tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15728034292646211452024-03-18T07:00:53.874-07:00Alice J. Wisler's Patchwork Quilt BlogAuthor Alice J. Wisler's Patchwork Quilt Blog ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
A little of that, a lot of this. All welcome.
~*~*~*~Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger512125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-31952646211880859142024-03-11T15:21:00.000-07:002024-03-12T11:36:26.935-07:00Can Grief Make Us Creative?<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtkKkYjbyngP0oKyYDjguoJV4HtYGw2jnJZ5Rg2lcTkWuKNwWwUv8K7l1sKCB5rHtlkI02HrOrhhE2YJ9RF0JfAsAaf4xUno3tA7CjSAWKFlVJFaJRhDyZrXgFRNAfvLxGQelYTrS4oouBr9syhelrsT-izdbnFLlv9NhrU2dN-H9sDFggxuZEwNdA18/s2000/Even%20in%20grief---especially%20in%20grief---our%20creativity%20helps%20to%20sustain%20our%20journey%281%29.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwtkKkYjbyngP0oKyYDjguoJV4HtYGw2jnJZ5Rg2lcTkWuKNwWwUv8K7l1sKCB5rHtlkI02HrOrhhE2YJ9RF0JfAsAaf4xUno3tA7CjSAWKFlVJFaJRhDyZrXgFRNAfvLxGQelYTrS4oouBr9syhelrsT-izdbnFLlv9NhrU2dN-H9sDFggxuZEwNdA18/s320/Even%20in%20grief---especially%20in%20grief---our%20creativity%20helps%20to%20sustain%20our%20journey%281%29.png"/></a></div>
I remember being overwhelmed, guilt-ridden, and shocked at tears that sprung on me in the bank, the cereal aisle, and when watching a commerical on TV for St. Jude's. As I cried at the clinic, I told my midwife I feared my excessive tears would hurt the baby in my womb. I recall those early days of wanting to drive into the truck ahead of me on the road and die. I could not do this bereavement life, I could not continue in a world without my son Daniel.
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Yet I, somehow, was propelled to write. Not just in my journal, but articles, poems, and essays. I didn't have energy to meet with friends, but I could sit at my kitchen table and put words onto paper. Ideas for articles filtered through me as easliy as waves topple the shore. I jotted outlines onto note cards while my toddler napped and and my eldest learned to read at her elementary school. I submitted some of my work to magazines and newsletters. When my first piece was published, I danced around the living room shouting to the sofa and walls, "Daniel, we did it!"
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Often the phone rang as I wrote; I ignored it and let the answering machine take the call. Grief flattened my self-confidence, my purpose, and my faith. But writing kept me sane and motivated. Writing helped make sense of the senseless death of my four-year-old boy. The ability to express myself made me bold. Best of all, the connection I felt to Daniel as I wrote about him made my heart feel warm and hugged.
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And then when another bereaved parent wrote to say my article communicated what she felt but was unable to form into words, I felt heard and understood.
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~~ Alice J. Wisler believes in the power of the pen for healing, health, and hope. Join her on April 27th at the Hampton Inn and Suites in Raleigh for an all-day writing workshop,<a href="https://alicewisler.blogspot.com/2024/01/weep-boldly-write-bravely-writing.html"> Weep Boldly; Write Bravely</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-18829006243098540482024-02-29T13:07:00.000-08:002024-02-29T13:07:20.866-08:00Chocolate Sandwich Cookie Recipe<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimocAGQ9NDe1uVLeFFo_Z35qd9bB7rOuQUE7iaCgsn8QtQb_B-UQ77ftzzzz5Rwk9edLnKBd1da9Aw7IpYQ9WuD8R8UKwsLRfMcMLQiSYF8_wgX4e9r8hSv8a8tZXwbB_GFcpvgC4cboNlB5CWEf0Vb8QHHVgU5qqPKzIBmX57pg_2SPDNIj2Qyvz2z1I/s822/SandwichCookiesandTeaCup.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="822" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimocAGQ9NDe1uVLeFFo_Z35qd9bB7rOuQUE7iaCgsn8QtQb_B-UQ77ftzzzz5Rwk9edLnKBd1da9Aw7IpYQ9WuD8R8UKwsLRfMcMLQiSYF8_wgX4e9r8hSv8a8tZXwbB_GFcpvgC4cboNlB5CWEf0Vb8QHHVgU5qqPKzIBmX57pg_2SPDNIj2Qyvz2z1I/s400/SandwichCookiesandTeaCup.jpg"/></a></div>
<b>Ingredients</b>
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6 Tbsp butter, softened
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2/3 cup granulated sugar
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1/3 cup cocoa powder (I use Hershey's)
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1/4 tsp baking powder
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1/8 tsp salt
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1 egg
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2/3 cup all-purpose flour
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1 recipe for filling (below)
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1. In a bowl, with a mixer, beat the butter on medium for 1 minute. Add
the sugar, cocoa, salt, and baking powder. Beat until combined, scraping
bowl as needed. Beat in egg. Beat in flour until dough comes together.
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2. Spoon dough onto a large piece of plastic and wrap into an 8-inch line. Wrap
the long sides of the plastic tightly over the dough. Roll dough gently over
the countertop while twisting the ends until it is a smooth, uniform log approximately
1 3/4 inches in diameter. Freeze for 1 1/2 hours until it is firm enough to slice.
(Or chill for 4 to 6 hours.)
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3. Preheat oven to 325 degrees F. Line 2 cookie sheets with parchment paper.
If necessary, reshape log to make it evenly round. Using a sharp knife, cut log
crosswise into 1/8-inch-thick slices. Place slices 1 inch apart on prepared
cookie sheets.
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4. Bake until edges are firm, 12 minutes. Cool on cookie sheet 2 minutes, then
remove and transfer cookies to wire rack. When completely cool, fill with filing
of your choice.
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I used a butter-powdered-sugar-vanilla and vanilla cookie wafer and crushed almonds filling. I didn't have any freeze-dried raspberries on hand. But the original recipe has a raspberry filling. I think as long as you use butter and powdered sugar, you could add whatever you'd like.
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<b>Raspberry Cream Filling Recipe:</b>
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In a medium bowl beat 1/2 cup softened butter with a mixer on medium until creamy, 1 minute. Beat in 1 cup powdered sugar and 1/2 tsp. vanilla. Add 2 to 4 Tbsp. very finely crushed freeze-dried raspberries. Add more powdered sugar to form the consistency you like. Pipe or spread the mixture evenly onto the bottoms of half the cookies, 2 tsp. each, and then top each bottom with a cookie, bottom side down onto the filling. Gently press together.
