The Gift of Her Son

Available for purchase on Amazon

Available for purchase on Amazon

My new e-book is out! The Gift of Her Son tells of the sorrow of a mother beside the deathbed of her son. With his passing, she is alone in the world and loses all hope for the future. On the way to the tomb, the funeral procession is stopped by a man who tells her ‘Don’t Cry’. The grieving mother doesn’t seek his help. She doesn’t know who he is or even that he has seen her. Yet Jesus has compassion for her sorrow and dries the woman’s tears. Jesus gives her the gift of a future and love wrapped in the life of her son.

Here is a sneak peek:

The sun dropped below the horizon and I watched the colors shift to bright gold and scarlet. My husband and I had first come to Nain a few months ago along with our youngest son, Jael. I had loved the view from my new doorway from the first moment. Now I hated it. I had gazed on the scene too many times, seeking solace and finding none.
I turned my face to the darkness behind me. The single lamp cast flickering shadows on the ceiling. They looked like the shadows of demons waiting for death to claim its next victim. I shivered and drew my shawl closer. I shuffled through the familiar darkness to Jael’s bed.
He lay still, no longer thrashing beneath the bedclothes. I lowered my hand gently to caress his face. His skin felt as though it stretched over the dying coals of a fire. He flinched at my touch before pressing his cheek into my hand, seeking its coolness.
I took the cloth from his forehead and dipped it again into the basin of water on the floor beside the bed. I smoothed the cool cloth over the scalding skin of his arms and chest before placing it on his head again. He sighed at the cool touch of water then moaned as fever baked the coolness away.
Desperate to offer him any sort of relief, I searched the house for every scrap of fabric I could find. Armed with a small pile, I covered him with layers of water-soaked cloth. It seemed to help; he sighed and drifted into uneasy slumber. I brought the lamp closer and set it so that I could gaze on him as he slept.
I knelt beside the bed and laid my head on his chest. The cold water chilled my face. I could feel the rapid beat of his heart, like a bird fluttering to escape a net. It was no longer the strong, steady beat that comforted me when his father died. My boy had held me as my life shattered around me. Now I held him as his slipped away. Tears trickled down my face as I crooned to my baby.
“Mamma.” His voice was weak but it sounded like music.
“Jael, oh Jael, I’m here.” I raised my head and looked into his eyes. They were unfocused but they were open and looking towards me. The fever still raged behind them.       “Oh, my boy.” Nothing else would come out.
“Mamma, listen.” His hand felt around weakly until I grabbed it with my own and held it to my wet cheek. “I saw an angel, Mamma. In my dream.” I continued to weep  silently, for angels meant death. I was losing him.
“The angel said to tell you to be brave. It would work out.” He lay for a moment, his breathing shallow. He squeezed my hand weakly. “I’m sorry, Mamma. I love you.”
“Oh my boy, don’t leave me. You are a good son. Stay with me. . .” but he was gone. Not dead, but lost in that dream from which there would be no awakening until his final breath delivered him to Abraham’s bosom.
His breathing faltered, his chest hesitating in its rising. I heard the rattle that foretold death as the air escaped his lips. His chest rose again, slower and slower.
Then it rose no more. Sorrow built inside me, a trapped beast raging to be free. Screams tore from my lips as I howled out my pain and fury. On and on it went taking on a life of its own while I rocked myself back and forth clutching my son’s hand to my breast.

If you would like to read more, it is available for purchase on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00MR3IFVE

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My mom's hands

My mom’s hands

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Full House, Full Heart

My three kids came home last week from their adventure at summer camp. On the drive home they bubbled over with excitement, each trying to outdo the others in telling 008 009their tales. Finally sleep overcame them and my husband and I shared a quiet smile. The week had obviously been a great success.

They had learned and experienced so much and were already talking about next year.

Now they have been home for a week and life is back to normal. Sleeping in, squabbling and begging for computer time. But there are some lingering changes. Their sibling bonds have grown stronger and while they still argue over little things, they are also a tiny bit quicker to forgive and move on. Right now they are all outside, (an unusual occurrence this summer). They were playing, and now they are helping my sister pack up her house for moving. without threats or bribes. I am headed up there myself, but I wanted to share with you how they have grown and matured.

As I celebrate each new sliver of maturity and grace, I remember that God is looking at me, too. He celebrates each baby step I manage to take. He sighs when I mess up once again then sends yet another learning opportunity. I am so grateful that He has given me my children to remind me that my Father loves me, without limits, without fail, without giving up. So often I am ready to throw in the towel and give up on myself as hopeless, but my Father puts his arms around me and lifts me to my feet once more, “Come on, sweetie, I know you can do this, I have faith in you.”

How can I give up on myself when God refuses to.

Thanks God, for not giving up.