Another Nanowrimo Challenge Has Come and Gone

In some ways, this was the most frantic and chaotic one-month writing challenge I have experienced. In other ways, it was the most rewarding and easiest. Instead of having a full month to fulfill Nanowrimo's 50 thousand word goal, I left for my European excursion on the 1st day of the month and didn't muster focus or energy enough to begin until November 11th. With less than three weeks left to meet the word goal, I knew I'd have to write twice as many words as I usually accomplish in a given day (in past years, I've always reached for 2000 a day). Due to the intensity of the daily requirement, I gave up my usual morning brainstorming walks. Less exercise and cogitation, but more writing.

The whole impetus for my trip was research for a sequel to my Dream-catcher and the Frog-kisser young adult novel. That novel ends with two young college students preparing for a trip to London, Paris, and Rome. Somehow, despite chatting with the two young women I met on the trip (Isabelle and Katie who used the Groupon deal for a girlfriend trip, after Isabelle's husband was called away for military duty), I couldn't get the feel for the dynamics of the girlfriend angle. After all, the primary thrust of my experience was that I had tackled the travel challenge on my own. I thought about writing an inspirational women's novel about a woman who goes on a solo trip and finds the inner strength she thought she'd lost for good, but that idea fell flat as well. In the end, I kept coming back to something Linda had said about how many interesting experiences I had encountered in my life and that it would make a riveting travel memoir. And so, bending the Nanowrimo rules a bit - after all, it is supposed to be a fiction challenge - I set out to write my travel memoir.

I titled it, loosely, There and Back Again: How Travel Changed my Life. I'm not fond of that title now, but we'll see if I can improve upon it. By far, my favorite part of the writing experience (apart from actually taking the trip that led to the memoir), involved digging out my old journals from my high school and college years. In October of 1981, my high school creative writing teacher issued a journaling assignment that I latched onto with gusto. I took that first journal everywhere. I had my friends sign it. I gave it a name (indeed, the first six journals have names - Alden, Brandy, Chauncey, Durwyn, Edwin, and Farr - most of the names meaning "friend"). I poured out every experience, every emotion, every encounter. I kept them meticulously for a little over a decade, but I think my marital struggles derailed my journaling because it no longer felt safe to write down my deepest, darkest feelings in tangible form. In looking back over the endless pages of writing, I was stunned by the intensity of my feelings and the depth of my spiritual hunger.

I kept a faithful record of all those earliest travel experiences - my first plane ride, my first international flight, and my first missionary trip. Every day was filtered through the lens of my idealistic youthful eyes. As I read the journals, I set about capturing those moments a second time with more focus and purpose. Writing about things that have actually happened to you is far easier than coming up with actions for a fictional character to experience. The daily word goal of 4000 words didn't seem difficult at all (although I found it took more time than fiction writing, perhaps because I spent a fair amount reviewing past words in order to articulate the ideas in a fresh form).

In addition to the old journals, I had five memory albums to sift through. Two of the albums contained photos, old programs, and paraphernalia from high school and college. One highlighted my summer service corps term in the Philippines. The final two were from my England adventures - Wheaton-in-England, and then my six-month residency.

Thanks to a two-day writing retreat at the beloved Mahseh Center in Kewanna, Indiana, I was only 800 words away from the goal on November 22nd. I took two days off for Thanksgiving and came back with a little less intensity (only completing an average of 3000 words each day), but finished the month with 61,000 words and an almost-complete first draft. I'm working on the most important part now, the take-away chapter. If a memoir doesn't provide something for the reader to connect with and take away from its pages, it is just a catalog of events. I may slow down for this part, but in a few days I should be done and ready to put it away for two months to simmer (so I can come at it with fresh eyes for the lengthy, tedious rewriting process).

European Excursion - Paris

I was feeling rather bummed that I hadn't done more in London. Indeed, all I accomplished in my two days there seemed paltry: a quick trip to the Harry Potter store, a lengthy walk visiting five museums I didn't even care about, a ride on the London Eye (nothing too spectacular, despite providing a festive night view), and a crummy serving of fish and chips. I hadn't done my favorite walk (from Big Ben down the Embankment to a beloved tea shop), hadn't dined in the restaurant pods a friend had recommended along the Embankment overlooking the Thames near the Tower of London (called The Coppa Club - if you wish to dine there for New Year's Eve, you can rent a pod for dinner for six to eight people for one hundred and fifty pounds - it was better for my wallet that I didn't make it there - although I'm adding my friend's photos because it did, indeed, look like a cool experience), and hadn't visited The London Dungeon Museum again. However, I can look on it more positively. Everything I did in this visit would not have been available to me during my past four trips to England, back in the day.

