Into the Fire

Take it eeeaasssy . . .

My goodness. Writers and wannabes can certainly get uptight about things, you know? Just yesterday the comments about “dialogue tags” were thrown about like dueling daggers. Common sense seems to fly out the window when addressing those pesky rules, I must say.

Just like with the subject of italics a few months ago, the continuous attack on the use of adverbs and passive verbs, as if a story could be written without them, the rants of those who criticize their use rises to a fever pitch and the self-righteous claims of nevah, evah usin’ those disgusting elements of writing shout right off the screen.

I wonder if it occurs to them that multitudes of words and styles tell stories. And stories are what it’s mostly all about. Poorly written dynamite stories sell way more books than exquisitely written dull and boring tomes. So if it’s publication that’s got your focus, find a happy medium and take it easy on the dogmatic proclamations about what to do and what not to do.

Writers can take on this holier-than-thou attitude with the rules of writing, and it sounds like a whole bunch of prideful preachers banging their pens on writing pulpits criticizing those who might like something different than themselves and aren’t locked into the formulaic writing patterns of strict adherence to the rules. Take it easy and get over it. There will always be those who write differently and ignore the rules and gain publication.

For us who are Christian writers, it’s a God thing. He’s in charge. We offer it all up to Him—the inspiration, the writing, the rest of it, all of it. It’s His. He chooses. He opens and closes opportunities. It’s about what He wants. At least it should be.

Father, I rest in you. I have no other place to find that rest. You allow me to write, you give me the impetus to create stories. I write the best I can for you. Help me to continue to do it as a blessing or an offering for you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

*Please remember to pray for Kristy Dykes and her family.*

The Edge of Recall . . . and back.

The CFBA blog tour gave me the opportunity to read one of my favorite authors, Kristen Heitzmann. Although I don’t write exactly like her, it seems we handle the spark and chemistry of romance similarly. And I happen to love the way she does it. While her stories are never just about the element of romance, they include it as a vital part of life much like it truly is—admittedly or not, gentlemen. Her latest novel The Edge of Recall could best be described as a psychological drama/mystery, however that translates to genre.

Since Tessa Young was almost six years old, she’s spent the majority of her life hoping somehow her missing father is still alive, the man she loved and who loved her—at least that’s how she remembers him. Beyond that she can find no logical reason for him to have deserted his wife and daughter, and she longs for an explanation. However, entwined with that longing is the sense that something horrible possibly happened to him, and that she is to blame for whatever it was. Frequent and terrifying nightmares occupy her troubled sleep patterns, and since spending some time at a sanitarium for an inability to define a trauma in her early years, she has her psychiatrist’s telephone number on the speed dial of her cell phone.

Her career of architectural landscaping, which features the designing and/or restoration of labyrinths, provides the impetus for a college flame, one that has never quite been extinguished, to call her to enlist her unique talents for a secret project he’s contracted. When she decides to brave her remaining hurt from his long past obnoxious treatment of her choice to switch from architectural design to landscape design, they and a third partner encounter mysterious and nearly deadly consequences as they seek to build a structure on the land of a burned down monastery with a particular style of labyrinth.

In spite of all the emotional conflict, Tessa seemingly is getting closer to the edge of recall as her nightmares become more visual, potent, and revealing.

Four of my all time favorite novels are written by Kristen Heitzmann. She has a knack for visual and rich character development and realistic dialogue, great inner dialogue, and she knows how to resolve complicated stories without formula. Her females are often high-strung, emotional, and complicated. Her male characters are manly, real, never metro-sexual, and usually complex. Peripheral but strong characters fill the pages and become important to the story.

Interestingly (at least to me), Kristen has a few pet words (keen, keening) and phrases which inevitably seem to surface more than once and since the words are not ordinary they become noticeable and hard to ignore. In light of today’s editing “rules”, I find this odd. These words and phrases stand out and seem repetitious at times.

The back and forth between the two main characters in the first part of this story can get just a hair tedious as they are both in denial of their feelings for one another. These kinds of situations are difficult to make new or fresh. I cared for both of them, but at the same time they annoyed me. Not enough to disengage from the story which moved along at a good pace but enough for me to wish they’d hurry up and get past it even though a lot of the conflict had to do with Tessa’s inabilities to process her pain, past and present. When Smith (the architect) finally realizes some of the reasons for her being the way she is, his attraction to her is infused with the male urge to protect her.