Makes 18 sandwich cookies.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59isUbdt1Zc-wVnBXbrhFkwkZLOcBPrTn9jAHt-L_HTw0-2FQNXmOJckSN5AcboR0MAGtfjUAHwwfhfLg87ClG3kyaR6niRuDRnLpyt-IZq8tAcm_1AsNRhvMwfpinixWQbvHXN9fuGZTqvuLCOUQTkCXab6bsLmGlO4r7Ridwy2FcqTB8ZA1bj_TQE8/s635/SandwichCookiesonDish.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="635" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg59isUbdt1Zc-wVnBXbrhFkwkZLOcBPrTn9jAHt-L_HTw0-2FQNXmOJckSN5AcboR0MAGtfjUAHwwfhfLg87ClG3kyaR6niRuDRnLpyt-IZq8tAcm_1AsNRhvMwfpinixWQbvHXN9fuGZTqvuLCOUQTkCXab6bsLmGlO4r7Ridwy2FcqTB8ZA1bj_TQE8/s320/SandwichCookiesonDish.jpg"/></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-89998637290915011602024-02-06T14:46:00.000-08:002024-02-06T15:44:25.383-08:00When Love and Laughter Play the Tune<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXuz0qugu1vn3d1MAa3j-4PFRuLqgPcdQNKOei54Jt_cS5kJPG2Q5HAbbYL-Ahoa0IZuL3RIx7D6dLTnEu11jqnp7HrRc7XGISziV9JFeT9k0egswCObsI2H54cQY9-bCM6Ovb-qO1bRkmnqsyB5W_6-m0rowjkE395WxrWCkyX-2WOZ1o1DiTZSnScGA/s2088/IrisinDaniel%27sGarden.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2088" data-original-width="1974" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXuz0qugu1vn3d1MAa3j-4PFRuLqgPcdQNKOei54Jt_cS5kJPG2Q5HAbbYL-Ahoa0IZuL3RIx7D6dLTnEu11jqnp7HrRc7XGISziV9JFeT9k0egswCObsI2H54cQY9-bCM6Ovb-qO1bRkmnqsyB5W_6-m0rowjkE395WxrWCkyX-2WOZ1o1DiTZSnScGA/s320/IrisinDaniel%27sGarden.jpg"/></a></div>
It's those tapes that want to ruin our lives.
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When we've lost a loved one, the tapes of the last moments play in our heads like a broken record that never stops its scratchy noise. The music is the worst we've heard---loud and grating. There is no off-button. The noise is made up of our thoughts that cause us to contemplate the last words spoken by ourselves and by our loved one. We think of how it could have gone differently and how if it had, our loved one would still be alive. Over and over we ask, <i>why did it have to end this way? If only . . . . If only I had taken him to the hospital earlier. If only I had watched him more closely. If only I had known more about the disease or his friends or the event where he was in danger.</i> We scream into the night. We think the constant-playing tapes will kill us. Exhausted, we want to shut off our minds.
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As we go over in detail the last moments with our loved one, we want to believe the moments could have been orchestrated differently.
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Control is the loud tune that plays in rhythm with If Only. The two work together. We have been led to believe that we have control. We think it is ours. We wore our seat belts and ate our vegetables, were kind to our neighbors (even the nosy ones) and bought toys for our children. We shouldn't have to be going through this confusion, this ache, this despair. Our loved one should still be here with us. Instead, we are now living a life without him or her and wondering how to face each day. For whatever reason, we have bought into the myth of power, control, thinking we could play God in our lives. We ignore the soft voice that asks, "Did you get to choose your place of birth, or height, or color of your eyes?"
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To try to make sense of our confusion and illusions, we journal. Page after page, we fill them with questions like: How long does this pain last? When will I get back to the old me? For help, we read the lives of others who have been on the bereavement journey. We marvel at their survival and at the same time wonder how they have done it. Can we do it? Can we journey year after year without our child, our spouse, our parent, our friend?
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We put the journals and books aside, and go back to the If Only and Control. Over and over the frantic tunes play as we continue to live the last days. While the re-living the last days seems detrimental, the truth is, it is necessary. It's called process. Our brains need to process what has happened to us in our loss. Eventually----and I don't know how long eventually is---the tapes wear thin. We forgive ourselves, we realize control is a myth, we realize it is not up to us to have control over when someone takes his last breath. We acknowledge we are not God. We may never understand why our loved one died when she did or the way she did. We may never get the answers we want on this earth. But one thing we know, until our last breath, we are going to have to figure out how to make this bereavement journey work.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnALDzCNPcj1KCmZMCj0ntk4LjZoARl-KkKfUskr-RcgsZiGcxrZ1QL2ZguQ30mRpnRYPLBbxO3nBN7LGt3bPjHJeCPT8LLP6RvIjAz5PrtNoOCepnqlqvcnQM74v3Nxc7iXsiLoKD9HCB3jTWWWgpIU9K8sPXRgmRGuK_Fqoo1bIY3x0eI3_riDJZpNs/s1404/Daniel%27sPlaceJune2020Oak.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1053" data-original-width="1404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnALDzCNPcj1KCmZMCj0ntk4LjZoARl-KkKfUskr-RcgsZiGcxrZ1QL2ZguQ30mRpnRYPLBbxO3nBN7LGt3bPjHJeCPT8LLP6RvIjAz5PrtNoOCepnqlqvcnQM74v3Nxc7iXsiLoKD9HCB3jTWWWgpIU9K8sPXRgmRGuK_Fqoo1bIY3x0eI3_riDJZpNs/s320/Daniel%27sPlaceJune2020Oak.jpg"/></a></div>
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On a day where the sun pushes past the clouds, we hear the laughter of our loved one. As we drive to work, we recall a road trip with our significant other. In the parking lot, we remember a joke our son told. The laughter feels strange to our ears. A smile expresses the memories we carry in our hearts. The next day we may be back to listening to the If Only tapes, but once again, on another day, a fond memory slips through. She did like to bake oatmeal cookies, he did give the best hugs. And we trod on the journey, clouds and sunlight, dreariness with glimpses of hope. And we are progressing. Day after day, we embark on the rocky path, finding our footing, discovering what we need, learning and growing.
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And one morning, we find ourselves thinking: <i>Maybe I will survive. Maybe, perhaps, I might even thrive again.</i> And in the meanwhile, we savor the laughter and the love. They are what fit inside our hearts; their tunes are worth carrying and playing over and over again.
