A DAY OF FAITH

Yesterday at 10 a.m. EST, we entered The Healing Rooms and were warmly greeted by several smiling, kindly women. The interior of The Healing Rooms is a pleasingly-decorated, house-sized structure with flowing rooms, some with French doors. Soft music wafts throughout, and on the walls are beautiful religious artifacts such as crosses, pictures of Jesus, even a Jewish prayer shawl draped on one wall.

Several more arrived, "intercessors," they're called, people who love to, and feel called to, pray for others. Some, I knew; others I didn't, but it felt like I did. The spirit of Christ (love of God?, however you want to word it), flowed from their eyes and faces.

We watched a short DVD of a minister connected with The Healing Rooms who delivered a powerful, succinct, faith-building, short talk/sermon, that in that peaceful, quiet setting made some of us say, "Amen" and "Yes, Lord, I believe" and "Yes, Lord, I RECEIVE!" He pointed out in the Book of Isaiah in the Bible that it says, "By His stripes we WERE healed" NOT "are," and he explained that that meant that Jesus HAD ALREADY DONE THE WORK OF HEALING on the cross. All we have to do is RECEIVE it. Man, my faith was soaring.

Then the woman in charge told the group to go into the Intercessors' Room, a pleasant, dimly-lit, large space with high-backed rocking chairs lining the walls; think "comfortable." She told them to intercede, and she motioned for Milton and me to follow her.

She took us into another room where three more women were, one who'd greeted us on arrival. We sat down, and for about 45 minutes, they "shared" (don't ya just love that favored word of Christian comedienne Chonda Pierce (WEB SITE) J). Each had prayed for me the day before and received "words" from the Lord about me, things they never could've known.

One said as she was praying for me, she saw a large heart, and even though she wasn't Catholic, she immediately thought of that big red heart on Catholic artifacts. She found it on the Internet, she said, and that large heart represented God's love for me, AND, it represented ME, for I had a big heart of love, she said.

Tears flowed.

"Tell them what happened to you, Kristy, when you were a young teenager," Milton said. "Our youth leaders used to take carloads of teenagers to revivals and youth meetings," I said, "and one night, they took us to a tent revival. The preacher preached awhile, and then he stopped and pointed at me, and said, 'Young lady, come to the altar.' My heart just about jumped out of my chest, but I did as he instructed and stood there trembling. He looked into my eyes and said, 'All evening, as I preached, I looked at you, but I couldn't see you. All I saw was a giant heart. God spoke to me and said that you have a heart of compassion and love. When you see a drunk or a derelict, your heart aches. When you see a down-and-outer, you weep inside. Young lady, God is going to use this heart of compassion for His Kingdom and His glory. He has special plans for you.'"

I'll never forget that night as long as I live, and throughout my life, I've watched that prophecy come to pass as we've ministered to, oh, I don't know how to estimate how man.

This was a wonderful word of confirmation.

The next lady asked if I'd ever had any fear of getting cancer. Bingo, again! I told her my oldest brother came down with liver cancer in 1992—a huge shock to our family since cancer doesn't run in our family—and within four months he was dead. I was standing by his death bed when he went to Heaven, and I wondered then, Will any of the rest of us get cancer? Oh, Lord, don't let it be me! I couldn't take it, if that happened?

The next lady asked if I had any fear and if I had any guilt. "Did you ever do anything in your past that you were ashamed of. I smiled. "Can't think of anything. I became a Christian at age three, and all I've ever known is loving Jesus and wanting to work for Him." "No guilt?" she asked again. "Well, come to think of it, I think I have a guilt complex. If I accidentally brush someone in a store, I say, "I'm so sorry," and proceed to profusely apologize. If someone does something nice for me, I almost feel guilty accepting it. For example, a couple came by today who have brought so much food to our house in the five or so weeks. Lush meals. I said, "I'm hoping to be better real soon so you won't have to keep doing this." As I was saying this, I remembered what the woman in The Healing Rooms said to me, and I repented of it.

Back to The Healing Rooms. The woman said, "Will you repent of fear and guilt?" "Yes," I said, "I will. I am amenable." She led me in a short prayer, confessing these things, and said that they would LEAVE me. "Amen," I said.

Several made brief comments about healing and about receiving healing, and it was all so good, and my faith just kept soaring.

Then, THEN, a short little lady stood up, grabbed her Bible, stood in the center of the room, and said, "I see a BOOK." She talked for a few minutes, and these are the phrases that stood out to me: "BOOK!" "PAGES AND PAGES!" "A NEW (OR ANOTHER) CHAPTER!" Milton and I stared at each other. She didn't know I was an author, and she certainly didn't know that one of the biggest prayers of my heart has been, "Lord, somehow, let me finish my 'big book' (long-length, heart-touching, faith-building novel) I've been working on for two years, the one which I feel You 'gave' to me." Milton and I wept and wept.

Then someone read portions of Isaiah 53, and then they circled my chair, gently lay their hands on my shoulders, and as I heart the intercessors from the Intercessors' Room praying aloud in fervency, these women began to pray individually. They each had a powerful prayer, and Milton and I soaked them up. Then they circled Milton's chair and prayed for him, asking God to give him strength and peace and lots of other things.

After that, we hugged all around, and then we went into the main part, and Milton peaked into the Intercessors' Room, and said, "I want you to go in there for a few minutes before we go." We went in there, and the music flowed, and we prayed all together, creating some noise, but it was SO good and SO faith-building, and then I started dancing, and we laughed and we cried, and then they asked Milton to down, and they all circled him, and prayed prayers that shook Heaven's rafters. He wept and wept and wept.

That was our day.

When we had gone into the Intercessors' Room when we came out of the room with the handful of women, someone said, "How'd it go?" I said, "I have peace, joy, love, and HEALING!"

It was a day of faith!

"Thank You, Lord, for letting me experience what I did. It has built my faith to…outer space height?...no, higher than that. You are a good God, and I can't wait to see all the things You are going to help me accomplish. Amen."

***

As we left the two-hour session, one of the leaders handed me a copy of a pencil drawing of a laughing Jesus. "This is what God showed me Jesus looks like when He looks at you."

***

These pictures were taken in the Intercessors' Room. We didn't get any pictures in the "inner" room.

***

Later today, I hope to post our daughter Jennifer's take on what happened in The Healing Rooms TO HER. I marveled as she told us. Look for it later today, hopefully.

YOU HAVE ABOUT THREE MONTHS TO LIVE?

SUNDAY EVENING It was a magnificent day. Went to church this morning. Went to Film Night tonight and saw Amazing Grace with the congregation.

MAKE THEM LAUGH, MAKE THEM CRY, MAKE THEM WAIT Author Charles Dickens, who wrote A Christmas Carol, A Tale of Two Cities, and other classics, said, "Make them laugh, make them cry, make them wait." He said those were the components of good writing. Those components have certainly filled my writing as I've photojournaled this unique story: "A Christian fiction author comes down with brain cancer and hopes to continue to publish her stories." According to comments in the Comments Section, emails, snail mail, phone calls, and other forms of communication, I have done those things: make 'em laugh, make 'em cry, make 'em wait.

"I found you as I searched for comfort on the 20th anniversary of my son's death. I began to read through your blog and spent the last two days reading each post. I’ve cried and laughed as I read. As your neighbor said, the presence of God is flowing out of your home, and His presence is also flowing off the posts on this blog! Praise God!"

I've made you laugh, made you cry, and made you wait. Two weeks ago, after the latest MRI, the doctor said, "I think you have a few months left." It didn't make me nervous or sad or fearful. Conversely, I was filled with peace—overshadowed by the cloud that descended on me in November at the diagnosis of GBM brain cancer. As soon as the cloud descended, a sturdy chair came behind me, and I sat in it, and it has held me and sustained me. It's Jesus.

TUMOR GROWING I started this journey telling my numerous doctors and other professionals that we are people of faith, meaning Christians, and that God is helping us every step of the way. I also told them I have no fear, only peace. They seemed very…impressed? Touched? They seemed to marvel. I left out churchese and jargon as I told them these things.

Two weeks ago, after looking at the latest MRI, Dr. S. said, (1) "The 30 radiation treatments didn't shrink your tumor which is bad." (2) "The tumor is growing. This is not a good thing."

"How long do you think I have?" I asked, not blinking, sitting there with a smile on my face.

Glancing at the floor then back at me, she said, "Several months is my guess." Then she said it's time for hospice because they are good with pain management. (I haven't felt the need to sign with them yet.) As the doctor was delivering her dire prognosis, suddenly there came that peace like a cloud enveloping me, and, then the sturdy chair sliding in under me.

Then the doctor said, "But you are people of faith. Every case is different."

She delivered a word of faith to me!

Every doctor we saw that week said, "But you are people of faith. Every case is different"

Amazing! The doctors now tell us, "You are people of faith." I've said from the beginning, "My prayer is, 'Lord, let my life count for You. Use me for Your kingdom as you see fit.'" It's happening, as I said earlier, from the tens of thousands of people we're hearing from.