There’s a lot more to this story than their romance and her psychological trauma, but the resolution to the trauma comes in a totally unusual and unpredictable way.

While I enjoyed this story, it did not rank up there with my top four of Kristen’s books.

Father, I pray for Kristen—that you would continue to supply her with dreams and visions for her stories. I pray you would give her all the inspiration she needs to create her novels and conduct her daily life, meeting with her in fellowship and prayer and worship, using all her multiple talents. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

*Please pray for Kristy Dykes and her family.*

Sunday's Offerings

And the word of the Lord came again to Zechariah: "This is what the Lord Almighty says: 'Administer true justice; show mercy and compassion to one another. Do not oppress the widow or the fatherless, the alien or the poor. In your hearts do not think evil of each other.'

"But they refused to pay attention; stubbornly they turned their backs and stopped up their ears. They made their hearts as hard as flint and would not listen to the law or to the words that the Lord Almighty had sent by His Spirit through the earlier prophets. So the Lord Almighty was very angry.

"'When I called, they did not listen; so when they called, I would not listen,' says the Lord Almighty. 'I scattered them among the nations, where they were strangers. The land was left so desolate behind them that no one could come or go. . . '"

Zechariah 7:8-14 (NIV)

*Please remember to pray for Kristy Dykes and her family.*

Blood. Prayers. Tears.

Our country, the one and only USA, was founded on the blood, prayers, and tears of those who fought to get out from under a tyrannical kingdom. A stunning victory came through the sacrificial deaths of those who believed this independence was worth risking and offering their lives as a payment for the freedom to govern themselves.

Today’s government suffers from a true acceptance of what those brave men fought and died to achieve. There are still those patriots who get what this country can be and was meant to be, but the cacophony of pseudo-patriots striving to disrupt and overcome our independence and replace it with a socialistic system fills the media outlets with their nonsense and bewitching promises which they cannot keep without more taxation and more taxation.

We are still one nation under God, but God in all His mercy and blessing cannot turn away from the sins purported upon this nation by its ungrateful, unbelieving people. No . . . Someday there must come a reckoning.

While the brave men and women of our armed forces keep the war away from our shores, fighting for the same independence as the soldiers of this country have always fought to maintain, some discount their valor, their accomplishments, and even the reason for their sacrifices, yet those same someones screech and demand the right to kill the unborn in the womb and even to the point of birth, insisting they actually care about the lives of adults fighting in foreign places.

Today is the 4th of July, Independence Day, in the United States of America. Some will visit memorials, some will have picnics and barbeques, some will get drunk, and some will die. Life will go on. Some will be born on this day and enter a conflicted world—just as every individual born before him or her. Sin is. Always has been since the tragedy in the Garden of Eden. Man’s downfall, his skid from a perfect world into a depraved one.

I hope you will celebrate living in this great country today . . . and everyday. Built not only on the blood of many brave soldiers but even more importantly on the precious Blood of Jesus Christ, the prayers of people who have known Him who gives all good and perfect gifts, and the tears of those who’ve loved, given, lost, and pleaded for the lives of those in battle as well as for God’s mercy on this country—built on the desire for equality and freedom, this is one great nation. Without the help, mercy, and forgiveness of God Almighty, we will cease to have our independence from the crushing oppression of the enemy of our souls.

“When I shut up the heavens so that there is no rain, or command locusts to devour the land or send a plague among my people, if my people who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then will I hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and will heal their land.” 2 Chronicles 7:13-14 (NIV)

Father, forgive us in the Name of Jesus, Amen.

*Please pray for Kristy Dykes and her family.*

More Self Promotion/Marketing/Boasting . . .

Man.

How do you approach this subject over and over again without feeling ridiculous? I do not know. Other than with honesty. So . . .

Sometime in September or October I will have been a Christian for 30 years. Wow. I have learned that a focal point of the walk with Jesus is obedience. Obedience pertains to every single area of our lives. But to keep on topic, this obedience must be applied to our serious writing endeavors as thoughtfully and determinedly as any other facet of living on planet earth as a servant of the Lord Jesus Christ.