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-24862529047467889032024-02-02T12:49:00.000-08:002024-02-02T12:50:46.443-08:00What We Never Lose <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFXoecwryJZnIZ5EC9-Tqx7FwRLHYtJoSPDSJh2Ss7WpQ07XUikSxqG3tlqo6tUhjhlD_tkJHeAFm-kroXtry_3fCAQMY7eaAKQF4s8rFt49-hJsci8FAQz_ujZF5DUwIz0hoq7X-5pQY5qCjYY6okHCQpDkOMRdRgu7WuEsNcmQlZmH-ZLHePPI1xEvE/s940/What%20we%20have%20we%20can%20never%20lose.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFXoecwryJZnIZ5EC9-Tqx7FwRLHYtJoSPDSJh2Ss7WpQ07XUikSxqG3tlqo6tUhjhlD_tkJHeAFm-kroXtry_3fCAQMY7eaAKQF4s8rFt49-hJsci8FAQz_ujZF5DUwIz0hoq7X-5pQY5qCjYY6okHCQpDkOMRdRgu7WuEsNcmQlZmH-ZLHePPI1xEvE/s400/What%20we%20have%20we%20can%20never%20lose.png"/></a></div>
I always think, "the wound won't be as painful this year," and I am always reminded that love never dies and missing my son is part of who I am.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-3372484577515124942024-01-13T15:16:00.000-08:002024-02-02T10:09:31.508-08:00Weep Boldly; Write Bravely --- A Writing Workshop Just For You --- Watch the Video<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYOZXAX4n7NGQ1te7IA8DFgLFGb0uTO6r91cnUNk97b62FwMEX46RfmEZIKd1px_6UcZ0-7o6QRl_wIeq2VMzWbKDKnQAy0EMeIOC1OM_Cxc1xOWr2w_jM3kigwTTVjOAkmXGXg5BaWhc_Rn5ndCnWmLUQ-OYmqKupV3hdbCVuHyagOGOMDYApF6LwHgk/s2000/Weep%20Boldly;%20Write%20Bravely%20JPEG.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1545" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYOZXAX4n7NGQ1te7IA8DFgLFGb0uTO6r91cnUNk97b62FwMEX46RfmEZIKd1px_6UcZ0-7o6QRl_wIeq2VMzWbKDKnQAy0EMeIOC1OM_Cxc1xOWr2w_jM3kigwTTVjOAkmXGXg5BaWhc_Rn5ndCnWmLUQ-OYmqKupV3hdbCVuHyagOGOMDYApF6LwHgk/s320/Weep%20Boldly;%20Write%20Bravely%20JPEG.jpg"/></a></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dye6iukvbE8EtEJHyD1UNoWHgCLXRupYu-U5zm3TYmsJltChxnbcB0AGapBv_YmF5IVT3jfWbFUfxjGXVlk8Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>
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<b>Want to know more? View this post that has sign-up details by clicking <a href="https://alicewisler.blogspot.com/2024/01/weep-boldly-write-bravely-writing.html">here.</a></b>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-78079689643230634312024-01-11T07:00:00.000-08:002024-01-11T07:04:57.836-08:00Cooking with Author Marilyn Nutter
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn2mrfb5vOd2s9-cIoWzvBA8pUxYL2LgjHxJT547ttEMfjnbxzK3kff-y_Da1oz1Xu84OLX00C92xHgS0Jvi6J2Tnw8XaesFm8JE1gBtVpLeFYJHspRGWdpsdiT-JB3j9BVECFQCG33pzj12tMsA80X3tpOI7mm1_v2l2Ou1N8G-pPYujJi5FKtUSbmGM/s494/NutterPhoto.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn2mrfb5vOd2s9-cIoWzvBA8pUxYL2LgjHxJT547ttEMfjnbxzK3kff-y_Da1oz1Xu84OLX00C92xHgS0Jvi6J2Tnw8XaesFm8JE1gBtVpLeFYJHspRGWdpsdiT-JB3j9BVECFQCG33pzj12tMsA80X3tpOI7mm1_v2l2Ou1N8G-pPYujJi5FKtUSbmGM/s320/NutterPhoto.jpg"/></a></div>
Today we welcome author Marilyn Nutter who has a new book out that offers hope for widows. She also has a recipe for us to bake. So let's get rolling.
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I'm glad to have you here, Marilyn. Thank you for joining us at the blog today.
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<b>What were the circumstances that led you to write <i>Hope for Widows: Reflections on Mourning, Living, and Change</i>?</b>
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I was encouraged by a fellow writer to write articles and a book to help widows--sharing my thoughts, responses to grief, and how to help someone navigate this journey. Some of my book comes from my journal entries. Other parts are experiences with friends and family that once I was encouraged to write a book to help widows, I began to record and apply to grief, mourning, and life changes. And some are responses to scriptures in my devotional reading or Bible studies.
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<b>How long did it take you to complete your book? </b>
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That’s an answer with many layers. The book evolved over several years. As I said, I was encouraged at a writers’ conference to write a book to help widows walk on their path. I attended conferences and a writers’ group for critiques, so the work went through much editing and changes. I took out a section from each vignette that I might use now for another book. It was declined by several editors because I didn’t have a large platform and some even thought there isn’t a market for widows’ books. That was disappointing. Each day 1,000 women are widowed and the average age of a widow is 59. Finally, once represented by an agent who believed in the message (she has a widowed relative and saw the relevance) she shopped the manuscript. That was about nine years since I began writing, then rewriting. It was a good example of Isaiah 60:22 “When the time is right, I, the Lord will make it happen.”
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhON5gN6W6h49HbAyDFry_wHSUBHX-eolJIC0VS-ptNsq_zK6g6m5VsW1bjogcGaIqBkD_-KKXjoUbZA1ysZRuUnCfb50HqiuWXZ9RKaNucgq1It6xtjuZpLjrgHXvnRzdvqiasTaMnBjfrengUhaclgKLZt7n79t7DGdT5_PtCTW6ZAEser95xMTEelnE/s466/Nutterbookcover.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhON5gN6W6h49HbAyDFry_wHSUBHX-eolJIC0VS-ptNsq_zK6g6m5VsW1bjogcGaIqBkD_-KKXjoUbZA1ysZRuUnCfb50HqiuWXZ9RKaNucgq1It6xtjuZpLjrgHXvnRzdvqiasTaMnBjfrengUhaclgKLZt7n79t7DGdT5_PtCTW6ZAEser95xMTEelnE/s320/Nutterbookcover.jpg"/></a></div>
<b>What was the most difficult part of writing your book?</b>
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Probably reliving the night my husband died and the days and months that followed. I could visualize all that I wrote about-even the details. In grief or trauma, when we do that-tell and retell our story- we are in that experience again. We have to re-ground and look at our surroundings to go back into the present.