(Photos of Coppa Club pods by Patti Phillips)

After another sumptuous breakfast at our London hotel, Richard and Linda and I made our way down to the St. Pancras train station. We arrived early, at 9:30 a.m. for our 11 a.m. ride through the Chunnel. We sat talking to while away the time, and a group of French young people were lounging nearby waiting, too. One of the young girls, offered me the rest of her change, saying she wouldn't be needing it again (I protested - after all, I might not need British coins again, either - but she insisted, so I added them to my pocket and told her I would give them to my youngest son, who loves coins of all kinds).

The boarding process was manic. As the hour and a half went by, the waiting lounge filled to overflowing and about fifteen minutes before the departure of two separate trains (one to Brussels and one to Paris), they announced that both trains would be departing from ramps 9 and 10. Everyone was crushed into a mob trying to board the trains before the strict 11:01 departure time. I didn't even check to make sure Richard and Linda made it on the train. I was simply determined that I wouldn't be left behind and miss my 3 p.m. literary walking tour.

I kind of expected the train to plunge into darkness for a majority of the trip. It was surprising that each time I looked out the window, I saw green fields and quaint houses. I was seated next to an older French woman who explained, in broken English, that her grandchildren live in London and after accompanying them back to their home, she was finally headed back to her own home. She was having some difficulty with her back (I noticed this both when I had to scoot past her to my window seat and again when I got up to use the restroom), so when the train alerted passengers to the imminent arrival in Paris, we both hopped up together and made our way to the exit doors.

I had booked the literary walking tour through a company called Localers.com. I was due to arrive in Paris at 2:17 and had only a forty-three minute window to find the starting point location. Thankfully, a kind woman from the organization had called me from Paris and explained the most reliable method for getting there on time. Using her precise directions, I turned right out of the train station, found the taxi queue and was probably only the third person in line. I had written out, in French, a phrase asking if the driver could get me to Cafe de Flore by 3 p.m. because I was in a hurry. He nodded yes and then asked me something, in French, that I couldn't understand (although a minute later I realized he had been saying the street name, Boulevard Saint-Germaine). I'm afraid I tipped him horribly. The fare was only 13 euro (two less than the Localers representative had predicted), but when he handed back a five euro note and two coins, I was only thinking about needing an additional tip for the tour guide and knew the walking tour had cost 59 euro, as opposed to the 13 euro taxi fare, so I handed back the one euro coin and felt horribly chintzy).

After waiting about five minutes (I was even early), a young guide arrived. I knew he wasn't my guide, because an email (with picture) had alerted me to look for a young woman named Daphne. I was thrilled to learn that there were only four female participants for the tour (there had been 16 on the London one, making it harder to hear the guide). One young woman was actually an American living and working at a design school in Paris. She took the tour to learn more about the neighborhood where she resides. The other two women were American travel agents. As we started the tour, it began to rain, but Daphne merely led us into an alcove at a nearby church and continued her talk, showing us pictures in a small album to accompany her description of the writing scene in Paris back in the days of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Wilde. We traced the steps of these authors, as Daphne outlined the rise of the cafe movement and the lure of Paris as a cheap place to live, write, and encounter other great thinkers and artists. I had prepared myself for the tour by watching Woody Allen's movie, Midnight in Paris, and was glad to have saturated myself in a tale of these authors prior to the walk.

I learned a ton, and delighted in plunging myself in a literary world of the past again. By the time the tour ended, at the famous bookstore "Shakespeare and Company," it was already dark (something I had wished to avoid while traveling alone).

How interesting to learn that you can actually stay overnight in this bookstore, if you are a wandering, would-be-writer. George Whitman had been a bit of a wanderer himself, and when he founded the bookstore in 1951, he wanted to live out the motto: "Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise." So, he decided to open his doors to these "Tumbleweeds" (what he called the guests). If you want to participate in the Tumbleweed program and stay in the store overnight, you can claim your spot on the cushioned benches if you fulfill three requirements: 1) Read a book a day, 2) help out in the bookstore, and 3) write a one-page autobiography. As the bookstore's website proclaims, "Today, the bookshop has housed an estimated 30,000 Tumbleweeds, our shelves are crammed with autobiographies and stories of romance played out beneath the beams, and - most importantly - we have no intention of closing our doors."