I write my novels as an act of obedience. Am I saying this makes them perfect or somehow elevates them above the works of others who don’t make this claim? I am not. I only know, as I’ve said innumerable times here and elsewhere, that I couldn’t write them without the inspiration and assistance of the Holy Spirit. I’m just not that creative.

Maybe it is for this reason alone that I love the books I’ve written. Not because of my “sensational” talent as a wordsmith. Not because I can tell a story better than someone else. Not because I do or don’t follow the rules of writing or the failsafe formula for writing a novel. The stories I’ve written are a wonderful gift to me that surprise me as they develop with characters I love, and some I detest, who all have a story to tell, a “life” experience to share, and they simply must not be denied the opportunity to be set upon the pages of a novel.

When I wrote The Famous One, it came fluently, one of three I wrote and finished in 2005. To now have it in print with a cool cover and getting positive feedback from both male and female readers is something only God can provide. As you all know, I’m a terrible marketer because it’s so awkward to tell people to buy my work. And so hard.

Sunday at church a woman to whom I’d given a copy of my first novel (Hope Of Glory) approached me between services telling me how much she was enjoying the book, where she was in the story, how “real” it was, and this lady has nothing to do with horses or horse racing. What a gift from the Lord when I can see the sheer pleasure on a reader’s face as they describe the experience of reading this story God had assigned to me to write.

Today two more readers (one male, one female) of The Famous One sent me e-mails expressing their satisfaction with the book, one of them giving me the following quote to use:

"The author of The Famous One, Nicole Petrino-Salter, takes the time to breathe depth and life into her characters. Her writing is passionate, compelling and strikingly honest."

The other person had this to say:

“I became entwined in the life of strangers again and had to find out where their lives meshed. You have a wonderful gift of painting the picture of a person's struggles in everyday life as well as their relationships. I felt like I knew Joey like a friend at the end of the book and was surprised by the ending . . . I came to realize that the ending really was exceptional.” (Edited to eliminate spoilers.)

I have no idea how visitors to this blog will react to these posts. While I love sharing my work with all of you, I am uncomfortable posting commentary which makes me feel like I’m boasting. All I really have is word of mouth, so that’s what I’m passing along to you. Please don’t hold it against me.

All praise goes directly to the Lord, the Creator of heaven and earth and all good things including lovely words.

Father, I do thank you that you have allowed me to receive “good reports” on these stories you’ve assigned to me. You get all the credit for anything good. You’re amazing. Please continue to lead me in your ways everlasting. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

*Please remember Kristy Dykes and her family at this difficult time.*

Writing that thing called a novel . . .

If you want to know how to write a novel, there are innumerable manuals to teach you the basic formula. Then when you feel comfortable with what you’ve learned, you can read even more manual type books such as the revered “Breakout” novel books/workbooks by Donald Maass. And you’ll be better for having read them. For as far as they go.

While a person can learn to write, if the talent for writing is there, it’s a God-given thing, ordained by Him, for Him, and should, as such, be dedicated to Him. That does not imply the writing should be in “devotional” or non-fiction “inspirational” form. It simply means that if the Lord has called you to write, then that product of your gifting should be between you and Him, an offering of what He has asked you to do.

I’m of the opinion that while everyone can be taught to string words together into sentences to produce paragraphs, essays, articles, even term papers, the ability and urge to write a novel is a compelling purposeful desire which cannot be denied and must be fulfilled. We’re not talking publication in this instance—we’re talking constructing a complete work of fiction: beginning, middle, end of story.

And from that opinion or viewpoint, I don’t think you can teach or learn the precise manner for effectively creating a novel. My feelings are that it is innate or for the politically correct crowd: organic. That being said, formulaic novels are written all the time.

Defining it as such (being innate) doesn’t elevate it or the person who creates these stories to any special level of importance or expertise. When God gives something such as a talent, while we might admire and respect the person who has whatever it takes to accomplish a certain thing, ultimately we must understand that the Creator has equipped that individual to make this thing happen and He has sustained the person to follow the inevitable course to completion. We can be commended for our obedience to such a task, but beyond that the real accolades go directly to the One who really makes it happen.