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<b>What do you hope readers will gain/learn from reading it?</b>
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I wrote the book for widows- to support and encourage them that they are not alone. The book is interactive and following each vignette, I offer two opportunities: Treasured Reflections where they can respond to their application of the story, such as- did they have a similar experience and what were their thoughts. The other is Treasured Thoughts – asking them to journal how they want to respond and move forward. So the book isn’t just my story but guiding widows to write theirs. The book is not just about the reality of grief but also change, living, and purpose.
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I also wrote the book as a widow’s advocate. Everyone, even those with the loss of the same person, grieves in different ways. But aside from the grief of losing the person physically and relationally, there are other losses. We call those secondary losses. An example might be always driving alone somewhere, learning new skills such as banking or home maintenance, and of course loneliness. I want others who know and love widows to have insight into the dramatic life changes and challenges a new path brings to a widow and read Hope for Widows too. Grief is far more than the death of her husband. Hopefully, others who are not widowed will read it and then care more intentionally for the widows in their lives.
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<b>Please share a recipe with us.</b>
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<b>Sticky Rolls</b>
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2 loaves frozen bread dough, thawed
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1/2 cup butter
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1 large package vanilla pudding (cooked variety, not instant)
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1/4 cup milk
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1/2 tsp. cinnamon
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Spray a 9x13” pan with cooking spray. Tear off pieces of bread dough and place in pan, pieces next to each other. Set aside. Melt butter and add milk, dry pudding mix, and cinnamon. Blend until smooth and pour over bread dough. Our family doubles the butter and milk so we have lots of caramel with the rolls. Cover and refrigerate three hours or overnight. When ready to bake, remove cover and place in a pre-heated 375 degree oven for 30 minutes. Leave in pan to serve. Have a spoon ready to scoop up the caramel!
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<b>Why is this recipe special to you?</b>
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It was a traditional Christmas morning breakfast when my girls grew up. Now they have carried on the tradition and do the same for their families.
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Thank you for joining us today, Marilyn!
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You can get a copy of Marilyn's new book on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hope-Widows-Reflections-Mourning-Living/dp/1640702849/ref=sr_1_1?asc_source=01HFY6QA7FYP0YEFD1ZY3XMFP8&crid=EVDMT6534OU4&keywords=hope+for+widows+marilyn+nutter&qid=1697485378&s=books&sprefix=hope+for+wid%2Cstripbooks%2C119&sr=1-1&tag=snx78-20">Amazon</a>.
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Read more about Marilyn and her writing at her <a href="https://marilynnutter.com/">website</a>.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-25118588013334638902024-01-10T14:58:00.000-08:002024-03-18T06:59:54.352-07:00Weep Boldly; Write Bravely --- A writing workshop in Raleigh, NC<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYn98TgRE6gR3niAyo_G9FtpiKYU2dEb5aqL7vpsi02a2T1ieAqzv2CzBD8nCgs3WppIFH2xCQZVzVmt8xkHbiCmrc_4qZl-d8kFhl4zI954Dg3iUwDnuGnq7nFzCyRfIyeLeN2dg4W8EQnug3TwAb49jLufFRHLsuhyphenhypheno-6m6bMNPPoVg1sd1ffs0KmDE/s2000/Weep%20Boldly;%20Write%20Bravely%20JPEG.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1545" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYn98TgRE6gR3niAyo_G9FtpiKYU2dEb5aqL7vpsi02a2T1ieAqzv2CzBD8nCgs3WppIFH2xCQZVzVmt8xkHbiCmrc_4qZl-d8kFhl4zI954Dg3iUwDnuGnq7nFzCyRfIyeLeN2dg4W8EQnug3TwAb49jLufFRHLsuhyphenhypheno-6m6bMNPPoVg1sd1ffs0KmDE/s320/Weep%20Boldly;%20Write%20Bravely%20JPEG.jpg"/></a></div>
Excited to announce the next grief and loss writing workshop!
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<b>Weep Boldly; Write Bravely
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<br />Navigating Grief through the Gift of Writing
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April 27, 2024
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All-day Writing Workshop
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9:30 AM to 3:30 PM
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<br />
Hampton Inn and Suites Raleigh NC
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111 Hampton Woods Lane</b>
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Join us for an inspiring workshop where we explore the healing power of writing in times of grief. At this in-person event, held at The Hampton Inn and Suites at 111 Hampton Woods Lane, Raleigh/Cary, NC, USA, we'll delve into the depths of our emotions and learn how to express them boldly through the written word. Led by author, bereaved mom, and grief-writing advocate, Alice J. Wisler, this workshop will provide a safe space for sharing stories, finding solace, and embracing the therapeutic benefits of writing. Whether you're a seasoned writer or just starting out, this workshop will help you navigate the challenging journey of grief with courage and creativity. Don't miss this opportunity to weep boldly and write bravely as we embark on a transformative writing experience together. Lunch and coffee breaks are included.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-q-a-v2qfS9po4929jD5nRBCWXOOg0ejRVMpGrAFepGJ5qU3W443JdQHZwho35v441mYsTkojvyF6fG2xDT-PXgZrCNP3fIrDc1wckJpN_0tpL3mNQkaddSf28d3UINfXY6Z47HHLsAMQ7u0t1wRnP9QpFShyphenhyphenyyEXiMGXhfLwGUPTS8jIjH148LXNPo/s2000/WeepBoldlyCollage.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="2000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ-q-a-v2qfS9po4929jD5nRBCWXOOg0ejRVMpGrAFepGJ5qU3W443JdQHZwho35v441mYsTkojvyF6fG2xDT-PXgZrCNP3fIrDc1wckJpN_0tpL3mNQkaddSf28d3UINfXY6Z47HHLsAMQ7u0t1wRnP9QpFShyphenhyphenyyEXiMGXhfLwGUPTS8jIjH148LXNPo/s320/WeepBoldlyCollage.jpg"/></a></div>
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So, folks, it's been a few years since I've facilitated an all-day writing workshop to help those in grief and loss discover the benefits of writing.
I enjoy these workshops so much, and feel it's time for one to be held in 2024. And, guess what? We have a date, time, and place. There will be a dive into what grief and writing through it entails, what to write and not write, tips on expressive writing, making your writing the strongest it can be, learning from each other, and silent time to freely write without distractions. I hope to see you there!
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<b>REGISTER TO ATTEND</b>
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<b>Early Bird Special $70.00 (submit payment by 2-5-24)</b> <b>Update!</b> If you have read this far, you can still attend (even after 2-5-24) for the Early Bird Price.
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Cost is $80.00 after 4-1-24.