MY ANGELS My vision serves me fairly well despite the loss of 50 percent of my right peripheral vision in both eyes. I can't drive any more, a bummer, and my reading is laborious, me a speed reader. My fingers fly over the keyboard.

Anomalies. Last night, I was flipping through a magazine when a "woman" came in the bedroom and gave me a big sweeping wave. I call these "floaters" or, my angels, my favorite nomenclature. I glanced at the ceiling, saw the fan, and knew my eyes had replicated the last image I'd seen. My creative writer's mind had transformed it into a "her." The other day, the floor lamp in the family room waved at me. Then "she" extended her hand and touched my head. Last night, a short person made his way down the space between the wall and the bed. Glancing at the magazine, I saw a man, the same man won ho was in my bedroom.

Another strange man in my boudoir! Haha.

GETTING BACK MY STRENGTH Author Brandilyn Collins has inspired me. Last spring, she and her family were snowmobiling. Her snowmobile overturned, and she broke her ankle. It required numerous surgeries, pins, therapy, and more. A five-mile-a-day jogger, she was in top shape when it happened. Her strong determination got her back in top shape. She literally kept up her jogging—she worked out an amazing routine on her stairs and jogged on her bottom. An inspiring story. "Lord, help me regain my strength," I'm praying, "so I may write for You."

AS I'VE SAID MANY TIMES I have no fear, no doubt, no worries about my future. This is one of the many miracles in this unique story.

Another miracle is when God snatched my claustrophobia away. Our daughter Jennifer lives in a 22-floor condo in San Juan. I wouldn't ride up alone. I had to have her by my side. (Clue: she's gotten stuck a few times and waited quite a while to get rescued.) At large conventions we attend, I always scan the auditorium looking for a floor-level seat and an uncrowded one. A rare find. Sometimes I've headed for the handicapped seating (after the meeting started).

Now, I crawl into that narrow MRI tube and feel like I'm getting a spa treatment. Peace, peace, peace. A real miracle! Calgon, take me away…I mean…Jesus…for He's the One who took away my claustrophobia and gave me the incomprehendable descent of peace.

I also didn't have claustrophobia during the 30 radiation treatments when I was locked into a helmet which was locked into an acrylic "pillow."

ANOTHER WOMAN JUST CAME IN She raised up her arm and waved at me. Vigorously. A ceiling fan replication. Sometimes my angels wear unusual clothing. This woman is wearing a fancy, Kentucky Derby-style hat. A couple of days ago, a woman rode a ski lift to the top—it ended in our bathroom. The bathroom door was the last image I saw as I lay on the bed resting. Dr. T. said these images might be from the radiation. Or they might not.

I'M KEEPING THE FAITH One of my prayers has been, "Lord, please extend my life." That already occurred. He has extended my life. And I believe He's going to extend it some more. I'm getting my strength back, and I can't wait to plunge into the "story of my heart" and hopefully tweak the four long-length novels I've already completed.

GOOD NEWS I'm attending church today! First time in a long time. The headaches, nausea, and 8-day flu with chills and fever prevented me. I'm raring to go. I attended Wednesday night service and wept the first 30 minutes. Tears of joy.

AN INTERVIEW OF ME -- MY PATH TO PUBLICATION

Gina Holmes, blogger at http://firstnoveljourney.blogspot.com, posted an interview of me this morning. I thought my readers might enjoy reading it. Here it is, below.

What book or project is coming out or has come out that you’d like to tell us about?

First of all, thank you for this opportunity, Gina. I love your blog. IATH for you (it's about to happen)!

My Barbour 4-in-1 Wedded Bliss? (question mark intended) will be published November, 2005. It's married romance for sure, and women's fiction, too. Coauthors are Susan Downs, Kristy Dykes, Sally Laity, and new-author-to-watch Carrie Turansky.It was fun writing it. It centers on four couples with big problems who are about to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversaries, and all four coauthors have done that (celebrated their 25th wedding anniversaries, at least). :)

I give God the praise for the things He's helped me to accomplish in writing (though there are many stories in my heart that I believe are forthcoming): nine titles of Christian fiction (Barbour 4-in-1s and Heartsong Presents novels), articles/chapters in seven or eight nonfiction books, and over 600 published articles for many publications including two New York Times subsidiaries.

I also write a monthly column,"Crafting with Kristy," for the ezine of American Christian Fiction Writers.

How long had you been writing seriously before you got “the call?”

When I see the words, "the call," I always think about my call from the Lord to write. But I think you mean the call announcing that I sold. (This answer is lengthy, but I'll be concise on the others.)

In the early 90s, after I'd had hundreds of articles published, I went back to college and earned a degree in mass communications/journalism (the J dept. head said why in the world did I want a degree in J, that I could teach the classes, but I got it anyway).

But deep in my heart, it was my dream to see my Christian fiction published, because for me, it was a calling that was as distinct as my calling to ministry (my husband is a pastor). So in 93ish-94ish, I began diligently studying the craft of fiction. I gorged on fiction technique books, devoured/dissected hundreds of novels, got a critique partner, and attended a weekly college fiction-writing class for four longgggg years where my multi-published instructor critiqued 10 pages per week.

I went at my pursuit with a vengeance. I learned the Michelangelo process—stripping away the excess and finding the statue in the stone. I mastered dialogue mechanics, scene development, and show v. tell. I perfected KIT, POV, RUE, and GMC ("keep in touch," "point of view," "resist the urge to explain," and "goals, motivation, and conflict"), plus more.

I wrote, wrote, wrote and submitted, submitted, submitted because the common thinking during the 90s was to write three chapters of a novel and submit, then start over with another story and do the same, ad infinitum. So that's what I did. (Now, writers need to finish a novel--and two or three or four, sometimes--before seeing something published.) I kept learning, honing, and growing as a writer. I attended writers' conferences. I was active in several writers' organizations.

In the agonizing gruel of it all—studying, writing, and rewriting—I enjoyed it. I wasn't like Robert Louis Stevenson, who, when asked if he loved to write, answered, "I hate to write, but I love to have written." I loved the slugging out of stories with self-imposed deadlines—from the times when I struggled over every word to the moments "when the paragraphs exploded from my fingertips," as Tom Clancy said.

Through it all (completing four novels and working on many more), I tried to keep a sweet, buoyant spirit though I often prayed The Writer's Prayer: "Our Father, Who art in heaven…and Who also hath written a book…help!" :))

Being a native Floridian as are generations of my forbears, I've seen live alligators all my life. At one Florida attraction, a man (a brave one) wrestles an alligator. The gator throws the man (now terror-stricken) to the ground, and they flail about as the audience winces and gasps for long, tense minutes. Finally, when it looks as if the man won't win, he does, and the audience oohs and ahs. Then he pries apart the gator's jaws and sticks his head in to show he's conquered it.

In my quest to see my fiction published, I often felt like the alligator wrestler. It was hard, frustrating, even terror-striking. Years started going by, and still, I wasn't published in Christian fiction. I attended my first CBA (now IRCS) in 1999 as a veteran nonfiction writer to interview Janette Oke and Gilbert Morris (a great experience, BTW).

At the Gold Medallion banquet, John Maxwell said, "We've got to quit microwaving leaders and start crockpotting them—letting them marinate and develop." Hmm, I thought. I've been crockpotting a long time. You reckon I'll ever get "done?"

Then I heard Jack Hayford speak. "There are many things that make you feel like you're at the end of your hope concerning your dreams." Bingo, I thought. On the isle of Patmos where there seemed to be no hope for John the Revelator, Hayford said John heard a voice behind him. "John was restricted, but suddenly he broke into the realm of unrestrictiveness by listening to The Voice (Jesus) and hungering after Him."

I'd always hungered after God, having cut my teeth on the pew, as the proverbial saying goes. But I made a fresh commitment that day. Lord, I silently prayed, help me to hunger after You in a greater way. Help me to want You more than "it" (being published).

Hayford continued. "Jesus will meet you where you are. You aren't at the end of your capacity. This is only an unfolding of new things."

Goosebumps covered me as I listened to what I would soon come to know were prophetic words. In December of that year—mere months after I heard Maxwell and Hayford speak--I got "the call." And in 2000, my dream came true!

My novella, "I Take Thee, A Stranger," was published in the Barbour novella collection American Dream (coauthors: Kristy Dykes, Nancy Farrier, Sally Laity, Judith McCoy Miller). American Dream hit the CBA Bestseller List and went into four printings with over 50,000 copies in sales. When I saw my name listed just a few slots below Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins, I cried. It was as if the Lord whispered into my heart, Kristy, I'm pleased that You put Me first in your life. I'm going to bless you.

Like the alligator wrestler, I didn't give up in my quest to see my Christian fiction published. I had read that a lemon is produced in 2 1/2 years and a pearl in 7. I had decided that if it took 7 years (or longer), I'd slug it out. And that's what it took—approximately 7 years. But hey, that's God's perfect number!