A person might fight something he is called to do, but somewhere deep inside he realizes the fight is futile. He must decide whether or not to proceed down the path chosen for him or to seek and pursue a different course which will chafe and rub on him no matter how successful he is at what he’s chosen. There are fill-in jobs and types of activities, but the relentless desire to write a novel will not be denied. This doesn’t suggest it must result in full time work, but no doubt it will require time and effort and the persistence to get it as good as the individual creating it can do. It doesn’t assure publication and monetary payment for this effort either. The satisfaction ultimately comes in completing what one is called to do.

I have read material by those who felt they wanted to write a novel. Some wrote well with minor corrections of plot points and some fine tuning in their grammatical skills. Talent was evident. Others had some minor successes in paragraphs but had no gift for extended storytelling or even basic grammar skills. If agents and editors receive multiple submissions like this second example, it’s no wonder they endlessly repeat the “rules of writing” on their professional sites.

The point is as a writer you can take in unlimited instruction from professionals ranging from how to write to where to write to what formula works best for writing, and all of it has merit, but none of it might apply directly to you. The fact is if you’re a bona fide writer who God has called to pen a novel, you will struggle through that first one or breeze through it without hindrance, and no one can tell you exactly how it’s going to be for you—yet it will surely resemble someone else’s journey.

Somehow you will find a way to write that thing called a novel, and you will not be satisfied until you do. If you think it’s great, and it stinks, I don’t know what to tell you. You need to test drive it with people who are strong readers. Get some honest input.

I’m not much for critique groups as such, but others swear by their value. I think the testing ground should be someone who can recognize a good story, someone you trust, and someone who hasn’t elevated themselves to professional reviewer looking for flaws in your work. This can be a relative if they maintain some “street-cred” with novels, or it can be friends with the same qualification, but you need input before you submit it to any professional—be it a freelance editor or an agent. The one thing you must have acquired is an understanding of the rules because if you don’t “get” them, you’ll break them in ignorance, and somehow when you do that without knowing it, it shows.

Learn the craft. Read profusely. Write with passion. Don’t give up if the Lord has given you writing to do. Check your motives—look into your heart. Stay close to the One who gives the gift and inspiration and give Him all the glory as you experience the journey of writing that thing called a novel.

Father, you are the impetus for all creation, whether we give you your rightful due or not. I pray, God, that you would continue to give me inspiration and determination to do this thing called writing a novel. I want to do it in allegiance to your call for your glory. It has no value outside of you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

*Please continue to pray for Kristy Dykes and her family.*

The Hidden Agenda

Well . . . not always so hidden, but sometimes it is. It slithers into our daily lives just like we perceive the “snake” in the garden to have done, and the words aren’t all that different. And the agenda certainly isn’t.

Coming from different families, lifestyles, philosophies, communities, and denominations, we view our conduct and what’s acceptable within that framework formed by opinions and patterns from what we’ve learned and experienced and where we’ve lived and known. To alter those early and ever-forming patterns in our lives takes a reason, an effort, and a lifestyle change of some kind.

It’s been my observation that some individuals raised up in the faith have become mechanical in their overall walk with the Lord. Be sure to notice I said “some”. I used to envy those who knew Jesus at an early age and remained faithful and productive in their faith throughout their lifetimes. The terrible choices I made for a season of my life caused me to have major regrets. However, since it was my road to travel, the severity of focus on those regrets has matured, and I can take joy in having been rescued from a lifestyle I wasn’t raised to lead nor was I designed to embrace. It wasn’t an easy path to salvation for me, but upon finding the Truth, it’s been a walk of passion—wavering here and there under the enemy attacks but remaining solid in the faith of who Jesus is and what He continues to labor in accomplishing in my life. (I often picture him tipping His head back and staring up at the Father, keeping his lips closed but communicating His . . . King James longsuffering.)

The “hidden” agenda surfaces in unique ways, gliding into our thought processes to produce what the military labels “conduct unbecoming”. While not a legal term imposed upon Christians, we do slip into that mode too easily sometimes.