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<b>PAYMENT
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Send payment via Paypal (use PAYPAL link below), check*, or send using Zelle to awisler3@gmail.com </b>
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<b>Who is this for? </b> Those who want to write from sorrow and trauma for healing, health, and hope
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<b>What will we do?</b> We’ll discover how to express our thoughts onto the page; instruction from author and grief-writing advocate, Alice J. Wisler
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<b>What’s included?</b> Coffee, tea, chocolate, lunch, instruction, and handouts
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<b>What to bring?</b> Pen, notepad, and creativity
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* Make your check to Alice Wisler for $70 (Early Bird Price if sent by 4-1-24) and after that date, make it for $80. If you sign up with a friend (you both need to acknowledge and pay together), the cost is only $67 each.
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Mail check to:
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<br />
201 Monticello Avenue
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<br />
Durham, NC 27707
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Pay NOW with PAYPAL to get <a href="https://py.pl/2JSoq8uCCBw">The Early Bird Special.</a>
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No refunds or cancellations. Feel free to email me at awisler3@gmail.com with any questions.
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<br />
Watch the video to learn more about the workshop--
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='400' height='322' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwMPbeHhaeg0S81LYk0ZAFC6D8eGVDtod5T2NiRzWZKVGEwzltnhrjxQXHKIw-4MikX2eu1In6FbPYQzpi5oQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifTteeFIny7XnJn7FmcoWUxZWA6oMwFhekKg7nGeEbWkzTCfAfElcrOyqIQlSUeqL_O8YaXT6CWLZ0m8HgOQ24eCYg6w16b6I2GO_cEQzOMStWvNRjabVqwpjlu-tRDjSsGC0uix6NwEbRbVzpiU1J_nYxE8xSC-PgA-k1b6hgzEJeR8JCPissxsfhHx4/s979/RockyTrailWeepBoldly;WriteBravely.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="979" data-original-width="958" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifTteeFIny7XnJn7FmcoWUxZWA6oMwFhekKg7nGeEbWkzTCfAfElcrOyqIQlSUeqL_O8YaXT6CWLZ0m8HgOQ24eCYg6w16b6I2GO_cEQzOMStWvNRjabVqwpjlu-tRDjSsGC0uix6NwEbRbVzpiU1J_nYxE8xSC-PgA-k1b6hgzEJeR8JCPissxsfhHx4/s320/RockyTrailWeepBoldly;WriteBravely.jpg"/></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-22934642244699217232023-11-18T11:41:00.000-08:002024-01-11T14:05:32.090-08:00Write Bravely! An All-Day Writing Workshop 2024
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So folks, it's been a few years since I've facilitated an all-day writing workshop to help those in grief and loss discover the benefits of writing.
I enjoy these workshops so much, and feel it's time for one to be held in 2024. The plan is to find a venue where we can meet and spend the day together, writing, sharing, and learning. Since I'm in Durham, North Carolina, I'd like to have the event in either Durham or nearby Raleigh or Chapel Hill. The day will start around 9 AM and end by 4 PM. There will be a dive into what grief and writing through it entails, what to write and not write, tips on expressive writing, making your writing the strongest it can be, learning from each other, and silent time to freely write without distractions.
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<br />
Interested? Email me at awisler3@gmail.com to let me know of your interest and to keep up with the updates as the workshop location is disclosed, etc.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgatdDiAAlNPyYSMc2zqkSajjBNm7dK504pfwydnUbOlz_OHtbebAG7mr0QVYizHmhYJYGrgYEYGbu0SDsPxN4tAyBM7dH3R2vO-lAqa4C1eFKrisfmULxW1yilhDceZF6jjHdsMw-OGLmmjy6udhfNRe_txpUCQH0NUVVMh8aGIB7WqFCp-UXisHNpqdM/s1916/HeartPaperweightonPeruTablecloth.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="200" data-original-height="1916" data-original-width="1888" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgatdDiAAlNPyYSMc2zqkSajjBNm7dK504pfwydnUbOlz_OHtbebAG7mr0QVYizHmhYJYGrgYEYGbu0SDsPxN4tAyBM7dH3R2vO-lAqa4C1eFKrisfmULxW1yilhDceZF6jjHdsMw-OGLmmjy6udhfNRe_txpUCQH0NUVVMh8aGIB7WqFCp-UXisHNpqdM/s200/HeartPaperweightonPeruTablecloth.jpg"/></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-41981592353769115862023-09-13T13:08:00.001-07:002023-09-13T13:10:40.450-07:00Watermelon in the Bathtub
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Our family was—and still is—enthusiastic about fireworks. There was a time David even slipped in some illegal in North Carolina, the kind purchased across the border in his state of South Carolina. Every Fourth of July, we sat on our lawn in anticipation. David stood yards in front of us on the street and lit the torpedo buzz, the rockets, all the funny-sounding popping crackers. We cheered and clapped and buried our faces in ripe slices of watermelon.
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July 4, 1996, Daniel was in the hospital having his monthly chemo injections. Our celebration of our nation’s birthday would have to be held inside Daniel’s hospital room. Daniel looked forward to watching the fireworks, hoping his hospital room window would provide a good view. But a nurse informed us there wouldn't be fireworks from Kenan Stadium that night; the reason was unclear.
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Daniel bounced back from his disappointment when friends Sue, and her twelve-year-old daughter, Becca, entered the room with a watermelon and a knife. "We came to celebrate July Fourth with you!" said Sue in her vibrant Rochester, New York, accent.
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Sue cut slices for each of us and served them on paper plates. Becca placed a plate on Daniel's tray table.
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Daniel dipped his mouth into the fruit. With juice running down his cheeks and chin, he took another bite. He found a black seed and, facing Becca, spat the seed toward her and then, grinning, waited for her reaction.
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She laughed; he filled his lungs and cheeks with air and let out another. It landed on his sheet. Our family comes from a long line of watermelon-seed-spitters. Mom had won contests, but it looked like Daniel needed some tips from her.
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After the two left, Daniel said, "I think I've had enough watermelon." He lay on the bed, comically rubbing his tummy and grinning.
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I looked at the half-consumed treat. It was too big to store in the fridge in the communal kitchen down the corridor. "Where can we put it?" Where did other patients keep their watermelons?
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I'd read the thick binder about Daniel's medications and various procedures, but nowhere in any of the literature was there a section about proper protocol for taking care of leftover fruit.
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"How about in the bathtub?" Daniel said.
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What a great idea! "Why not?"
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And so, we did just that.
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[The above is an excerpt from the memoir, <i>Life at Daniel's Place<b></b></i>, by Alice J. Wisler. Get the book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0967674069/">here</a>.]Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-36761442928184064742023-09-09T15:40:00.004-07:002023-09-09T16:05:19.538-07:00Superpower Levi
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He wasn't just any dog; he had a superpower. Of course, when my husband brought him home, I didn’t see anything superior. I saw only a small mahogany boxer with white paws who peed on the kitchen floor.