With visions of a future stay as a Tumbleweed, I pulled the tiny note card from my back pocket, revealing the best method for getting from that location to the hotel and Daphne kindly pointed out the way to get to the Cluny LaSorbonne Metro station (where I would take the number 10 line to Duroc and the number 13 line to Porte de Clichy). She even thanked me for my paltry two euro tip (I was afraid to spend the five euro note because I might need it to purchase the subway ticket to the hotel).

I could have given her the note because on the way to the station, I noticed an exchange shop. Sadly, this change shop didn't give me as good a rate as the London one had. I handed over my remaining 50 pounds - minus the five pound note I wanted to keep and pass along to Sean - and I was given 44 euro. The commission was exorbitant at six euro. But, what could I do? I'd probably fare the same at any exchange shop in the area.

Alas, panic arose within me when I entered the subway station because the machine seemed to indicate you needed to insert a particular kind of card. I went to the information window to ask about the card and was told they would not be available for purchase until Monday morning. After a brief freak-out, further communication revealed that I simply needed to purchase a ticket, not a card (like in London). Thinking I would need tickets for the transfers and for the following day, I purchased a book of ten (far more than I needed, however, it proved to be a good choice, since I was able to sell them to others and recoup some of my money). I had another small freak-out when I went to transfer to the number 13 train, because that train tees off in two directions and I needed to be on the correct one to make my stop at Porte de Clichy. Thankfully, all went well until I rose to the street level and saw the neighborhood and the hotel across the street. Yikes! Construction! Cranes! Shabby businesses.

Once I was safely inside the hotel, Linda contacted me and we met downstairs, where we both expressed some hesitation about the hotel. We also ran into two twenty-something girls who were feeling a bit overwhelmed with the transportation details. I became the unofficial transportation guide, since I knew how to get us back into the city, to Notre Dame, where they could all purchase the Hop-on-Hop-off bus ticket (that I had already purchased through the travel agency).

(Shakespeare and Company in daylight - I never did venture inside, but oh well)

(my new-found friend, Linda)

The bus was an excellent choice. We were presented with a small set of ear buds and could listen to a humorous tour guide explaining various sights and histories. I took this photo of the small green boxes along the Boulevards, where craftsmen and booksellers used to sell their wares:

(Arc de Triomphe in the distance)

The first stop where we hopped off the bus provided a grand view of the famous Eiffel Tower.

(The girls, Isabelle and Katie, air-dropped these photos of them to my son's phone for me.)

After that, we made our way to the Louvre. We were quite fortunate to be in Paris on the first Sunday of the month, a day when all national museums are free. Richard was desperate to go inside the Louvre and view the Mona Lisa. My memories of visiting the art museum made me less inclined to join them - I remembered mobs of people and a general sense of being unable to get close to the art. Plus, I figured with the free aspect, there would certainly be mobs of people and we'd probably wait in line for hours. Thus, I decided to break off with Linda and Richard and join the girls in seeking out a lunch spot.

We found a cute little cafe nearby, where we all ordered the same thing - a delicious chicken sandwich with fries. I requested water, thinking it would cut down on the expense, but alas, they brought me a bottled water that cost me 3,40 euro. (The water almost half what the sandwich and fries cost.) Still, it was an enjoyable meal and I was thrilled when the machine accepted my travel card for the first time. Yippee!

Isabelle, Katie, and I re-boarded the bus and stayed on until we arrived back at the departure point (Notre Dame). 

Sadly, instead of going in the cathedral, the girls merely wanted to shop for souvenirs. I was afraid to leave them, for fear they might get confused at the t-intersection of the train back, so I stuck with them, even though we returned to the hotel before it was even close to dark (around 4 p.m.) I spent the evening chatting with Linda and Richard in their room. I regretted that I hadn't stayed with them, because they got into the Louvre in record time (about twenty minutes), had ample opportunity to get up close to the art, and took several photos of themselves with the Mona Lisa. They also went inside and viewed the interior of Notre Dame. Still, I had already been inside on a previous trip to Paris, in my twenties, so it wasn't a total loss.

The following morning, we met bright and early (5 a.m.) for a continental breakfast of juice and pain au chocolat, since Linda and Richard were slated for the same transfer ride and the same plane to Rome. I was thrilled to be able to access the chocolate croissants in all three city locations. It was the one thing I wanted to experience again in Paris and it was as delicious as my memory foretold.