Christian writers—and, oh, how the blogs, etc. have disputed that term for us who are born again and write—are called to a diverse plethora of writing. Some write sweet and some write raw. Within those variables are even more diverse voices and styles. I think the not-so-hidden agenda occurs when these two opposites of the Christian writing world clash and thrash and trash each other. On the one extreme you have the legalists who barely allow for conflict (code for sin) in order to measure up to self-defined holiness as opposed to the other extreme who desire to include profanity and some graphics in multiple areas in order to insure the stories are “real”. At either extreme, it’s tempting to ask: Who are you trying to impress?

The extremes in Christians result in those who are glued to legalism expanding to those who want to live like the world and indulge their vices. Somewhere in between them is a place where Christ ministers and produces grace for our weaknesses but not tolerance for our sinfulness. A yielded will to the Holy Spirit is the only road to true holiness. We can’t “just do it”. Yielding is hard for humans—just look at the battle that takes place between merging vehicles! To complicate matters of the flesh, just as many Christians justify ritualistic rigidity as do Christians who spew profanities as justifiable expressions. Stirring up the controversies, debates, and arguments is the enemy of our souls giving equal time and fuel to both sides and celebrating with amusement the rage produced by the conflict.

The battle between writers is senseless, especially among the ranks of Christian writers. The decision to communicate stories in written form is not a big mystery. A writer writes. He must decide for whom. And once the decision is made and the voice, style, theme, and plot begin to roll, the discussion regarding how it is told remains between the writer and the Lord. It is not for you and me to determine what someone writes about or how they write about it. No one is forced to read literature which they abhor—except in school. There are publishers for all different kinds of books and agents to represent them.

It’s not about the kind of writing and storytelling we produce. It’s more often about not succumbing to the hidden agenda of the enemy by being dragged into controversy and discord with other writers who are Christians.

Father, I’ve been sucked into the controversy myself. I have formed opinions and preferences, but I want to view all things through your precious, wise eyes. Help me not to tear down but to build up when possible. Help me to spot and identify fraud. Help me to be reliable and to rely only on you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

*Please continue to pray for Kristy Dykes and her family.*

Some call it teachable . . .

As you know if you read the multiple blogs and websites of the professionals—agents, editors, publishers, and authors—you will inevitably hear a chorus of the rules of writing, thoughts on “voice”, criticisms of POV shifts, insistent demands for conflict and more conflict, and reasons for just about everything to do with the mechanics of writing and publishing today. Just last week the ongoing argument about using profanity, cussing, swearing, bad language, etc. in CBA novels surfaced on Rachelle Gardner’s blog via a question to her regarding this repeatedly discussed topic.

Those writers who seriously pursue the craft but remain unpublished tackle all these subjects as well, and I’m guessing it’s about an 80/20 split as to the ones who strictly adhere to the opinions of the professionals regarding these subjects—80 % in favor of them, the 20% being somewhat, practically, or diametrically opposed to strict adherence to them. When the goal is publication at all costs, it doesn’t bode well to argue much about anything.

Some call it being teachable. And I won’t argue with that. What I will argue with is the mantra of instructions repeated endlessly about writing novels. While instruction is irrefutably necessary, basic grammar skills had better be learned in school and preferably way before college. Those new to writing a book—and, as usual, we’re talking fiction here—have an available tool necessary to all present, past, and future authors: reading. And I’m not talking about instruction manuals or books written by marketing gurus. I’m talking about the vast number of novels awaiting all ages, types, and appetites for readers who want to graduate to novel writers. The teaching offered by published fiction is invaluable. The writer who chooses to read within their genre, outside their genre, and who has experience with “the classics” of yesteryear—those writers/readers will have savored the spicy tastes of styles and conflicting voices and the innumerable ways to tell stories with the written word.

As all of you writers know, writing novels is personal. Solitary. Time consuming. It can be emotional and it can be stoic, but it’s always an experience. Some outline, some sit at their favorite location(s), some use a pen or pencil and paper or pad, and probably nowadays most use a computer keyboard, but those who are too confined by the restrictions of outlines and things of that organizational nature, let the words fly free once they’re situated wherever and with whatever they need to create. Some write the entire story without interference to that first draft, others edit as they go, and some do a mixture of both. At the time of creation, if you’re bound by what you cannot do, you will not be free to do what you can.