Someone said, "People don't fail; they quit." I made up my mind that I would not quit. I persevered. (Side note: I won the Persistence Award from American Christian Writers and also the Writer of the Year Award, in 1999 and 1995, respectively.) Unlike the alligator wrestler, however, I refuse to stick my head in an alligator's mouth. A book cover is proof enough for me!

What’s the best advice you’ve heard on writing/publication?

Be teachable, is what Dr. Penelope Stokes says in The Complete Guide to Writing & Selling the Christian Novel. And according to Dr. Gilbert Morris, it takes talent, tenacity, and timing. The Four T's kept me going (and still do).

What’s the worst piece of writing advice you’ve ever heard?

We need to realize that every author walks a different path to publication, and nothing is absolute, and sometimes good advice from one author can be bad advice for another. Example: do you "write the story of your heart" or "find out what the market's looking for and write that story"? I've heard all kinds of advice and being the ever-diligent soul, I tried to heed everything. But the key is to be open to the Lord and let Him lead you.

What’s something you wish you’d known earlier on that might have saved you some time/frustration in the publishing business?

Thoroughly learning the craft before I submitted to editors. See question #2.

Do you have a scripture or quote that has been speaking to you lately?

Being bred on Jesus and the Bible (and Nana's layer cakes) in the delightful Deep South, dahhling, scriptures flow in and out of me like waves on the beach. (Yikes. Is that last sentence grammatical? Don't have time to look it up, but it sure sounds good.)

Here's one favorite (out of the many). Matthew 6:33. "Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you."

Here's another. Habakkuk 2:3. "For the vision is yet for an appointed time. But at the end, it will speak and will not lie. Though it tarries, wait for it. Because it will surely come."

Don't you just love these two verses? They have the wow factor.

Is there a particularly difficult setback that you’ve gone through in your writing career you are willing to share?

The writing profession is fraught with rejection. For the pubs and the prepubs. For the stars and the average authors. (I like to joke that "I used to be nationally unknown and then I made a trip to the British Virgin Islands, and now I'm internationally unknown!") VERY BIG GRIN With my extensive reaching out to people, which comes naturally, and my travels, and my vast networking in various venues, I really am internationally known.

But getting back to the subject, rejections are the hazards of the trade. A nurse risks contracting infections. A construction worker scales heights on precarious scaffolding. Etc. A writer gets rejections. It's as simple as that. To be a successful writer, you have to have a tough hide. (Maybe I learned how to have this by being a pastor's wife--I live in a fishbowl!)

When you get a rejection, you can allow yourself a little time to rant, grieve, fume, cry, feel sorry for yourself (take your pick), and then you have to put it aside and move on. My grandmother, whose dear husband (Papa) divorced her in the 1940s because of her faith, taught me a poem called "Plod On" that's helped me in my writing career. First verse: Plod on, plod on, plod on. Plod on, plod on, plod on. Plod on, plod on, plod on. Plod on, plod on, plod on. Second verse: Same thing. And the poem had 12 verses! Do you get the drift? (Incidentally, ten years after Papa left Nana, he begged her to take him back, which she did.)

What are a few of your favorite books?

Got an hour or two? Ladies of Missalonghi by Colleen McCullough, Emily Louise by Joan Darlington Beam, Hannah Fowler by Janice Holt Giles, Little Women, Christy, As the Earth Turns by Gladys Hasty Carroll, A Single Shard, The Day Lincoln Was Shot, The Firm, The Yearling, The Miracle Worker by William Gibson (the play), A Day No Pigs Would Die, The Americanization of Edward Bok, Tisha, Bailey White's books, the classics, and a gillion more.

What piece of writing have you done that you’re particularly proud of and why?

I strive for excellence in all that I do, so I'm proud of everything—my fiction and my articles. I recently had the honor of meeting and interviewing Ruth Graham, daughter of Ruth and Billy Graham, and that was a highlight. My article, "Unfailing Love: Ministering to the Brokenhearted," was the August 2005 cover story for Woman's Touch magazine.

Can you give us a view into a typical day of your writing life?

I write. I speak. I promote. I minister. I interview. I travel. I pastor (with my husband). I explore. I worship. I wife. I parent. I grandparent. I rejoice. That's my life. And I love it.

If you could choose to have one strength of another writer, what would it be and from whom?

Boy is my mind whirling. Writers. Moses who wrote the Pentateuch. Other Holy Book writers. Writers of yesteryear. Dickens. Austen. Alcott.

Writers of the 1920s and 30s. Margaret Mitchell? Hmmm. One biographer says Scarlett was really Margaret Mitchell. And Vivien Leigh said, "I hope I've one thing that Scarlett never had. A sense of humor. I want some joy out of life. And she had one thing I hope I never have. Selfish egotism." Food for thought, eh?

Writers of today. Rivers. Hatcher. Collins. Windsor. Raney. Coble. And more. Great writers to admire and glean from.

My mind backtracks to Catherine Marshall. In her journal, she wrote her "soul's sincere desire:" "To become a writer who will make a real contribution to my generation and to the world." Catherine Marshall became one of America's most notable and bestselling Christian writers. The New York Times called her "America's most inspirational author." More than 25 million copies of her books are in print, and her novel Christy is estimated to have been read by 30 million people.

Yeah. I'd like to emulate Catherine Marshall.

Do you have a dream for the future of your writing, something you would love to accomplish?

Oh, yes! Dr. Dennis Hensley once told me, "Shoot for the stars. Don't settle for less." Someone else told me, "Don't rent a vision; own it."

I have great dreams for my writing future. The day I interviewed Janette Oke and Gilbert Morris at CBA in 1999, with my husband Milton at my side, the Lord put it in our hearts that He wants to do something significant through me in Christian fiction. I quake saying that because I know how many hits your blog receives, and it may sound uppity. So please take it with the humility I feel in saying it.

Was there ever a time in your writing career you thought of quitting?

Yes and no. See question #2.

What is your favorite and least favorite part of being a writer?

I have so much to learn, so maybe that answer is forthcoming.

Parting words?

Thank you again for this opportunity, Gina. I enjoyed getting to know you at the 2005 AFCW conference in Nashville. Thanks for your encouragement, sweet thannnng.

SWEET LIBERTY FIRST CHAPTER

The following are the prologue and first chapter of my novella in Sweet Liberty, a 4-in-1 collection published by Barbour in 2002. Coauthors are: Paige Winship Dooly, Kristy Dykes, Pamela Griffin, and Debby Mayne. Blurb: Freedom and love reign at four historical Fourth of July celebrations.

I love this story. My heroine is a former-slave-now-freewoman in the 1850s in South Carolina. As I wrote Winkie's story, I asked the Lord to help me crawl into her skin and feel the hurt and bitterness she felt at the plight of her people. I'd like to think I achieved that. Many readers wrote me with wonderful comments.

"Are you black or do you have a special gift of empathy?" one reader wrote.

"I am sharing your books with some women in my neighborhood," wrote another reader. "One friend has just renewed her faith

in the Lord Jesus after reading your novella in Sweet Liberty."

Thank the Lord!

I hope you enjoy reading some of Sweet Liberty. (It's no longer available for sale.)

"Free Indeed"

in

Sweet Liberty

By

Kristy Dykes

Author’s Note: In the 1800s, there were many black dialects in the South, including Geechee, Gullah, combinations of various kinds, even Elizabethan-sounding ones. I could’ve used Gullah which is the authentic black dialect in Charleston, South Carolina, but the dialogue would

be hard to read. To benefit my readers, I’ve sprinkled in off-grammar jargon,

the most easily-read form of dialect.


“If the Son therefore shall make you free,
ye shall be free indeed.” John 8:36

PROLOGUE

1856, Laurel Ridge Plantation,
The outskirts of Charleston, South Carolina

Two important days have shaped my future, and they both had to do with freedom. I’ll never forget the first day as long as I live...

That afternoon, I was helping Mrs. Williams, my master’s wife, get dressed. She was to entertain her friends, and I took particular pains with her light brown hair, coiling the back into the new figure-eight style chignon, fluffing the front and sides into frothy curls. I wanted her to look her very best and had even suggested she wear her rose-colored silk, which she did. Then I refashioned her maroon velvet hat, adding ribbons and peacock feathers, something I’d seen in her ladies’ magazine.

When she dismissed me, I came down the staircase of Laurel Ridge, intent on going to my quarters and checking on my little daughter Cassie. She was asleep when I left her, and I wanted to be there when she woke up. After that, I planned to bring her to the kitchen house so I could watch her while I ironed Mrs. Williams’s fine lawn underpinnings.

As I reached the last step, I lingered for a moment, thoughts of my Sweet Love Roscoe making my head swim and my heart race. My Sweet Love Roscoe lived on a neighboring plantation, and we had been allowed to jump the broom--that’s slave talk for getting married--the summer of my seventeenth year, though I was still required to keep my master’s surname.