Book Review: Morningstar

I stumbled on this book, Morningstar, as it stared out at me from the recent acquisition shelf. I must confess I've never heard of the author, but the sub-title jumped out: "Growing Up with Books." If you're a bibliophile like me, you cannot walk past such words. Besides, it was a slim volume and I knew my days were going to be chock full of writing for my November Nanowrimo challenge (yes, I'm still attempting that, even though I started out quite behind the word count goal on November 11th).

What an entertaining and delightful quick read! The book is divided into ten lessons: things like "How to Become a Writer," "How to Buy Books," and "How to Fall in Love With Language." Of course, I don't really require any assistance to do those things. They come quite naturally. Still, it was fun to read about Ann Hood's interactions with various books. Books made her aware of class differences, sex, politics, and war. While I wasn't wholly familiar with all the books mentioned (had never heard of the book, Marjorie Morningstar, that lends the title to this volume), I could entirely relate to her sentiments upon finding such books.

This was a love song to books and to reading. Just like the author, I have read books that caused me to stand up and say, "Really? Me, too!" I may not be able to express my passion with the eloquence Hood musters, but I share her sentiments through and through. If you love books, you'll love this one!

European Excursion - London

As the day of my European excursion approached, I grew more and more apprehensive. Could I handle the enormous task of traveling to three immense foreign cities on my own? Who was I kidding? I can't even manage to get across Indianapolis (hit a closed road, due to construction, on my way to our church's ladies meeting and had to call my oldest son to have him walk me through an alternate route, all the while hyperventilating because I felt so lost and helpless - I know, I need to learn to use my phone's GPS).

My anxiety thrust me into hyper-preparation mode. It was literally all I thought about from the moment my travel documents arrived three weeks prior to departure. On numerous nights, I woke at 2 or 3 a.m. and stewed about all the possible difficulties I could encounter. But, it kicked me into high gear, too. I cut 3x5 note cards in half and wrote important information on each small card - things like the address of each hotel, alternate transportation modes should the transfer arrangements I paid for fall through, places I'd like to visit and how to get there, and emergency numbers should my money or documents be stolen (truly, my greatest fear for Rome since a blogging friend of mine was robbed during her visit to Rome in the past year).

I had hoped to leave my van in my brother's driveway during my trip and have him drive me to Chicago's O'Hare airport for my flight, but they were on vacation. Thankfully, I found alternate arrangements that worked out better anyway because they eliminated my need to put someone else out on my behalf. I discovered the benefits of the Park, Fly, Sleep option at several hotels near O'Hare. The hotel provides free shuttle service to and from the airport.

When I began to make necessary calls to alert phone and financial companies to my future movements, I hit snag after snag. I have a simple phone through Virgin Mobile and I was told it wouldn't work in Europe. We looked into renting or purchasing an International phone, but this would ring up another $100-$150 and frankly, the reviews didn't sound all that favorable. Thus, in desperation, we convinced Trevor to trade phones with me for the duration of my trip (an immensely gracious act for a teen). This allowed me to FaceTime Sean three times during the trip and it set his heart at ease being able to see me while I was so far away.

Next, I contacted my credit card company to find I needed a pin number, which would take ten days to arrive (it came in time, shwew). Upon alerting my bank, I was told my debit card wouldn't work overseas due to recent global fraud situations. They suggested I put money on a travel card.

Sadly, as soon as I landed in London and attempted to use the said travel card, it was denied. Great! When I called the number to ask why it was denied, I was told records indicated I had used the card in two different countries within thirty minutes. "How is that even possible?" I asked. I had, indeed, used the card a few days before the trip because I wanted to be sure the card worked. But how could I have used it in the U.S. and, within a half hour, the U.K.? Ridiculous! Yet, my second attempt at an ATM in London yielded the same denial. Groan. My husband wasn't exactly thrilled with the international transaction fees I was racking up on my credit card, the only source of money that worked for me.

After waiting fifteen minutes, staring at placards with every name but my own, I finally found the transfer and we waited for a second party to arrive and share the car. Within minutes of meeting this couple, my heart felt at ease. They were on the same Groupon tour that I had booked and would be spending two days in London, two days in Paris, and two in Rome. We even had the same exact arrangements for our Eurostar Chunnel experience and our Paris-to-Rome flight.