Few of us can write our “masterpieces” without revisions. Once we finish a novel, the gamut of emotions probably zooms from relief to panic and everything in between. The step-away time must follow. Give it some time to exist as it is. When you return to it, best done after reading a “good” book, those things which are less than sterling can be eliminated or enhanced. Without having a strong background in diverse literature, it’s difficult to accurately assess interesting writing. And the Lord knows how varied our preferences are. We must write what we enjoy. We must write who we are. And we must write how we are gifted to write.

It’s a given to express we are not perfect, and that goes for our writing as well. It’s innocuous to compare ourselves to others. God in his liberty and total lack of prejudice has created us to be ever conforming to His Son however He is given permission to do. We are His creation, but He allows us to be who we are in our raw forms to choose whether or not we want to be the best we can be—which can only happen when we yield these sin-saturated selves to His loving designer’s hands.

Writing is a gift, a privilege, an honor really. But no moreso than other skills or human kindnesses directed and perfected through Him. It’s simply what we do—honorable because He called us to do it, not because we can do it.

Determining what a professional desires from an author is a journey, and for new authors it is often filled with trepidation and an aim to please. For a true writer, it is a time of reflection and decision. We must identify who the Lord has fashioned us to be—what size, color, texture is this jar of clay? It takes some time and effort to determine this, a lot of writing hours, but we surface somewhere in the midst of words and worry, frustration and trust, fear and resolve. And we find ourselves as writers. When we do, we are released from those binding chains which masquerade as rules but really are only guidelines, and we are grateful to our Lord for guiding us through the maze safely, allowing us our own voice in the never ending winsomeness of words.

It’s not that we become un-teachable. It’s that we become secure in who we have been structured, fashioned, and worked over to be. There must be that place of peace that only Jesus can provide. And in His instruction we must remain teachable.

Father, once again I thank you for allowing me to create with the written word. You give the inspiration and I record what you have given me. I can do nothing apart from you, nothing of worth or value, nothing to take me into eternity with something to offer. Thank you, precious Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.

*Please remember Kristy Dykes and her family during this season of sorrow and joy.*

Sunday's Offerings

Elisha returned to Gilgal and there was a famine in that region. While the company of the prophets was meeting with him, he said to his servant, "Put on the large pot and cook some stew for these men."
One of them went out into the fields to gather herbs and found a wild vine. He gathered some of its gourds and filled the fold of his cloak. When he returned, he cut them up into the pot of stew, though no one knew what they were. The stew was poured out for the men, but as they began to eat it, they cried out, "O man of God, there is death in the pot!" And they could not eat it.
Elisha said, "Get some flour." He put it into the pot and said, "Serve it to the people to eat." And there was nothing harmful in the pot.

2 Kings 4:38-41 (NIV)

Saturday Sample . . .