Our blooming union--as Sweet Love Roscoe joshingly called it--had a bright spot. It had given us little Cassie. But dark clouds of despair overshadowed us when his bedeviled master issued a cruel edict after Cassie was born. He refused to let Sweet Love Roscoe see me, something that caused both of us great grief. The rare moments we spent in each other’s arms were brief and on the sly.

I wept many a night over this. Other times, I got downright angry. The only things my people would ever know were ownership by other human beings and long dreary lives of servitude--if they were lucky enough not to be lashed into early graves, a real possibility for my Sweet Love Roscoe.

The thought turned my stomach, as if I’d swallowed rancid meat, and I gripped the banister more tightly to steady my footing.

Oh, Roscoe, I cried out in my heart, oh, my Sweet Love Roscoe--

I felt so woebegone I couldn’t even hang words on my thoughts. Then I shook myself. Work waited, always waited. As I proceeded across the wide hall of Laurel Ridge, I heard a door open behind me.

“Winkie?” called my master, Mr. Williams.

I turned around, my long skirts swishing in my quick movement. “Sir?”

“I’ve something to discuss with you. Will you come into my study?”

“Yes, sir.” In moments, I was seated in front of Mr. Williams’s large mahogany desk, wondering what he had to say. Though he was far different from Sweet Love Roscoe’s stony-hearted master, still he was...my master, and inside, I chafed at this thought.

Mr. Williams sat down in his high-backed leather chair, reached into a drawer, and pulled out some papers.

Again, I wondered why he called me in here.

“You are a free woman,” he said, eagerness in his voice, kindness in his eyes. “Here are your official papers. Winkie Williams, I’m proclaiming you free as of right now.”

I looked at him as if thunderstruck. “Free?” I finally said, trying to fathom the word that held no meaning for the likes of me.

“I’m selling the plantation, and Mrs. Williams and I are moving back to the North. I’m freeing my slaves. You’re the first one I’ve told because you’ve always been special to our family.” He pushed a paper across the desk. “Here. Take it.”

I reached for the document, dazed. Where would I go? What would I do? How would I support myself? And most importantly, what would this mean for my Sweet Love Roscoe and me? Living at Laurel Ridge, we enjoyed a few stolen moments here or there. When I left, I would never see him again.

Not ever.

Anger boiled in me. Of course I wanted my freedom. All of my people wanted their freedom. Now I had it--in my hands. I squeezed the document, and it rustled in my grip. But freedom for me meant parting with my Sweet Love Roscoe.

A venomous chuckle roared up my throat as the irony of the whole thing struck me. Slavery had been forced on me, and now freedom was too.

“Winkie?” Mr. Williams said, concern in his tone.

My presence of mind returned, along with my manners. “I-I don’t know wh-what to say, Mr. Williams,” I stammered as I stood up. “Except th-thank you, kind sir.”

“Godspeed to you, Winkie.”

With a nod and a smile and a confident step, I made my way across the room, but inside, I was reeling from this news.

I closed the door behind me, leaned against the wall knocking a brass sconce askew. I righted it and moved a few paces down the hall, sank into a chair, my legs too wobbly to hold me.

Tears welled in my eyes as I bunched and unbunched the fabric of my skirt, fretting over my future, a lifetime without my man. Then a thought came to me that sent thrill chills speeding down my spine.

Strike for freedom, I would urge Sweet Love Roscoe. Go to Canada. We’ll start a new life together, one founded in the sweet light of liberty.

Now was our chance. We could live in Canada where blacksmiths easily obtained work, we’d been told. I knew Roscoe would do as I bid. He’d been thinking about it for months, years even.

I’ll escape to Canada on the Underground Railroad, he would say, and you and Cassie can follow me when I get settled.

Every time he mentioned it, I would put my fingers across his lips. No, I always said, fear gripping me with an iron-clad hand. If the slave hunters were to catch Cassie and me... I would shiver, and then I would say, You know what they do if you’re caught. I can’t risk it--for little Cassie’s sake.

Now, though, with my freedom granted, Cassie and I could follow him to Canada legally and unafraid, and the thought comforted me like a coat in the cold.

But how would I keep body and soul together during the time Cassie and I waited on Sweet Love Roscoe to reach Canada?

My mind ran a hundred different ways. I could dress a lady. I could sew. I could take care of children. Would any of these skills help me find work once I left Laurel Ridge? I could cook. I could clean. Why, I would even scoop dung from the streets if that’s what it took.

But would I be able to find work? Jobs were scarce for free people, I knew. And where would Cassie and I live? And what would she do while I worked? Who would look out for her?

The ponderations pounded in my brain until my head ached with a ferocity I had never known. If I were a white lady, I would take to my bed with a vinegar compress on my brow. But I was not a white lady.

I was a former slave, now a free woman, alone in the world except for little Cassie, with no prospects of a job under my belt or a roof over my head...




CHAPTER 1


1859, Charleston, South Carolina


Winkie Williams stood in front of her millinery shop, sweeping vigorously. Only two hours past cockcrow, the July sun was already high in the sky, and she stopped her work and swiped at her brow with a handkerchief.

Grasping the broom handle, she stood there staring at her strong brown hands, hands that had picked cotton as a child, dressed the master’s wife as a girl, and were now making hats for Charleston society ladies.

She looked across the pastel-colored buildings, drew in a breath of sharp briny air drifting in from the harbor. In the distance, she could hear horns blowing, flutes trilling, drums beating, and she knew that somewhere in downtown Charleston, band members were practicing for the Independence Day parade that would soon commence.

She could picture the parade scene as if it was before her now. She had watched the parade in the past, but not last year, and not today either. Today marked two years since she had gotten the awful news, and she doubted she would ever go to another Independence Day parade again. How could she celebrate when her Sweet Love Roscoe lay in a cold, dark grave?

She willed herself not to succumb to the grief that often overwhelmed her. “Think about the parade,” she mumbled as a drummer banged out a fast beat.

“At the parade,” she said to herself, “the streets will be lined with ladies and gents and boys and girls. Most will be dressed in red, white, and blue. Some of the ladies will be wearing hats I made with my own hands. They’re going to shake their noisemakers and toot their tin horns and sing their patriotic songs and wave their flags high in the air. They’re going to shout, ‘Let freedom ring.’They’re going to holler, ‘Liberty, sweet liberty.’ They’re going to say, ‘God bless America.’”

She continued sweeping, intent on getting every speck of dirt off her front stoop, something she did at least twice a day. “Yes, God has blessed you, America. You are free from the bondage of your mother country. And I am free from the bondage of slavery.”

She leaned down and picked dead petals off the flowers that were clumped in pots by the door. “But what good does that do?” she almost spat out. “My people will never be free men and free women, like me. They never know what it mean to have a kind master release them.”

From her pocket she withdrew a cleaning rag and rubbed at a streak on the window pane. Her musings brought to mind her dear departed mother, a slave brought over from Africa before the turn of the century, a woman whose existence had been one of unspeakable inhumanity, sorrow, and despair.

Burdens--that’s all there be to life, Mama said many a time. We be tasked hard.

“Mama, look--”

“Goodness, child,” Winkie shrieked, dropping the rag, “I be so deep in the land of emptiness, you plumb scared the pudding out of me.” She reached over and patted her six-year-old daughter where she stood in the open door, then lifted Cassie’s chin and smiled down at her. “I got a surprise waiting for you, Sugarbun.”

“We going to the parade?” Cassie's eyes lit up like the sidewalk firecrackers the white children set off every Independence Day. “Oh, Mama, thank you, thank you. Just what I wanted--”

“Now what you go bringing that up for?” Winkie snapped. “I done told you my answer about the parade. It’s no. N - O,” she spelled. “Madam is expecting three more bonnets from me in the morning. I got work waiting.”

She turned back to the window and rubbed the pane furiously. “Always, the work is there. There’s never no let up. I be tasked hard.”

Cassie grew as still as a statue, her eyes downcast.

Immediately, Winkie was ashamed of her outburst. She squatted and drew Cassie to her, squeezing her in a tight embrace, head to head, heart to heart. “Mama’s sorry, Cassie, my mama-look baby. My surprise is a sweet potato pie. I made it this morning. Your favorite. Mama don’t mean to be such a sore head all the livelong day. It’s just that I...well, I got troubles pressing on my mind--”

“Winkie,” a high-pitched female voice called from down the street. “I’m sorely in need of your services.”

Winkie stood up, her fingers locked with Cassie’s as she looked toward the lady, her girlhood friend, the master’s daughter who had taught her how to read. Miss Willie was coming pell mell down the street, her blond ringlets bouncing with every step, her bell-shaped skirts swishing and swaying with every movement.

“Why, do tell,” Winkie said, when Miss Willie drew near, forcing cheerfulness into her voice. “What brings you here on Independence Day? Shouldn’t you be heading to town for the festivities?”