We settled in at the hotel in Islington (a small area of London to the north, within a fifteen minute walk of King's Cross station and St. Pancras station - our departure point for the Eurostar train), Linda and Richard headed off to Cambridge to visit Linda's grandson and I set off on foot for the Harry Potter shop at King's Cross. I didn't wish to wait in the line for a photo of myself, and I couldn't get too close to the image of the shopping cart plowing through the wall at 9-3/4:

The shop was packed. Even though there were plenty of interesting things to purchase, from the very expensive clothing and wands right down to cheap little house badges and pencils, I couldn't decide what my Harry Potter-loving son would want. So, I left with nothing.

My biggest complaint about my two days in London is that I didn't make wise use of my time. After leaving King's Cross, I wanted to make my way to Postman's Park near St. Paul's Cathedral. I could tell from the map what bus to take, but when I boarded it, I was told I had to go into the Tube station to purchase an Oyster card. I wrongly assumed that they were purchased on a daily increment basis. I decided to wait and purchase the card the following day and simply walk to Postman's Park. However, after walking in the proper direction for twenty minutes, I began to worry that it would be too dark when it came time to walk back home, so I turned around and headed back to the hotel before the dark set in.

What drew me to Postman's Park, you ask? Well, when I attended Wheaton-in-England in 1985, I happened upon a memorial to honor heroic self-sacrifice. A wall in the park is covered with plaques listing the names and sacrificial actions of various individuals from the 19th century. As much as I wanted to visit this uncommon spot again, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had already done that years ago. It was just as well that I returned in the early evening, because by then the jet lag was dragging me down and I might have fallen asleep on my feet if I had kept walking.

The following morning, after enjoying a sumptuous breakfast buffet at the hotel (the best buffet I've ever encountered), I sought out the nearest HSBC bank. I wasted an entire hour waiting in a queue to see someone in the hopes of determining whether monies I left in an account at that bank back in the 80's might still be available. My name had changed and I'd lost the paperwork. I knew it was a long shot, so I'm not sure why I wasted that valuable time only to learn that the account was probably dissolved due to dormancy. From there, I went to a Thomas Cook to exchange some pounds for euros (I needed to be able to pay the taxi driver immediately upon arrival in Paris). I attempted to try my travel card again and in their machine, both my cards (travel & credit) were denied - not a good sign. Could I survive the rest of the trip on the 100 pounds I had taken out at the airport?

When Linda, Richard and I headed off to visit the London Eye (to use the voucher I had paid for with my trip package), we decided that rather than burying ourselves in the underground, we'd prefer to see the city from atop a double-decker bus while we made our way.

This, too, proved to be a mistake. The bus stopped repeatedly and even sat in Euston Station for almost ten minutes.

By the time we reached the Eye, it was already 1 p.m. and I only had time to exchange my voucher for a ticket before I had to dash off in a taxi to find 1 St. Giles High Street.

In the weeks leading up to my trip, I had googled "hidden London" and found a free 3-hour museum walking tour. You can't beat free, right? So, I signed up for the 2-5 p.m. tour. The information indicated we would visit six different museums and gain access to each. The museum I was most interested in visiting was The Dickens House Museum. Once again, this was a mistake. The majority of the time was spent at a brisk walking pace, covering 2.5 miles along the "Museum Mile." At each museum, we did go inside and hear a ten-minute explanation of one artifact on display, but the majority of the time was spent walking and when the guide outlined the hours of entry for future reference, it really did me little good.

Because the London Eye closes at 6 p.m., I had to forfeit the final museum, which, true to my luck, turned out to be the Dickens Museum. Again, I consoled myself with the knowledge that I had already visited it back in my college days. I dashed off on the Tube and arrived at the Eye by 5:15, in plenty of time to make the ride. Alas, by this point, it was already dark. Still, it made for some interesting photos:

I probably didn't have anything to fear in traversing the Tube back to the hotel after dark, but it still made my heart pound a bit. I stopped off at a fish and chips shop down the street from the hotel thinking, since this was their specialty, it would taste good. Not so! I couldn't even eat much more than what you see in the photo:

Somewhere in London there's a decent fish and chips shop waiting for me to try, but it will have to happen on another trip.

Book Review: The Haven

Knowing I would have time on my hands during my recent European excursion, I packed two books for the journey. They had to meet a few requirements - small enough to pack easily, not too heavy to enjoy in a distracted setting, and engaging enough to suck me in. The Haven held my interest far more than the previous title I carried and reviewed.

Shiloh lives at the Haven Hospital and Halls. It is all she's ever known, her entire world, because the outside world has been kept beyond the high walls that surround the complex. Although Shiloh knows that the chief goal is to keep each student healthy and sound as they fight off disease, she feels deep inside that something is not right, if only she could put her finger on what that something is. Gideon is determined to fight against the unknown evil and to see the truth triumph. But can he convince Shiloh to stop taking her medicine and see their world as he sees it? Can Shiloh really assist the others in their quest for freedom and independence?