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I was not an animal lover (my husband was the canine-aficionado); I thought I could live the rest of my days without a dog. No dog fur to vacuum, no vet bills, and no grocery store trips for dog chow and treats suited me.
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“What should we name him?” my husband asked the children as we watched the sleepy pup snuggle against my husband’s foot. He suggested Vegas because he likes the poker tables there.
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Ben said, “How about Levi?”
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Liz said, “I like that. He looks like a Levi.”
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I wasn’t a participant in the christening. In my mind, this pup I had reluctantly allowed in the house was not going to win me over.
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Levi didn’t try to gain my affection. In fact, he seemed to want to annoy me. He gnawed the jewel off a favorite sandal. He took my pink cap outside to the backyard every chance he got. On Thanksgiving, he stood by the counter on his hind legs and ate the pumpkin pie I’d baked.
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When I dropped an ice cube on the floor, Levi chewed it. The next day I gave him one; he chomped it and anticipated another. I smiled. His ice cube love would save money on treats. If anyone peeled an orange, he appeared from the living room, the bedroom, or the den, begging for a slice. As he grew to adulthood, he "sang"—soulful songs—whenever my husband played the harmonica (badly).
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Unexpectedly, my brother’s beloved border collie died. I surprised myself with tears over the loss. Levi cuddled up to me. Later, when my husband and I argued, Levi lay beside me. He looked at me with his dark brown eyes as though he could see into my soul. I sighed, let go of my anger, and apologized to my husband.
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The furry bundle discovered that if he put his head on my lap when the clock chimed 6 PM—his dinner hour, I’d move from my computer to feed him. As I’d fill his bowl with kibbles, he’d twirl in circles—his happy dance.
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One evening while my husband and I watched TV, Levi took his usual place between us on the sofa. As I stroked his head, I thought, I am a happy woman with these two men beside me.
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The seizures were the start of his decline. The vet put him on medication, but the seizures continued. During the last days of Levi’s life, I sat with him on the sofa, certain I couldn’t live without him. He died on a December morning even though I begged him not to leave us.
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When my husband and I drove 600 miles to pick up our new boxer puppy (I had already fallen in love with her photo on the breeder’s website), I was able to embrace the nine-week-old canine without a moment's hesitation. I suggested names for her, and one stuck—Bella.
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Levi trained me well. Because of his superpower—a transforming strength that nudged its way into my heart—I can now call myself an animal lover.
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-15520664938973313512023-08-21T12:02:00.011-07:002023-08-22T07:06:09.808-07:00Photo Op at the Cemetery<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwofGDn-vyqZZpVp4EFu4HQM625MuHBBGfZUfbuQyLHB6IJK-JZI_c6sATtj8BXrPJyy0fQ6WAn8IVsOQz4PF1aiQbQAyC51K0yRZsf9kLyUElvNwxWPC6r8SJe6O5yThaFzUgl-vHK0wrbNvrgtEk-FMOuZ_7R-6fHD2LraBgLLTXKl_Vfwg_raJh0U/s3264/IMG_20230819_121421970.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwofGDn-vyqZZpVp4EFu4HQM625MuHBBGfZUfbuQyLHB6IJK-JZI_c6sATtj8BXrPJyy0fQ6WAn8IVsOQz4PF1aiQbQAyC51K0yRZsf9kLyUElvNwxWPC6r8SJe6O5yThaFzUgl-vHK0wrbNvrgtEk-FMOuZ_7R-6fHD2LraBgLLTXKl_Vfwg_raJh0U/s320/IMG_20230819_121421970.jpg"/></a></div>
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On Saturday, Carl, our pup Bella, and I went to Daniel's Place. I thought it would be a good time for a photo op with
my new memoir, <i>Life at Daniel's Place</i>. There's a large box tucked inside my bedroom closet, and from it, I pulled
out a few of Daniel's things---a stuffed dog he received as a gift during one of his many hospital visits, a beach sandal,
and a plastic fish from a game he played. While those items had never been to the cemetery, the Thomas The Tank Engine
beach towel has shared many visits to the grave with me. Spread out, it serves as a soft area to sit.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjiE_grUZwMp51XyjusCQa-z8F1lmHEJoXWdLfctd03pWvRtcRrkBt5MCUTM_ZtrfL3nlYdU_-SSWTvVjfky-2AkEFr4Qia542pbA_hZgRZhxGHsx_-RvrFQ2C7jxXqHuGMBN5wZEIEO3sXx_Gk0bXbntcbrn0c57i6GXaInWUpVOra2ZPQ_1422FiGd0/s816/LADPbyOak.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="816" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjiE_grUZwMp51XyjusCQa-z8F1lmHEJoXWdLfctd03pWvRtcRrkBt5MCUTM_ZtrfL3nlYdU_-SSWTvVjfky-2AkEFr4Qia542pbA_hZgRZhxGHsx_-RvrFQ2C7jxXqHuGMBN5wZEIEO3sXx_Gk0bXbntcbrn0c57i6GXaInWUpVOra2ZPQ_1422FiGd0/s320/LADPbyOak.jpg"/></a></div>
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I got thinking about what going to the grave does for us. What do the living gain from being surrounded by gravestones and memories?
Over the years, I have found the time there to hold many emotions. But recently, my hours spent under the oak by Daniel's tiny marker,
are serene, calming, and refreshing. Bella runs the grassy hills and gets her exercise. Carl makes sure she doesn't knock over any
flowers.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM98SCD1rFQtzMGBIsGzvL_V1cy71I9Ap-LzxvNaPAcS2NrnZLqgJoXjrEb2JDWPrV-Yb4xFhMkunGodc-nbli7fw7J_b8VXq7h19fX3mpCN3vLl2vQtCJnyqVxGNLsj8dAumB61WlhewDD5DNStBGQ4EG6p1mfHsiMG-596lKiQwQlgvMQzFNnZgRIUk/s641/BellaAfteraRunDP.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="636" data-original-width="641" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM98SCD1rFQtzMGBIsGzvL_V1cy71I9Ap-LzxvNaPAcS2NrnZLqgJoXjrEb2JDWPrV-Yb4xFhMkunGodc-nbli7fw7J_b8VXq7h19fX3mpCN3vLl2vQtCJnyqVxGNLsj8dAumB61WlhewDD5DNStBGQ4EG6p1mfHsiMG-596lKiQwQlgvMQzFNnZgRIUk/s320/BellaAfteraRunDP.jpg"/></a></div>
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Inspiration is another word that comes to mind. There's always a breeze by the oak, even on hot days. As the leaves rustle, words form, and
when I look over the vast sea of graves, I'm reminded life is short. My priorities align at the cemetery. My vision is focused. <i>Do what you are called to do. Now.</i>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XqqnEhXYbilktdYIgKnqz1P9iRTaVTqsuz2CYYY5I2fszW40_BTL-Ga83ce3JLOZPX0xIcy74spylj1MOjVsIvNARVXJkj2WAV9rrh-p6X-sT2QpOCLrEoEcGiDkr9XaUgBKNPkFLGMujmmwYziVlMmLyUTTjkdcWpdjrZ9PCactNqfyK1qRsPnlzrM/s3264/IMG_20230819_121613738.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XqqnEhXYbilktdYIgKnqz1P9iRTaVTqsuz2CYYY5I2fszW40_BTL-Ga83ce3JLOZPX0xIcy74spylj1MOjVsIvNARVXJkj2WAV9rrh-p6X-sT2QpOCLrEoEcGiDkr9XaUgBKNPkFLGMujmmwYziVlMmLyUTTjkdcWpdjrZ9PCactNqfyK1qRsPnlzrM/s320/IMG_20230819_121613738.jpg"/></a></div>
So what's my memoir about? Read on, and when you are finished, I hope you'll want a copy of <i>Life at Daniel's Place</i>.