“I’m on way,” Miss Willie huffed out. “But I had an item of utmost importance to attend to.” She swooped down and tickled Cassie on the side of the neck, and Cassie giggled in delight. “Look what I’ve brought you, Cassie dear.” From her large reticule she pulled out a charming doll dressed in an exquisite red, white, and blue silk gown.

Cassie hugged the doll to her. “Thank you, Miss Willie. Oh, thank you. This be better than any old parade,” she said softly as she turned and headed inside.

“She’s a quiet child,” Miss Willie said.

“Yes, ma’am. Now, what can I do for you today?” Winkie looked to her left, then to her right. It wouldn’t be fitten for a fine lady like Miss Willie to be seen standing in the alleyway conversing with the likes of her. “Come on in. Whatever it is you need, we be seeing to it right away.”

Inside the little shop that wasn’t really a shop only a work room with a curtained-off sleeping area, Winkie offered Miss Willie a chair, then put the broom away.

“Willie and Winkie.” Miss Willie settled back in the chair and smoothed her ruffle-flounced, white brocade gown. “We were a lively duo growing up, weren’t we?”

“That we was.”

“Had ourselves some escapades, didn’t we?”

“That we did.” Winkie sat down in the other chair, leaned her elbow on the table, lightly drummed her fingers. Miss Willie’s family, the Williamses, had come from the North and purchased Laurel Ridge when both girls were about thirteen.

From the moment they’d met, they’d become fast friends. Miss Willie--Wilhemina was her given name but everyone called her Miss Willie--had married at seventeen. That same day, while the white folks’ wedding festivities were going on up at the big house, Winkie and her Sweet Love Roscoe were getting married, too, down at the quarters. Jumping the broom, was what the people called it.

Winkie fiddled with the folds of fabric stacked neatly on the table. Growing up, she and Miss Willie had shared many commonalties. Their flair for fashion. Their interest in reading--after Miss Willie taught her how. Even the similarity of their names. Willie and Winkie. Perhaps those were the things that had bonded them together so strongly.

But now, there was one profound difference between them. Miss Willie had a husband and no child. Winkie had a child and no husband. She had no husband because her Sweet Love Roscoe had died fleeing the tyranny of a cruel master. Halfway to Canada, the slave hunters had captured him, dragged him back, and in the process, he had lost his life.

And it was all because of her. She had urged him to escape.

Oh, Roscoe. She rubbed her temple where it throbbed.

“I came by this morning to see if you’d make a few of these rosettes you made for my bonnet--” Miss Willie touched the red, white, and blue fabric flowers on each side of her hat “--and sew them onto my sash.” She fingered the red silk sash at her waist. “I thought a touch of red, white, and blue somewhere on my gown would look even more patriotic.”

“Sure thing, Miss Willie.” Winkie stood and in one quick movement gathered her sewing basket and some swatches of red, white, and blue silk fabric from a shelf overhead. Then she sat back down. “Won’t take me no time.”

“I knew that. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have troubled you.”

“No trouble at all.” She could spend a lifetime helping Miss Willie, yet it would never repay her for her kindness. A few years after Miss Willie had married and moved to a plantation in Georgia, her father decided to sell Laurel Ridge and move back to the North. It was then that Miss Willie convinced him to free his slaves.

It was then that Winkie had become a free woman.

Winkie threaded her needle, stuck it in a pin cushion, cut narrow strips of red, white, and blue silk skillfully, just as her milliner patron had taught her. She would be indebted to Miss Willie for life.

It was Miss Willie who had traveled to Charleston and secured Winkie's apprenticeship with the grand milliner, Madam Henderson.

It was Miss Willie who had given Winkie the guidance to set up her own shop.

It was Miss Willie who was responsible for Winkie’s present life--living as a free woman and productive citizen on a busy street in Charleston, even if it was a back alley. Though the ladies of Charleston had turned up their snooty noses at her back-alley shop--causing Madam Henderson to agree to front for Winkie for a fee and no credit for Winkie's hatmaking--still, the small profits kept body and soul together for her and Cassie, and she would be eternally grateful to Miss Willie.

As long as Winkie lived, she could never do enough for the kind and gracious Miss Willie. Never. Why, there was no guile to be found in the blue-eyed, blond-haired belle, only sweetness down to the bone.

“I’ve come to ask a second favor of you, Winkie.” Miss Willie’s sparkling blue eyes were sober now.

“Anything.”

“Come to the parade.”

“I couldn’t do that.” Winkie silently reprimanded herself. Hadn’t she just been thinking she’d do anything for Miss Willie? Here she was, refusing her request. But she couldn’t help it.

“It’s time.”

“That’s something I need more of.” Winkie tried to hide the anger in her voice, thinking she’d had far too much time to brood this morning. “I have three bonnets yet to trim.”

“It’s time, I repeat. I think you know what I mean.”

Winkie pushed the needle into a bunching of fabric, then deftly pulled it out. In the fabric, out the fabric, in the fabric, out the fabric.

“It’s been two years since...” Miss Willie’s voice trailed off. “There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to after the parade.”

The first rosette completed, Winkie bit off the thread, grinding her teeth more than necessary, and rethreaded the needle. A moment ago, she’d been thinking Miss Willie had no guile in her? Now, she saw a hint of pretense. Why, Miss Willie didn’t come to the shop to have rosettes made. She came to make a match—

Winkie couldn’t even finish the thought. She pushed the needle into the fabric so hard, it punctured her finger and drew blood. She hadn’t done that since her apprenticeship. She wrapped her finger with a piece of cloth, stuck a thimble on it, kept sewing.

“We’re going to the parade with our friends, the Fletchers,” Miss Willie said. “It’s their carpenter I want you to meet. Mr. Fletcher says there’s no finer man of all his people. This man I’m talking about--his name is Joseph Moore--is diligent and hard working, just like you, Winkie.”

Winkie never said a word while she completed the second rosette. She just sat there, pulling the needle in and out, biting off the thread, rethreading the needle as Miss Willie prattled on about the man she wanted her to meet, the carpenter owned by the Fletchers.

“Dolly Fletcher says the talk is,” Miss Willie continued, “that Joseph hasn’t found the right girl to jump the broom with. You’d be the perfect girl.”

“Jump the broom?” Memories seared her mind, and she felt as though she’d been burned by an ember from the cooking fire.

“I know it’s hard for you--”

“You don’t know no such of a thing.” For the third time this morning, Winkie felt remorseful for her snappiness. Silently she reprimanded herself. First, Cassie had gotten the brunt of her malcontent. Then, Miss Willie. Now, Miss Willie again. Still, she couldn’t help humming—loudly. Nobody knows the trouble I seen.

“Mama, look,” Cassie exclaimed as she skipped from behind the curtain. “Sheena--” she held out her doll as she ran to Winkie “--her eyes opens and closes. I never held no doll that’s eyes opens and closes. Oh, Mama, look.”

“Come here, my mama-look baby.” Winkie set aside her sewing, swooped Cassie onto her lap, planted a kiss on each eyelid as Cassie convulsed in giggles.

All the things Winkie had thought about this morning, all the fanciful things Miss Willie was saying now--none of them mattered. Only Cassie mattered. Cassie was her reason for being. And living.

“Show Mama them eyes that opens and closes.” Winkie kissed Cassie’s eyelids again.

“For her.” Miss Willie tipped her head in Cassie’s direction, looking intently at Winkie. “If for no other reason, go to the parade for her. She’s a child. She needs diversion every now and then. I always said Independence Day is more fun than Christmas.”

Winkie fiddled with the doll’s eyelids. Perhaps Miss Willie was right. Cassie rarely had the opportunity for pleasure.

“After the parade,” Miss Willie said, “the Fletchers are giving a pig roast in our honor--for moving back to South Carolina.” She tapped on her hat brim. “I’m so happy you’ll be making all my bonnets from now on.”

Winkie sat there, contemplating what Miss Willie was saying, glad Miss Willie would be living nearby. That gave her a comfort.

“That’s where I wish to introduce you to Joseph Moore--at the Fletchers’ pig roast. Dolly Fletcher knows of my desire, and out of courtesy to me, she’s extended an invitation to you, to eat with their people. There’ll be children Cassie’s age, and she’ll enjoy their games and child play. And the food is going to be simply scrumptious. The Fletcher people have been roasting the pigs all night long. Dolly says their people make the best roast pork in all of South Carolina. She vows and declares it’s the wood they cook them over. I believe she said it’s--”

“Oak wood.” Winkie absently straightened the doll’s hair that didn’t need straightening. “Oak wood bring out the flavor of pork like no other.”

“And they make a special sauce--”

“Carolina gold, I’d hanker.” She untied the ribbon on the doll’s bonnet, then retied it, laboriously making the loops as small as possible so they’d be in correct proportion to the doll’s chin. “Carolina gold be better than Carolina red by a mile.”

“Won’t you please come to the parade? If you won’t do it for yourself, and you won’t do it for Cassie, do it for me. Please? Help celebrate mine and Mr. Richard’s move back to Charleston.”