CHAPTER 1

Faith Daniels looked up as the tiny bell over the door tinkled quietly. He was the first customer of the morning, the darkness remaining outside as he walked in and closed the door.
“Good morning,” she acknowledged him as he looked past her and above her at the menu of coffees, teas, and other beverages.
He gave her a hint of a smile to indicate he wasn’t trying to ignore her. She waited, not wanting to pester him. He’d come to a conclusion soon enough. They always did. The customers who couldn’t choose were almost always friendly, outgoing, bubbly even. He wasn’t one of them. She’d seen that kind of look before but wasn’t sure if she could place where or when. When it dawned on her, she blushed in spite of herself. She’d seen it multiple times looking in the mirror.
She busied herself with the pastries, putting the remaining selections in the case.
“Uh, I’ll take a double espresso and one of those,” he said finally, pointing to an éclair.
“Cream or whipped cream?” she asked quietly.
“Oh. Yeah. A little cream, please.”
She began to fix the espresso and put the éclair on a plate. “Have a seat, and I’ll bring it right out to you, sir.”
He smiled slightly—surprised a bit by the “sir”, she supposed. He sat at a faraway table for two at the other end of the shop, folded his hands on the table and stared out the window into the dark, rainy morning.
When the coffee was ready, she took it, the éclair, a fork and some extra cream to his table.
“Thank you,” he said, finally looking directly at her. “What do I owe ya?”
“Four dollars and 50 cents,” she said quietly. “But you can pay on the way out if you like.”
Instead, he pulled out his wallet from a hip pocket of his faded Levis and handed her $6.00. “It smells good,” he said gratefully.
“Thank you,” she said sincerely. “Anything else I can get you?” she added quietly.
“I wish,” he said almost inaudibly, then smiled up at her again. “I’m fine.”
Faith walked away reluctantly. It wouldn’t be long and the rush would hit. Marnie would be in for her shift in about 15 minutes. Jackie would be along in a half hour. The day would be underway, busy for a few hours, then a calm, then charge up again during the lunch hours at which time Reb would arrive. Another day at the office, she mused.
When she got behind the counter, she glanced back at the man, surprised to see him looking at her. Another blush occurred as a result of his brief attention. She couldn’t remember blushing in years. Not even once, let alone twice. Crazy. She began the morning inventory, re-stocked some coffee beans, and went to the kitchen to check on the pastry supply, bringing out another éclair to replace the one she’d sold. When she’d tallied the orders she needed to place, the faithful early customers began arriving just as Marnie walked out of the back room ready to make and serve all kinds of coffees and teas and miscellaneous other beverages for those who liked to indulge in specialty drinks to get their days started or enhance their days with flavorful treats.
“Hi, Faith. How’re you this morning?” she asked cheerfully.
“Hangin’ in there, Marnie. How ‘bout you?” she responded, trying to muster some enthusiasm.
“Not too tired this morning, for a change. I went to bed at 8 o’clock. Can you believe that?”
“For me, yes. For you, no.” Faith smiled at the young woman, knowing Marnie’s social life was usually full of boyfriends and girlfriends and all the activities that accompanied that youthful lifestyle.
“Hi, Faith, Marnie. The usual, please.”
“Mr. Johnson,” Faith greeted the man who was usually the first customer.
Marnie went right to work on his triple mocha with whipped cream.
John Johnson glanced around the shop. “I can’t believe I’m not the first customer,” he said half to himself.
Marnie looked around as a result of his comment. “Oh, yeah. I didn’t even see him.” Then she lowered her voice. “Who’s that, Faith? You know him?”
“No. First timer, I think.”
“Kinda handsome for an older guy, huh?” she whispered.
Faith rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s ‘older’ compared to you,” Faith teased the 21 year old.
Marnie giggled at that and then took care of Mr. Johnson.
“See you ladies tomorrow then,” he said pleasantly as he headed for the door after leaving Marnie a generous tip.
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson. Have a great day.”
“See ya tomorrow, John,” Faith added.
As John Johnson was leaving, several people filed in and business was clearly on its way for the day. Jackie joined Marnie from the back room and began taking orders and making the customers’ requests. During the course of the next 25 minutes, the man who’d come into the shop first this morning made his way to the door. Faith happened to look up as he put his hand on the door knob and looked over at her, his eyes almost smiling but not quite and hers doing the same. Then he was gone, and she felt a tinge of sadness, the continual emptiness that dominated her life rising up in her like a concrete wall, nearly impenetrable in its size and fortitude. Oh well.
“You guys call me if it gets too busy out here. I’m going to make some purchase orders,” Faith instructed the girls.
“Too busy for us? No way,” Jackie joked.