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Are you grieving a loss? Do you feel no one understands your broken heart? How should a mother of faith deal with tragedy?
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When 36-year-old Alice lost her son Daniel, she doubted a graveyard could ever offer tranquility. At first, she wanted to run from the cemetery because it symbolized that Daniel, her four-year-old son, was gone. Being at the grave filled her with shame, guilt, and doubt. Gradually, thanks to geese, picnics, helium balloons, and epitaphs, the cemetery, named Daniel’s Place by Alice’s family, became a haven of discovery and beauty. <i>Life at Daniel’s Place</i> is the story of a mother’s heart transformed from fear to certainty and confidence. Alice’s reflections remind us that a renewed faith in God is possible and welcomed, even amid trauma. While grief lasts a lifetime, God's love and presence is always constant.
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<br />
ORDER Life at Daniel's Place at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Life-Daniels-Place-sanctuary-discovery/dp/0967674069/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=">Amazon</a>
or, if you live in the USA, send a check to me for $20 for your own signed copy. The yellow fish is not included. :-)
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Send to: Alice Wisler
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201 Monticello Avenue
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Durham, NC 27707
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii3a62C2dMscII4Q6voxpasLjQ5DDFgKJQVord7JDGZNZh_ykA3R9mxh9x1EfHDMZR9F8nBM506btdpwSHmIklcJhNp425uBw3ScUQHGK_9kMce4TdF1oPF0OxGYWc8SqXronv58ixVrd5JmFeItjpk4xwoH6Za4BEKQTsA7O-dAxJTCGuKAFLXqB4fac/s886/LADPFishFlowers.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="631" data-original-width="886" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii3a62C2dMscII4Q6voxpasLjQ5DDFgKJQVord7JDGZNZh_ykA3R9mxh9x1EfHDMZR9F8nBM506btdpwSHmIklcJhNp425uBw3ScUQHGK_9kMce4TdF1oPF0OxGYWc8SqXronv58ixVrd5JmFeItjpk4xwoH6Za4BEKQTsA7O-dAxJTCGuKAFLXqB4fac/s320/LADPFishFlowers.jpg"/></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-27011782298305363472023-08-14T15:54:00.007-07:002023-08-15T10:01:54.756-07:00Giveaway! Comment after reading to get a free e-book, Life at Daniel's Place
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELAE3kN7cpqWQuiRzW15-0uNevVuliktb_hKLkLLAmDWvJjH9NEmx6TN7UMhnJhaUhgaNeWDIsB9iHPgloZl0eFIkoR8tjiH4M9S3Ok7oQ_jQsIMAf2N17qkIK6gheICkHxIu5c_0ekXIUKEjqgMfz-9KW1Rua22wKthYIgjvCPsH8lfmCLP4T8qdDJA/s2827/LADPBookWithDinos.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2827" data-original-width="1763" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiELAE3kN7cpqWQuiRzW15-0uNevVuliktb_hKLkLLAmDWvJjH9NEmx6TN7UMhnJhaUhgaNeWDIsB9iHPgloZl0eFIkoR8tjiH4M9S3Ok7oQ_jQsIMAf2N17qkIK6gheICkHxIu5c_0ekXIUKEjqgMfz-9KW1Rua22wKthYIgjvCPsH8lfmCLP4T8qdDJA/s320/LADPBookWithDinos.jpg"/></a></div>
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Hey, readers, please read this article I wrote and comment below. Everyone who comments will get a free e-book. The e-book is my most recent release, <i>Life at Daniel's Place: How The Cemetery Became a Sanctuary of Discovery ahd Gratitude.</i> In order to get an e-book, you need to leave a comment, plus your email (where I can send your free e-book). Or send me a message at awisler3@gmail.com with your email address. No email, no e-book. <b>This "deal" ends August 31st</b>, so read and leave a message now. You can comment on what I wrote, what you agree with, disagree with, etc.
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~*~*~*~*~*
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<b>Why Do We Cliché Grief?</b>
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Have you heard me shout at the TV lately? I have been known to do this.
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It's those journalists and actors that cause me to shout whenever they use this line: <i>Sorry for your loss</i>. You might think I'm just being ornery, but I have my reasons. I'm certain the remoteness of that phrase begs for alternative words—words that are enveloped in thoughtful compassion.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJWdOZHwknvUL01doKyWPynsC6fYiMN8GKWUSqo_PIHvb7VuRywMgy3VPLdhkeLYzXA1DcTUJxBO5LjH51Nwg0ijw0nybNkQBJBdzRrBzsO_L1UEJfxrNVuhX_oSu362p6_9vIYrVPs5mbkL9SRVRUZBjK_xPaHd0ktR8Fj-xEgIeJeyNGkNanE9hoasY/s849/Easter2021.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="636" data-original-width="849" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJWdOZHwknvUL01doKyWPynsC6fYiMN8GKWUSqo_PIHvb7VuRywMgy3VPLdhkeLYzXA1DcTUJxBO5LjH51Nwg0ijw0nybNkQBJBdzRrBzsO_L1UEJfxrNVuhX_oSu362p6_9vIYrVPs5mbkL9SRVRUZBjK_xPaHd0ktR8Fj-xEgIeJeyNGkNanE9hoasY/s320/Easter2021.jpg"/></a></div>
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Twenty-six years ago when my four-year-old son Daniel died, empathizers aimed to console me. Sentiments included: “I’m so sorry to hear this,” and “How sad,” and “I can’t imagine.” I don’t recall the cliché sorry for your loss being popular back then. But I do remember how I felt after a salesman stood at my front door and remarked with a sense of joviality, “You son is having that big party in the sky!” Shocked and numb, I wondered how in the world he felt it was okay to laugh at a mother over the loss of her child.