###

A half hour later, Winkie and Cassie were headed to the parade, dressed in their best gowns with matching feather-trimmed bonnets on their heads, a sweet potato pie in a basket on Winkie’s arm. As they walked along, they trailed Miss Willie by a good half a block, as was proper.

“I wonder about...Mr. Joseph Moore...isn’t that what Miss Willie called him?” Winkie said under her breath, knowing Cassie was paying her no mind.

“There won’t be no mama-looks from Cassie right now,” Winkie whispered. Cassie was holding Sheena--her first store-bought doll--and as the tyke walked along, she was opening and closing the open-and-close eyes. “I wonder what Mr. Joseph Moore’s countenance be like,” Winkie said softly.

She shifted the basket to her other arm and caught a whiff of the sweet potato pie. “Miss Willie is sweetness down to the bone. That, she is.” She breathed in deeply of the pleasant-smelling scent. “I be going to the Independence Day parade and the picnic afterwards for Cassie’s sake,” she whispered. “And for Miss Willie’s sake.”

Deep down though, she was loathe to admit that she was really going to the parade to meet Mr. Joseph Moore. “I wonder if Mr. Joseph Moore be dark?” she mused aloud. “Or light? I wonder if he have big eyes or small? I wonder if he be tall, like me? Or short? He be smart, for sure. Double-dose smart. Miss Willie say he be so skilled at carpentering, the carpentry shop in town use his services.”

Into her mind came a vision of a tall, handsome man bent over a work bench, his muscles glistening in the sunlight. Would he have understanding eyes and a compassionate soul? Perhaps this Mr. Joseph Moore would take a shine to little Cassie. That would most assuredly cause her to do a joy jig.

Then a second vision appeared, gut-wrenchingly so, of another tall, handsome man, this time bent over a blacksmith’s fire, his muscles glistening in the sunlight. This man had understanding eyes and a compassionate soul, and he had loved Cassie with every sinew of his soul.

She drew in a sharp breath at the thought of Sweet Love Roscoe, her husband who died fleeing slavery--a word so abhorrent, she had a hard time letting it float through her mind.

With brooding ponderations gnawing at her insides, she hurried on down the street.

ROOM AT THE INN FIRST CHAPTER

The following is the first chapter of my novella in Room At the Inn. This is a Christmas-themed 2-in-1 from Barbour, and my coauthor is Pamela Griffin. It's available in Christian bookstores and on christianbook.com and amazon.com. I came up with the idea for the book after staying at a defunct B&B. I'll post that story on my blog under the title of B&B Caper 1 & 2. Look for it under November Archives or Previous Posts. It's a hoot. Think Edgar Allen Poe meets Lucille Ball.

Another inspiration for this story was when we visited Manatee Park Historical Village in Bradenton, Florida, and toured the "cracker gothic cottage," what many Florida pioneers would build and live in as they were taming what was then a vast wildnerness. The "cracker gothic cottage" was a dog-trot house (as opposed to a shotgun house, another form of early architecture), and was built with the rooms opening off of a wide central hall. I'm a native Floridian, and my great-grandparents built and lived in a home like this in Nassau County.

My novella in Room At the Inn is set in a "cracker gothic cottage." I loved writing it (as I do all my stories). And I've received lots of reader mail about it. Here's one letter from New York State:

Dear Kristy,
If I were an author, I would want to know if something I did touched someone's life. So, I wanted to tell you that your novella in Room At the Inn touched my life.

I just broke off a relationship with a man I liked a great deal. I have had a rough week and felt like your lead character, Lois. I'm 27 and single, but living in a small town, well, that makes me a minority. Coupling that with the fact that I am a teacher and go to a small church, the prospects of meeting someone who is a Christian and shares my values and is fun and interesting seems pretty bleak at times. I read your story, and it spoke straight to my heart. Lois's constant faith and yet frank acknowledgement of her fears and frustrations echoed my own heart. I immediately copied Psalm 37:4-6 and posted it on my computer. I don't generally identify so strongly with stories, nor do they usually cause me to change the way I do things or think. Yours did. Your writing, and in turn, you, are a blessing to me, and I wanted you to know that your work did some good.

Thank you for making a difficult time easier for me. May God bless you, your family, and your work. Thanks for brightening up a single, saved, and searching woman's day!

"Orange Blossom Christmas" in Room At the Inn

By

Kristy Dykes

"Delight yourself in the Lord and he will give you the desires of your heart. Commit your way to the Lord; trust in him and he will do this: He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn, the justice of your cause like the noonday sun." Psalm 37: 4-6:



CHAPTER 1

The phone rang just as Landon Michael popped a cold capsule in his mouth and washed it down with a glass of orange juice squeezed from oranges picked from his own grove. He decided to let the answering service catch the phone call. He felt too wretched to talk to anybody. All he felt like doing was getting back to his recliner and spraying down with Chloraseptic Throat Spray.

Ring-g-g-g-g...

"Achoo!" He reached for a tissue. What if it was someone from the high school? Principals couldn't get sick. At least that's what his staff told him yesterday when he left, coughing up a storm. They said they couldn't do without him, especially with Christmas vacation coming up next week. There was simply too much work to be done, they told him. Was this his secretary calling? Did she need something important?

Ring-g-g-g-g...

He smiled. Was it somebody offering to bring him some homemade chicken soup? But if it was Miss Available-With-A-Capital-A-Home-Ec-Teacher Pamela Perkins, well, he'd pass, thank you very much...

Ring-g-g-g-g, ring-g-g-g-g...

His sense of duty got the best of him, and he grabbed the phone, determined to squeak out a greeting, raspy though it would be. "Hello?"

"Howdy, there. My name's Pas - tor Rodney Ellerson callin' from north Georgey. Is this the Orange Blossom Bed & Breakfast Inn?"

Landon coughed.

"I must've dialed the wrong number—"

More coughing.

"Could you tell me if I reached Lake Wallace, Floridy?"

"Yes. Sorry. I've...got a...terrible head cold."

"What a bad time of year—winter—to get yerself a cold. A cold in cold weather. Why, that's the pits."

Landon looked out the kitchen window and saw the bright-as-summer sun shining down on the clear-as-day lake. He knew the thermometer read 88 and smiled. "Anytime of year is bad to get a cold. Achoo."

"Yer right about that, pardner. So, this is the Orange Blossom Bed & Breakfast Inn?"

"Yes." What did this caller with the Georgia twang want? Landon glanced out the bank of windows in the great room. Nestled among gigantic orange trees, he saw the little brown wooden house across the road, the Orange Blossom Bed & Breakfast Inn. Nobody had stayed in it since his wife died a year ago. The B&B had been her brainchild. As far as he was concerned, it wasn't a B&B any longer. It was back to its original status--a cracker gothic cottage from Old Florida—what some historians called the early days of Florida. Eons ago, his forbears had built it and lived in it. These days, it was as vacant as a classroom in summer.

"Well," drawled the preacher from north Georgia, "the reason I'm calling is my wife saw an article about the Orange Blossom B&B in Southern Comfort magazine, and she got this idear to book a room for our church secretary as a gift from us and the church. I think it's a right good idear myself...I'd even venture to say it's inspired by God, you know, providential, because, you see, our church secretary is the most deservin' person in the whole wide world of a little R&R..."

Wonder if he's long-winded in the pulpit too?

"...why, our church secretary—Lois is her name—just like Lois in the Bible—why, she directs our children's church program, and last Sunday night, she put on the kids' Christmas play with 23 wriggly, writhing kids. Ever since she's been our secretary—six months now—our church has grown by leaps and bounds...why, she's got as many idears as Carter's got liver pills...and besides that, she's the mostest dedicated secretary in church history, I do believe..."

Bingo. A long-winded talker is a long-winded preacher. Landon smiled, remembering what his minister-father liked to jokingly say about long-winded visiting preachers. If they don't strike oil after 20 minutes, they ought to quit boring.

"And so, we're a-wantin' to book a room. Please say there's room at the inn." He let out a belly laugh. "Get it? Room at the inn? Like in Bethlehem two thousand years ago when Joseph and Mary came a-knockin' on the door of an inn. Please say ya got an empty room at yer B&B. My wife's got her heart set on yer place for Lois...it's a little piece of heaven smack dab in the middle of a Florida orange grove, is what she said. Please don't say you're full."

No, we're not full, that's for certain. Landon smiled again.

"My wife saw them pictures of the Orange Blossom B&B in Southern Comfort magazine—that funny-lookin' house a-settin' near a little lake in central Florida, and that was that. There's no other B&B to be had for Lois's R&R, as far as my wife's concerned."

Landon was surprised. The preacher's wife had just seen that article? Why, the Orange Blossom B&B had been featured in Southern Comfort over two years ago.