With the flavor of Never Let Me Go, a 2005 dystopian science fiction novel by Nobel Prize-winning British author Kazuo Ishiguro, The Haven is a simple story of teens cloned for their body parts. While Ishiguro's novel is certainly a more compelling and well-written version of this type of tale, The Haven presents an easy, interesting story for young adults. Published by Scholastic, it is a clean read sure to prompt great discussion.

Book Review: Honey, Baby, Sweetheart

I'm guessing timing and atmosphere can influence a person's reaction to a book. For Honey, Baby, Sweetheart, the timing and atmosphere for my reading experience just didn't mesh. I read it in bits and pieces while sitting in airports and lying in beds, tucked in for the night in foreign cities. I didn't connect with the characters and wasn't compelled by the plot. Having liked Deb Caletti's later novel, The Nature of Jade, I had expected to enjoy this novel more.

Ruby McQueen is a sixteen-year-old who has always thought of herself as "The Quiet One." During the summer of her junior year, she meets and falls for Travis Becker, a reckless bad boy who sucks her into his orbit. Her fascination with him leads her into rocky territory of daring adventures and criminal behavior. With a mother reeling from her own betrayal, Ruby is torn between her interest in the guy and her desire to follow her mother's restrictions. Add in a group of senior citizens who call themselves the "Casserole Queens" and are on a mission to uncover a truth about a stroke victim, and you have some ridiculous exploits indeed.

By the time I got to the bits about the senior citizen caper, I was already fairly disinterested in the plot development. The story just didn't appeal to me. Perhaps I was too preoccupied with my trip. Perhaps it was just not a very engaging novel. For me, it certainly wasn't good timing or a good fit.

Book Review: Watch Me Disappear

Battling pre-trip anxiety, I was fairly certain I needed a real nail-biter to take my mind off my European solo trip. Although I was indeed riveted, it was probably not the best choice, given the premise. It is about a woman who goes on a solo hiking trip and disappears. Yikes! Somehow I did the same thing back when I went to visit my parents in Florida. I read a book about a plane crash, while I was riding on the plane to their house.

Watch Me Disappear is a spellbinding book about the fallout from a woman's disappearance. Billie Flanagan has been gone for a year, when her teenage daughter Olive begins to see visions of her mother beckoning her to search further. As she tries to convince her father that her mother is still alive, Olive joins him in a search for the truth about their final year with her mother. Secrets linger beneath the surface and father and daughter begin to wonder how well they really knew Billie.

I loved how the author slowly peeled away the layers of story to reveal deeper and deeper conundrums. Although I didn't really care for or connect with any of the characters, the plot was well-executed and the pacing was perfect. As each new facet unfolded, I doubted what I believed before, right alongside the characters. The ending held a twist and provided much to think about.

Book Review: Any Dream Will Do

While Debbie Macomber's books always tend to be wholesome and clean, I hadn't really thought of her as a Christian author. This book, Any Dream Will Do, made her faith quite clear. I believe she writes a quality story and that is why she enjoys crossover appeal to the secular market. As for me, I'm always up for a good redemption story.

When Shay Benson is released from prison after serving time for embezzlement, she feels lost and abandoned. She doesn't even know where her brother Caden - her only living family member - is. Not that she really wishes to see him anyway, since he was the one who begged her to commit the crime in the first place, in order to save his life from vengeful drug dealers. Wandering into a church for a brief moment of shelter changes her life in ways she could never imagine.

Pastor Drew Douglas is still reeling from the loss of his beloved wife and mother of his two children. At nine and thirteen, the kids are struggling to regain a foothold, as well. Attempting to help Shay get back on her feet just might help the Douglas family to get back on their feet, too. As Drew and Shay grow closer, Caden reappears and brings with him a host of problems. Can Drew and Shay maintain trust in one another, despite secrets and doubts? Will the church accept Drew's interest in a woman with a blackened past?

I enjoyed listening to this audio selection. Macomber has once again provided a stellar stand-alone novel, full of hope in the midst of life's harsh realities. After receiving a lovely response from Donna Gephart for my review of her tween novel, Death by Toilet Paper, I may feel bold enough to take Debbie Macomber up on her invitation for contact (something she has issued from the outset of every one of her audio books). What a thrill to find authors who eagerly welcome reader interaction!