilliant YA fiction, and she continued collecting rejections. At one point I had quite a few myself and we joked about who would get the most in a given year, but I feel I can say with confidence that Lu Ann now holds the record for the highest number of rejections in all our group. Why is this? Because she isn’t afraid of them! She’s not afraid to dream big, plan big, write big. And we always told her that when she did see her name on the cover of a book, it was going to be big.
Um, yeah. We were right. Her first book, When Hearts Conjoin, which she ghostwrote with Erin Herrin, is headed for Oprah! Must be nice, Lu Ann đ
And it couldn’t have happened to a nicer, more deserving person (who worked like a madwoman to get this book written on a very short deadline). This, I am quite certain, is the beginning of many great things.
Below you’ll find my review of this remarkable book. Enjoy.
On August 7, 2006 four-year-old conjoined twins Maliyah and Kendra Herrin made history when they were successfully separated. The surgery lasted over twenty-six hours and required over thirty-five doctors and medical personnel. That event aloneâand all the anxiety and emotions of those involved with itâis a great story in and of itself. Yet even more amazing is what it took for parents Jake and Erin Herrin to get their two little girls, and themselves, to that point. When Hearts Conjoin is that story.
Told by Erin Marie Herrin with LuAnn Brobst Staheli, When Hearts Conjoin begins in 1997, when Erin was a carefree young girl and long before she had any idea of the trials that lay ahead. Written with honesty, and without apology for both mistakes they made and the beliefs which carried them through the most difficult times, the book begins by chronicling Erin’s relationship with Jake Herrin, the boy she fell in love with during her senior year of high school. As happens too often with teens, the young couple let their feelings and passion carry them away to physical intimacy neither was prepared for. The result was a frightening eighteenth birthday for Erin, with an unexpected baby on the way, two heartbroken families, and two futures irrevocably changed.
Trying to do the right thing, Jake and Erin married, but happily ever after was not to be for a very long time. The pressures of family were too much for the young couple. It was astonishing to read that Jake and Erin were separated and had filed for divorce when they found out Erin was carrying conjoined twin girls. What would have been enough to send many older, stable couples to the brink should have been the final nail in the coffin of the Herrin’s relationship. It wasn’t. Instead, a remarkable change took place, the first of many miracles in their family, as they forged ahead and faced their incredible trialsâtogether.
Erin and Jake overcame a series of hurdles to have their babiesâbeginning with multiple suggestions that they terminate the pregnancy. Against gigantic odds, the twins were born, survived, and even thrived, eventually coming home. But Maliyah and Kendra’s health challenges were many, and the stresses of caring for their conjoined twins were not all that Erin and Jake had to endure. Parents with serious health problems, another set of twins, and a kidney transplant were just a few of the things that lay in store. It was amazing to see how they literally rolled with the punches, sometimes joking and teasing to get throughâa lot of times crying. But made it through, they did, to that fateful summer day in 2006.
The chapters detailing the surgery are difficult to read. The girls endured physical and emotional pain both before and after the surgeries, and their parents suffered emotional anguish beyond what most parents will ever have to go through. Both Jake and Erin agreed it was the best thing, the right thing to separate the girls. But what if something went wrong? What if one of them died? What if . . . Any parent reading this can only imagine that fear and agony they faced.
Though the separation was successful, the girls required additional surgeries and procedures and were in and out of the hospital over the coming months.
Since then the girls have continued to have health challenges, but the prognosis for their separate, happy lives is excellent. The prognosis for the Herrin family is equally good. Having weathered more storms than many people undergo in an entire lifetime, they are strong in mind and spirit. They are grateful for the mercies and miracles of God and filled with love for their immediate and extended families.
I am grateful for having read this book. Erin Herrin and author LuAnn Staheli took truths stranger than fiction and chronicled them into an inspiring volume. When Hearts Conjoin is guaranteed to touch your heart and make you look at your own life and blessings a little closer. It is a compelling read from start to finish, one that will motivate you to face your own challenges with more courage, and to find more gratitude in the simple, every day blessings we all enjoy.
As promised, here are pictures from the Whitney Awards last month. And I should clarify the title of this blog—there is nothing wacky about the Whitney Awards. Rob Wells, as founder of the Whitney Awards and head of the committee the past two years, is all business (no pun intended Mr. recent MBA grad) and works hard to keep everything having to do with the awards both professional and ethical. But this past April he was a little busy with graduation and everything. In fact, Rob’s graduation was the same day as the Whitney Awards Banquet. Talk about being double booked . . . which is probably why Rob left it up to the presenters to do their own thing. Note to future Whitney presidents: This may not be the best idea. Unless, of course, you want wacky. Which is exactly what happened—all night long. Save for the classy duo of Annette Lyon and Angela Eschler, every single presentation was, well . . . goofy. It seems that as writers, most of us found it beyond our abilities to simply read the finalists and present the awards. We felt compelled to write, at times stretching the titles in our respective categories to the absurd. But, hey, we had fun!