"My wife buys all her magazines at the library for a quarter. Course they're a little out of date when she gets them, and sometimes the coupons are ripped out, but that don't bother her none a-tall. We'd like to book a full ten days for Lois—" he paused, and a fumbling noise could be heard heard across the phone lines "—no, make that eleven days—I just checked my calendar. She'll get there December 15, and she'll leave December 26, the day after Christmas. She'll be arriving next Friday. You take Visa?"

Landon had a coughing fit.

"I knew I hadn't lost ya. I heard ya breathin' the whole time I been a-rattlin' on. Try using Neosynephrine nasal spray. Then you won't have to breathe through yer mouth. When ya have to breathe through yer mouth, yer throat gets dried out, ya know? And besides, it sounds turrible. Yep. I knew I hadn't lost ya."

"It...hurts...to talk."

"I can empy-thize. I had a cold last month. Like I said, I'm real sorry yer sick."

"Thanks."

"My grandpappy always said, 'Take cold medicine, and in seven days you'll be well. Don't take cold medicine, and in seven days you'll be well.' In other words, you'll be as good as new in a week, medicine or not."

"I hope so."

"My Visa number is..." The preacher rattled off some numbers.

Landon jotted them down hurriedly.

"Can you send me a brochure?" The preacher rattled off an address. "My name's Pas - tor Rodney Ellerson. Did I say that already? E – L – L – I – S – O – N," he spelled. "Ellerson."

A few minutes later, as Landon plopped in his leather recliner in the great room, he realized with a full-blown case of worry that he now had a guest coming to the long-closed Orange Blossom Bed & Breakfast Inn.

In one week's time!

He glanced out the windows. The cottage across the road needed a thorough cleaning. It was probably covered in dust bunnies and cobwebs. And he was as sick as a dog.

"Achoo." Why had he taken this booking? Maybe it had something to do with the reverend. He liked his down-home flavor. This preacher reminded him of his own father—a minister, too. This preach had the same quaint Southern drawl and the same penny-pinching-by-necessity ways. His father would be amused when Landon told him about this preacher from north Georgia wanting a room for his secretary.

Maybe it had something to do with what the preacher said. My wife's got her heart set on yer place...she saw them pictures of your funny-lookin' house a-settin' near a little lake in central Florida.

Landon sprayed his throat with the vile-tasting green stuff, reflecting on the way the preacher's wife described the Orange Blossom Inn.

A little piece of heaven in a Florida orange grove?

Dear me, I may just donate the church secretary's stay. I may not charge the preacher a penny.

The booking, though, and why he'd done it...maybe it had something to do with that poor church secretary. Into his mind popped a picture of his father's church secretary at the church he presently served in North Carolina...

...fiftyish...

...spinsterish...or was it widowish?...

...overworked for sure...

...and definitely underpaid.

This Lois lady with the children's program on her shoulders, as well as a host of other things at her church, will probably enjoy the solitude of the Orange Blossom, he decided. She's sure to be refreshed during her stay. It's quiet around here, that's for certain.

He unwrapped a Hall's honey-and-lemon throat lozenge, popped it in his mouth, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

Somehow, I'll manage to get the place cleaned up before she arrives.

###

Through a deluge of rain, Lois Delaney drove down the dark, lonely road in the middle of Florida orange groves, hunting the sign the proprietor said to look for.

ORANGE BLOSSOM BED AND BREAKFAST INN.

For long minutes now, she had slowed at every sign, then accelerated past them. Where was that sign? He said to go six miles past the main highway. Hadn't she gone six miles by now? Rats. She should've noted the mileage when she turned off the highway.

Now, she looked carefully at the mileage marker on the odometer and decided to go exactly two more miles, then turn back and begin hunting again.

What a time to be arriving at a B&B--and one set in such a remote place. She checked her watch by the light of the dashboard. Eleven o'five p.m. But she couldn't help the lateness of the hour. First, she'd gotten a late start. Too many duties in the church office before Christmas. Then, of all things her windshield wiper motor had broken in south Georgia, and she spent hours in the Toyota dealership while they fixed it. Whoever heard of a windshield wiper motor breaking? And on a new car, at that? If it'd been her old car, she could've understood. She'd driven that thing for nearly seven years, and its windshield wiper motor had never given her a problem.

What more could go wrong? Nothing, she assured herself. All would be well shortly. She would soon arrive at the Orange Blossom B&B, fall into a freshly-made bed, perhaps a canopied four-poster. And then she would sleep late the next morning, at least past her usual 6:30 a.m. And then she would head for the wide front porch for a leisurely and delicious breakfast that included, according to the brochure, freshly-squeezed orange juice and orange blossom honey.

At the Orange Blossom B&B, she would meet interesting people from all walks of life. The magazine article in Southern Comfort showed several guests eating breakfast together on the plankboard porch. Perhaps she would form lasting friendships with some of the guests. Outgoing and gregarious, she was always making new friends.

During the week, she planned to take walks in the orange grove and around the lake for quiet reflection, something she rarely had time for.

"Lord knows," she said aloud as she continued driving at a snail's pace so she could look for the sign through the rain, "I need some quiet reflection. And rejuvenation too."

She thought about her recent break-up with Phil. My, how that had hurt. She was ecstatic when they started a relationship four months ago. After all, the playing field was narrow for a 32-year-old single Christian woman.

Evangelist Phil A. Pullman had held a revival at their church, and from the first, she'd been impressed with—and attracted to--this dashing, debonair minister, charisma dripping off him like the rain now falling from the sky.

But that wasn't why she came to care for him during their four months of emails, phone calls, and occasional visits. It was because he truly seemed to care for her. And he was so dedicated to the ministry. And he made her laugh--he was as zany as she was. She recalled the times they belted out hymns together, him singing in his beautiful baritone, her as off-key as the day was long, both of them ending the songs laughing like hyenas.

She remembered the funny name he called himself, a play on words, his eyebrows going up and down every time he said it, her laughing in her usual way, loud and boisterous.

I'm Evangelist Phil A. Pulpit. Get it? Fill a pulpit. That's what I do.

Two weeks ago, he wrote her a succinct email that hadn't made her laugh. In fact, it made her cry.

HI, LOIS. I DON'T KNOW HOW TO SAY THIS. THIS IS HARD. I ENJOYED OUR TIMES

TOGETHER. I THOUGHT WE HAD A FUTURE. TWO WEEKS AGO, I MET NICOLE

WILSON. SHE'S A PREACHER'S DAUGHTER. SHE SINGS LIKE AN ANGEL, AND SHE EVEN

PLAYS THE HARP! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT? WE'VE ALREADY SUNG A DUET

TOGETHER. FATHER, MAKE US ONE WAS THE SONG. SHE'S A HIGH SOPRANO, AND MY,

DID WE SOUND GOOD, IF I DO SAY SO MYSELF. ALTHOUGH SHE'S ONLY 18, SHE'LL BE

A GREAT ASSET TO MY MINISTRY. I HOPE YOU CAN UNDERSTAND THIS. I WANT YOU

TO KNOW, I'LL ALWAYS CONSIDER YOU A FRIEND. ---PHIL

Lois blinked back a tear, recalling the hurtful email. Just what did her future hold in the man department? "God, are You ever going to send me a man, the right man? If so, when?" Her voice was whiny, but she couldn't help it.

From the time she was a little girl, she wanted to be a wife and mother, the best in the world, just like her own mother had been and still was. But so far, life hadn't led her that way. Instead, she became a publicist who was now working as a church secretary for a temporary time.

"Lord, are You listening?" She wasn't embarrassed about talking to the Lord like this. She and the Lord were on a first-name basis. She had loved the Lord with all her heart, as the Scriptures instructed, for her entire life. She and the Lord'd had many conversations.

Now, though, she was doing all the talking. The Lord was mute.

She smiled, remembering a poem she'd recently come across, and she said it now.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

Lord, give me a man for keeps!

If there's a man beneath my bed,

I hope he heard each word I said!

She laughed uproariously. "Lord, please give me a man, a good Christian man. Think how much we can accomplish for Your Kingdom as a team." She paused, contrite. "Okay, Lord. I admit it. That's just a side benefit. The real reason I want a man is because I want someone to care for me, someone I can share my life with, and vice versa."

She slowed for yet another road sign, then proceeded on. "Okay, Lord, I'll be quiet so You can speak."

Nothing.

For a couple of minutes, nothing.

"All right, Lord, I've been in this journey of faith long enough to know that when You don't speak, I'm supposed to rely on the last word You gave me. And that's this. I'm to continue to draw close to You and believe that You are working things out for my good."

She drove on, the odometer clocking off yet another mile. "There it is," she exclaimed as she made a sharp left turn off the paved road and onto a dirt one. "Orange Blossom B&B, here I come. R&R at the rescue for this heart-weary woman."

She made her way slowly down the dirt road—a quagmire in the rain—as she searched for the B&B.

Look for a stone-and-stucco home on the left—that's where I live, the proprietor had said. Then pull into the driveway directly across from it. That's the B&B.

She spotted the stone-and-stucco home—just barely--in the darkness. Her enthusiasm dampened. No lights on the road? The porch? From inside the proprietor's house? The B&B?