Faith touched Jackie’s arm with an effort at a smile as she walked back into her tiny office. Once inside and seated at her desk, she started spreading out her purchase orders. Then she stopped, putting her elbows on the desk and resting her chin on her hands. What was it about that man that grabbed her attention? Why are you doing this, Faith? You know you don’t trust yourself with any man. Besides, life wasn’t set up for you to enjoy it, remember? She continued to berate herself which she did frequently but was still unable to get the image of the man’s face out of her mind, complete with the 3-day growth of whiskers, she estimated. Blue eyes, too—intense blue eyes, she recalled. Sandy blonde short-cropped hair, some gray below his temples. Broad shoulders. Enough, Faith! Get to work. She sighed heavily and obeyed herself, losing her life in the world of ordering coffees, teas, and multiple other supplies for the shop.
Before she knew it, Reb had arrived and, as was his custom, he found her to say hello before starting work.
“How’s Reb today?” she smiled.
“Better than chocolate—at least that’s what I’ve been told,” he joked.
“Now who would make such a claim?” Faith laughed.
“My mother,” he teased, feigning disappointment.
Faith laughed again. “She would know, huh?”
“I guess,” he smiled. “See ya later.”
Faith loved Reb. A 25 year old man with his head on straight—what a novelty. Where were you when I was that age, Reb? Faith had spent many hours talking with Reb over the last two years that he’d worked at the shop. He could do all of it now—even ordering if she needed to get away, like that would ever happen. Faith’s life was comprised of working at the shop, watching movies at home, or reading novels with her fat cat perched on her lap. That was the extent of Faith Daniels’ life. Borrring.
“Faith?” Reb poked his head inside her door.
“What’s up?”
“Mrs. Darmon is here wondering if her order came in.”
Faith stood. “Yes, it did. C’mon. I’ll get it for ya.”
Reb followed her to the small back room. “Here we go,” Faith handed the bag of special orders to him. “Got here last night just before we closed.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Faith stayed in the back and rearranged some merchandise and checked to make sure the people whose special orders had arrived had all been contacted. When she was done with that little chore, she felt the melancholy work its way up through her thoughts and threaten to disable her functionary work mode. God, I hate living like this. Why do I even say “God”? What would He want with someone like me? “If you’re even there,” she said in a sarcastic whisper.
“Who needs a break?” she asked as she walked out to the front of the shop.
“I’ll cover, Faith,” Reb offered. “You don’t need to. We’re cool out here.”
Clearly the young people had everything under control. “Well, alright then. Guess I’ll run over to the grocery store so I don’t have to do it tonight.”
Faith went back to grab her coat and left through the back door. The rain assaulted her as soon as she was free of the door. My goodness, it’s miserable out here. So what’s the difference—it’s miserable most of the time, rain or shine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be like that. Faith always argued with herself, putting herself down without end. She’d never once considered suicide but she certainly could understand why some people did. Life seemed to gnaw at her, taking its piece of flesh every so often, leaving only gaping wounds with no source of healing ointment or soothing balm to treat the open sores. She shook her head at her thoughts as she walked across the parking lot in the hard rain.
She shopped without enthusiasm, sick of cooking for herself. After picking up a few groceries, she braved the weather and returned to the shop putting her perishables in the fridge in the kitchen.
“Faith, Mrs. Welles called. Said for you to call her back before you leave,” Jackie called into the kitchen.
“Thanks.”
Shedding her wet coat and hanging it on the coat rack in her office, she dialed the shop owner’s number.
“Hi, Shirley. It’s Faith.”
“Hi, sweetie. Just wanted to let you know we’re actually leaving on time this year.” The older woman laughed. “Can you beat that? Of course, it isn’t tomorrow morning yet now, is it? There’s always time for spoiling our departure, but if everything continues as it seems right now, we’ll be on our way at 6 o’clock tomorrow for Arizona.”
“That’s great, Shirl. I hope you have a wonderful few months. Bet you can’t wait to leave this rain.”
“I must say it is wet this winter, isn’t it? One extreme to the other, huh? It’s supposed to be in the 90’s down there right now, if you can believe that. Anyway, dear, I’ll miss you. I’ll try to check in once in awhile—only because I’ll want to hear your voice. Fair enough?”
“I’ll miss you, too, Shirl. You and Mack have a wonderful time, alright?”
“I’m sure we will. Thank you for all you do. Find a nice man while I’m gone, will you, dear? You’re too wonderful a woman to be alone—and much too young as well.”
Faith smiled at the older woman who was so much like a doting relative as much as she was a very good friend. “I’m not young anymore, Shirl.”
“Well, that must make me and Mack ancient then!”
“You know what I mean.”
“What you mean doesn’t matter. You have your whole life ahead of you. It’s time for you to reinvent it—don’t waste this precious time you’ve been given. I’m counting on you finding someone, Faith. You hear me?”
Faith paused. “They’re going to have to find me, Shirl. I don’t have the energy to go looking for them.”
Shirley paused on the other end. “Honey, just promise me this, when he does find you, don’t shut him out. Everyone should have a little happiness on this earth,” she concluded sincerely. “Now take care, and we’ll see you when we return—all tanned and beautiful.”
Faith laughed. “Have a wonderful time. Give my love to Mack.”

Taken from Wounds . . . and Healings (2005; written by Nicole Petrino-Salter)