Hope you have fun looking at the pictures. And if you didn’t go this year, plan to attend in 2010. Aside from being wacky, it’s really inspiring to see talented, hard working authors recognized for their efforts.
These days there are so many things to blog about and so little time to blog. Since I’m having difficulty finding time to post more than once every few weeks, I thought I’d list a few of the things I’d like to blog about and you, the creative reader, can imagine what I might have said on those topics. It’s really a win, win situation—I’ve at least posted something (alleviating my reader-neglect guilt), and you end up with a much shorter blog to read, thus freeing up your time as well đ
Here’s today’s list.
The 2009 Storymakers Conference quite literally rocked . . . still can’t get “I Wanna Be A Bestseller” out of my brain.
The wonderful, wacky, Whitney awards. I will post on this soon, photos included (I’ve got a great one of Stephanie Meyers presenting Brandon’s award). Who knew we were all such a bunch of goofballs?! EVERYONE who was there knows now.
Annette Lyon’s secret obsession with horses. After writing Tower of Strength, she swore she’d never write a book with a horse in it again. Guess what showed up in her chapter last week at critique?
Heather Moore won a second Whitney award and Best of State! Holy cow, I have such famous friends. When is some of that going to rub off on me?
Speaking of fame, another good friend—LuAnn Staheli—wrote a book that is going to be on Oprah. I’ll be posting my own, humble book review soon.
My four-month-old son is -now 15 1/2- pounds and twenty-six inches—about the same size his sister was at age one. But he still thinks we are starving him and wakes up a couple of times each night absolutely ravenous. My fondest wish for Mother’s Day? Sleep. On a regular basis would be nice. But I don’t really mind so much if I don’t get any. My fervent prayer last Mother’s Day was that we would defy the odds and get him here safely. I am so very, extremely happy to be this little (big) guy’s mom. He is our own personal miracle.
Another miracle . . . I finally have a second book coming out! All the Stars in Heaven is now available for pre-order at BarnesandNoble.com and online at Deseret Book. It’s scheduled to arrive in stores at the end of June. I’ll be posting excerpts, deleted scenes and other fun stuff in the coming weeks.
And finally . . .the thing I most want to blog about in my sparest of spare time, is my amazing husband. There ought to be a Whitney or Best of State or Best Always All Around Forever award for the most outstanding, supportive husband. Sorry to all you readers who think your guys are great, but my man would win this award hands down. Here’s a little example why.
Shortly after I registered for the Storymaker conference, my husband found out he had a conference the same weekend. This posed a slight problem, as I was counting on him to play single parent to our five kids that weekend. Turned out it was no problem, as Dixon explained to his boss why he couldn’t attend. Another employee from his office went to the conference, while my husband did an amazing job running things at home. He also ran our baby over to the Marriott every couple of hours so I could nurse him.
When I came home Friday evening there were about a half dozen extra kids at our house—teens in the basement watching a movie, and a kitchen full of cousins playing Killer Bunnies at the table. Dixon was busy making pizzas for all of them. The house was clean, the baby (having been hanging out with Dad quite literally—in the front pack) was happy. I went into the bedroom to do a little preparation for a panel I was on the following day, and my husband brought dinner in to me a while later.
The next morning he bought me flowers on the way home from his run. And that night, while I attended the Whitney Awards alone (alas, our baby kept my date away), Dixon drove circles around the Marriott, waiting for me to be done, and trying to keep our baby pacified until I was.
As usual, I feel in debt to this wonderful man I married. No matter what I do, it always seems he does more for me. We may not go dancing very often anymore; we haven’t made it to Hawaii yet. But romance is alive and strong in our household just the same. For while I was speaking about romance at the conference, Dixon was at home, sacrificing his weekend for me, reminding me what true romance is all about. Behind this published writer there is an extremely supportive man. And I’m so very grateful for him.
Amy, the Savvy Shopper, promised to change that. And at the end of her class that was jam- packed with information, I could see why. I left inspired—and somewhat overwhelmed—armed with her syllabus as well as a full page of notes. I couldn’t wait to get started, to shop and save.
After spending considerable time putting together my shopping binder, I headed to Smiths for my first Savvy Shopping experience. Once there I matched cereal sales to coupons for killer deals. Then it was on to the granola bars which, sadly, Smiths was out of. But no problem, per Amy’s suggestion, I’d simply ask for a rain check at the checkout.
Next, I headed to the beer aisle, in search of a nifty thing called a “beer rebate.” Feeling more than a little sheepish, I walked slowly up the aisle, studying each case of beer, looking for a tear pad with a rebate that would save me serious cash. I hoped not to run into any neighbors while I was shopping and could only imagine—if I did—the phone calls my husband might be receiving.