She wheeled into the driveway of the B&B, just as the proprietor had instructed.

Her headlights flashed on a small wooden structure, the charming wooden cottage pictured in the brochure, and she felt heartened somewhat.

"Orange Blossom B&B," she called out in her cheery way. "I'm here at last."

She turned off the ignition. Momentarily her automatic headlights went off. What now? It was still drizzling, and besides, no one was about. No people. No cars. No proprietor.

Should she get out and knock on the door? She knew it was 11:30 at night, but she also knew that the proprietor was expecting her. The last time they talked on her cell phone—three hours ago—she told him about her windshield wiper motor mishap. She also told him she would be late. So where was he?

She tooted her horn.

A dog barked at her car window, and she nearly had a heart attack. She looked sideways and saw the biggest dog she'd ever laid eyes on—or so it seemed given the circumstances. He was standing—standing?—at her window, his paws on her car door.

"Down, Marmaduke," came a man's gruff voice in the darkness. Then a flashlight came on.
She cranked up, threw the car in reverse.

"Miss Delaney?" The man thumped on her window.

Through the tinted glass, she made out a man standing there holding an umbrella although she couldn't make out his features.

"I thought you weren't coming." He thrust his hand backward, toward the cottage. "This is the Orange Blossom B&B. If you'll get out, I'll show you to your room. And I promise to corral Marmaduke. Don't be afraid of him. He's a great big baby."

Marmaduke let out a howl.

"Hush, Marmaduke." The man petted the dog. "I promise you, his bark is bigger than his bite."
She didn't care to test the man's last statement as the dog let out another ferocious bark. What should she do now? She felt like driving away.

"Miss Delaney?"

She looked straight ahead where her headlights shone, to the little cracker gothic cottage in front of her, saw the wide front porch, noted its charm, thought about its unique history.

"Your pastor, Reverend Rodney Ellison, booked this room for you. I talked with him last week."
Ever the frugal one, she remembered her pastor's hard-earned money that he'd invested in her Christmas vacation.

"It's not the Sheraton by any means, but I think you'll find it pleasant."

She turned off the ignition. She would at least look things over. "We'll see," she said under her breath.

KISS THE (COOK) BRIDE - MY BRAND NEW BOOK

WIN A FREE LOVE STORY (NOVEL)

By commenting on my blog anytime this week, Monday through Friday, you'll have a chance to win a free love story (novel). I'll draw a name and let the winner know next Monday. The more you comment, the more times your name goes in the hat. Let the comments begin!

Now, for today's post:

My brand new book, Kiss the (Cook) Bride, is about to hit the shelves! It's a 4-in-1 novella collection by Barbour Publishing, and the coauthors are: Kristy Dykes, Aisha Ford, Vickie McDonough, and Carrie Turansky. The cover is absolutely beautiful. It shows a bride in a lace wedding gown holding her bouquet with oven mitts! Is that cute or what? We enjoyed writing Kiss the (Cook) Bride, and we hope you enjoy reading it. You can purchase it in stores and at amazon.com and christianbook.com. Because the book has a traveling apron as a sub-theme, we four coauthors are having aprons made with our book cover printed on them. We plan to wear them in Dallas in September for a massive book signing at American Christian Fiction Writers conference.

How did I come up with the idea for Kiss the (Cook) Bride? I was raised in the Deep South and bred on Jesus and Nana's layer cakes. Good eating was the norm around our house and Nana's. I "caught" cooking and entertaining (as opposed to "was taught"). As a pastor's wife whose hobby has been cooking and entertaining, I've often felt like I've run a B&B with all the people I've hosted, such as missionaries, evangelists, singing groups, etc. When I worked for a New York Times subsidiary, the editor said one day they needed a story about cooking.

"I cooked for 100 people in my home one time," I told her, just making conversation.

Her eyebrows shot to the ceiling (almost).

"I love to cook," I said. "Last week, I had a dinner party for 22 people and had a ball."

"Write me a story," she said. "By tomorrow."

The nex day, a weekly column entitled "Kristy's Kitchen" was born.

When I dreamed up Kiss the (Cook) Bride, I envisioned four young women in the food business. They all own restaurants, they meet at a restaurant convention, and they bemoan the lack of men in their lives (Mr. Right). Then, each novella tells each of their love stories. During the entire book, they pass around an apron with the words "Kiss the Cook" written on the front. The last groom crosses out "Cook" and writes "Bride" because the girls have all become brides by the end of the book.

I love writing Christian love stories!

Here's a blurb that describes Kiss the Bride:

When four restaurant owners meet at a restaurant convention, they have more than just good food and their faith in common--the lack of Mr. Right in their lives. They discover a dash of hope, a dollop of longing, and a plateful of faith are the recipe for romance. Thrown into the mix is a traveling apron with the words "Kiss the Cook" across the front.

The collection contains:

"Angel Food" by Kristy Dykes: In order to find love, a restaurant owner needs a recipe for soul food.

"Just Desserts" by Aisha Ford: A family feud stands in the way of love...and the perfect slice of pie.

"A Recipe for Romance" by Vickie McDonough: Will a carpenter's remodeling job mean a refurbished restaurant and a new romance?

"Tea for Two" by Carrie Turansky: A financially strapped tea shop owner must find a way to save her business and straighten out her tangled love life.

A fun touch: at the end of each novella is the recipe that's at the heart of each story .

Saddle Up Your Horses....

The Lord has given some unusual verses to encourage and comfort in this trial of Kristy's health. His Word is alive and speaks to every situation.

When I was a boy I loved going to Uncle Cecil's and Aunt Hazel's country farm in Birmingham, AL. They had a pony and just to get on it a few moments was a boy's dream. My sister, Tricia, has a beautiful country home in Leesburg, FL, and a few months back I rode her Argentine thoroughbred, Gonzo. He is a beautiful and well trained horse. What fun!!!

But horses are used for other things than fun.

Horses in some parts of the world are yet used for war and battle. In ancient days they were the primary force in fighting and defeating foes.

Recently, I was reading Proverbs and this verse leaped off the page.

"The horse is made ready for the day of battle, but victory rests with the Lord." Prov. 21:31

Notice the words "made ready". The victory rests with the Lord, but....the horse "is" made ready.

There are some things we must do. The horse must be trained, fed, groomed, saddled, exercised, and made ready. There are some things that must be done to prepare to meet our foe. Yes, victory comes from the Lord, but we do what we can, when we can, with all that we can. We have a a definite part/role in the battle of life.

Then the victory rests with the Lord.

Kristy has done this with her writing. She has studied, written and rewritten over and over again. She has been critiqued beyond what you would imagine. She has read arm loads of books month after month, year after year. She went back to school and graduated with honors in getting a journalism and communications degree. We have traveled across America to pursue every angle of preparation. Day after day and night after night for years she has made herself ready. I have marveled at her focused, relentless persistence to turn every stone over to fulfill her destiny.

She has prepared a mighty and majestic horse for the day of battle in the journalistic arena....and then has rested the victory into His hands.

Now, we are readying a horse for another battle. The battle is for her life. She has been told straightforwardly that she will not live long without supernatural intervention. So the horse is being readied again for an even higher purpose.

We are praying, fasting, standing in agreement, calling on the elders, beseeching the Body of Christ for prayer, quoting the Word, confessing any besetting sins, prophetically proclaiming His promised Word, offering praise to a mighty God, humbling ourselves before His greatness. We stand in His grace and call His mercy.

We have sought the best medical care possible. We have prayed for her doctors and nurses. We have paid close attention to every health care decision.

We have laughed a lot for a merry heart is a source of medicine, and focused to make sure our attitudes were faith-filled.

The horse is being made ready in Kristy's battle....but the victory rests with the Lord.

Do you have a horse that needs to be made ready? Are you in a battle, maybe not for life or death, but a battle of consequence, then saddled up your horses. I suggest you get your horses ready. Don't be negligent, lazy, or shortsighted. Do your part and then turn it over to Him. He is our victory.


How Is Kristy?

Didn't she look great Sunday? She is progressing some each day--two steps forward and a half a step backward. She is so cute when she realizes she isn't thinking straight. She points at something or we play charades for a brief moment and then we chuckle.

We laugh at her blank moments......just to give the Devil a black eye.She walks through our home offering praise to our mighty God. You can feel His presence so strong here. God is good.

Her appintment for the mask went well. I will share pictures tomorrow.

Thank you for your continued prayers for they are working.

Keep praying for Kristy....for us.

Her Husband Blogging at Her Request, Milton

PS. I really hate long blogs. I try to shortened my thoughts, but.....

All the pictures are from our families thanksgiving gathering in Leesburg, FL, at Tricia and Rick's home except the one of me which was taken some months back. Doesn't Joshua look cute on that tiny pony? (Sorry Josh) and what about those two nieces, Abbye and Stephanie on that rocking horse? My grandson on that big horse looks ready to go.