Bishop, are you aware your wife was in Smiths on Monday morning, shopping for alcoholic beverages?!
But then, just as Amy had promised, there it was—a tear pad on top of a pack of Budweiser. As quickly as possible I ripped one off (one and only one, I want to be a savvy shopper, not a greedy one) and left the Coors behind. Once I was safely ensconced on the bread aisle, I read the rebate form and found that if I bought $15.00 worth of deli items, I would get $15.00 back. How simple. How exciting! Though I’d been embarrassed to be seen searching amongst the beer, I had no qualms about Budweiser picking up the tab for my dinner. I bought a pizza, some lunch meat (both rare treats at our house), and some feta cheese for a spinach salad (all it took to convince my husband that this was a good program).
The rest of the shopping trip went well. I matched more coupons, then headed to the checkout to make my purchases and see my savings.
About this time—and because it had taken more time to shop—my sweet, three-month-old son decided he’d had enough and began howling. He doesn’t really cry, but makes a very loud scream-howl type of sound when he is hungry. It is not pleasant, and there’s nothing that will quiet him at this point, except me. And I wasn’t exactly available to nurse at that moment.
Hurrying as fast as I could, I threw the groceries on the conveyer belt and handed the cashier my coupons and fresh values card. In return he gave me a slightly irritated look that I read as Bad Mom. Can’t you get your kid to be quiet? I couldn’t, and felt far worse for Andrew, hungry as he was, than the impatient employee.
As I stood there, trying to calm my son, and thinking about his need to eat, a phenomenon known to all nursing mothers kicked in—my milk let down. It was then I remembered I wasn’t wearing any nursing pads (for those non-nursing readers, these are wonderful little pads that are worn in your bra to collect your milk, so your shirts aren’t constantly and embarrassingly wet). In my haste to get everyone out the door to carpool, I’d skipped the make-up and the nursing pads. And while I didn’t really care that the male cashier was seeing me without mascara, I did care that in about thirty seconds he’d be seeing me with two round, wet spots on the front of my black, fitted shirt.
Panic set in, and I did the only thing I could think of—I pulled my diaper bag backpack off my shoulder and clutched it to my chest, as if I were afraid someone was about to rob me and make off with the Huggies inside. You can imagine just how savvy I was feeling right about then. The cashier was giving me an even stranger look now, and I didn’t dare glance down to see if my shirt was the reason why. It seemed to take forever for the last few items to ring up—and even longer for him to deduct my coupons, which by now, I really didn’t care about. In fact, I probably would have paid twice the price for all the items in my cart, JUST TO GET OUT OF THE STORE FASTER!
The courtesy clerk asked if I needed any help.
“Yes,” I felt like saying. Isn’t it obvious I need a lot of help? I’m the mother of five—five (and that is a scary number, I’m telling you). I have to keep track of schedules from four different schools. I have to worry about college applications an AP exam dates for my oldest. Two of my children are in braces—at two different orthodontists, of course. I have science fairs, birthday parties, field trips, and check-ups to coordinate. I have to remember what appointments my husband has and when. I spend my evenings running around our kitchen table, helping my girls with geometry, algebra, biology, and health. I do at least four loads of laundry every day, and I’ve constantly got a sink full of dishes because all these kids are always fixing food, eating us out of house and home. Which is why I decided that now, during the most insane period of my life, is a great time to learn to be a savvy shopper, so we could maybe get our grocery bill to be less than our mortgage! Except that this youngest child, my baby, doesn’t seem to care for this program. He doesn’t care about groceries—won’t even take a bottle. He only wants to nurse and will continue to scream until he does. So hurry and get those groceries bagged, buddy!
At last the cashier handed me my receipt, and still holding the diaper bag to my chest, I grabbed my cart and steered my screaming infant out of the store. As I loaded my car, I realized I’d forgotten to get the rain checks, but even the thought of getting my family’s favorite granola bars for free was not enough to get me back inside.
Andrew screamed, and my milk ran in rivulets down the center of my shirt the whole drive home. My savings did not feel like much of a victory, but rather a mess. Sort of like everything else in my life right now. I fed Andrew, put the food away, did more laundry, washed more dishes. Then my family came home.
They were astonished to find a pizza in the freezer, something to drink other than water or milk (and no, it wasn’t beer, though I could use a good, strong drink by about 4:00 each day), and something for their lunches besides peanut butter and jelly. Everyone was appreciative and excited. Some even showed it by being a little more helpful. I felt the tiniest bit savvy when one of my kids—upon seeing Salami in the fridge—said, “cool, Mom.”
Guess food really is the way to their hearts. It was enough that I’ll try savvy shopping again . . . in a month or two.