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Years later, when I wasn’t as fragile and had adjusted to bereaved life and the odd things people say, a co-worker grieved the death of her mother. She told me that this phrase, Sorry for your loss, made her angry. “Why should someone tell me he’s sorry? It’s not his fault my mother died. There’s nothing for him to apologize for.”
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So what are we supposed to say? When introduced to someone for the first time, protocol has us tell the new person, “Nice to meet you.” It’s harmless to quip these words. Society expects them even if we don’t feel them.
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Yet when it comes to bereavement, we are operating from a different and distinct set of emotions. The person before us has lost a loved one to death. There is sadness, even perhaps regret and remorse. Learning that someone has lost a beloved should require a heartfelt sentiment.
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“Sorry for your loss” is used because society has said it’s a safe thing to say. Sometimes when people say "I’m sorry" I wonder if what they really mean is sorry that I asked about your child or spouse or mom. Sorry that you have made me uncomfortable as I am brought face to face with my own mortality.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gsDqvHiVX2ehLRXSNDdCO341d0PP95Ejlz8-yJfLlPpx9rAhnwNFAUTw2izeotM0LsC3JjfbQiX-9PwFIyIqUiOIy0C4eoEAVX3-OWuXUDydtJaRUbuZBGaFMn4ain-St8P0iqHabEbtVjO0QCjfcmgRki4gLPsPTEdWUfb-wnoZxb1BBrrA2RUWnzY/s1004/April2023.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1004" data-original-width="873" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gsDqvHiVX2ehLRXSNDdCO341d0PP95Ejlz8-yJfLlPpx9rAhnwNFAUTw2izeotM0LsC3JjfbQiX-9PwFIyIqUiOIy0C4eoEAVX3-OWuXUDydtJaRUbuZBGaFMn4ain-St8P0iqHabEbtVjO0QCjfcmgRki4gLPsPTEdWUfb-wnoZxb1BBrrA2RUWnzY/s320/April2023.jpg"/></a></div>
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We are afraid of death. The fear of death sits at the top of most people’s lists. We want to push aside the reality that death happens, ignoring funeral homes and cemeteries when we drive by. We also fail to understand just what loss is. When a woman’s husband dies, it’s not that she lost him like she lost a set of keys or an address. A relationship on earth is over. A spouse goes from being a living daily companion to a collection of memories. Love doesn’t stop once a loved one dies. Love continues and the partner who is still alive has to adjust and adapt to the rest of her life without him.
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Mental Health Professional Jamie Cannon, writes: “Instead of expecting grief to disappear, expect yourself to learn how to live around it, through it, and despite it.” If we accepted that grief does not come and go, but stays with us, perhaps we could learn how to dig deeper into our emotions and offer words of empathy that are not said as though we’re reading off a cue card. Can we allow ourselves to think what if it were my mom, my friend, or my child who just died? What would I want said to me?
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Months after my heart had been ripped apart from the loss of my son, I drove my six year-old daughter and a new friend to an amusement park. I wanted Rachel to know that sharing about her brother’s death was acceptable. So as I drove, I told Caitlyn that Rachel had lost her brother from cancer treatments. After I finished, in a voice full of compassion, this nine-year-old said, “That is so sad. You will always have a hole in your heart.”
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I wanted to stop the car, jump out, climb into the back seat and give Caitlyn a hug. I wanted to call this child's mother and tell her what a terrific daughter she had. But I didn’t want to embarrass my daughter so I kept driving. That hole in my heart had been acknowledged; I felt comforted and cared for. I was even able to smile.
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Perhaps what our society lacks is the ability to get close enough to empathy. Instead of working so hard to protect ourselves from fear we need to just jump in and offer a hug, a listening ear, even a few words to admit, “I don’t know what to say, but I am here.” There might be moments that are awkward. But a caring heart shines through. A rote line does nothing.
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I know that not everyone has the thoughtfulness and compassion of a nine-year-old. But I wish they did take the time to learn.
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<br />
Leave a comment below to get a free e-book, <i>Life at Daniel's Place</i>. Want a paperback? Hop over <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Life-Daniels-Place-sanctuary-discovery/dp/0967674069">here</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-28332602971288239322023-07-07T14:01:00.003-07:002023-07-07T14:06:36.066-07:00Prologue: Life at Daniel's Place
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2v0Kyp6woiL5Ty4LmLBWugzlqLwAyjnOmhOC4zyyot0nX_oFTp0xo2qaqbWAv2_ztJFmZQH1ljA2nt6UAOMD6xzLGAA8VJ_f1LjR9psqgierb6GwkAmza931i3Hef07MA5vACSN5jK8x0P5lU8_ZIhAf1WbY1iHglAj95Mgl0-tnYo8LDYs5v8SouCoQ/s1004/April2023.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1004" data-original-width="873" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2v0Kyp6woiL5Ty4LmLBWugzlqLwAyjnOmhOC4zyyot0nX_oFTp0xo2qaqbWAv2_ztJFmZQH1ljA2nt6UAOMD6xzLGAA8VJ_f1LjR9psqgierb6GwkAmza931i3Hef07MA5vACSN5jK8x0P5lU8_ZIhAf1WbY1iHglAj95Mgl0-tnYo8LDYs5v8SouCoQ/s320/April2023.jpg"/></a></div>
Weeks after the governor shut down North Carolina
due to the coronavirus pandemic, I put on a pair of
tennis shoes. It was a Sunday in April, yet my
church held no services. Since I couldn't go there to
worship, I drove across town to Markham Memorial
Gardens. People feared the virus, but fear was
nowhere on the rolling lawn dotted with grave
markers and tall Carolina pines. The dead can't get
Covid. And I can't get the illness from them. As I
drove, I smiled at my dark humor.
<br />
<br />
But my humor evaporated once I faced the white
wooden fence at the entrance. My eyes blurred with
tears. The tears, which I'm a fanatic about labeling,
were not tears of sorrow, hurt, or pain. They were
those special tears cried when we know someone
has cared for, looked after, and loved us, even when
we didn't realize what was happening. My spirit had
come to this place for safety, but not from Covid or
our country's looming troubles. Long before news
of the virus and the shutdown, this corner of the
world had become my secure haven and respite.
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeB0ReCQOtdBafFB5s6QmvE0O7nQ4JI5NeY5mDWAp1uMFtycFm632JonjQZFSHfXGA2irn6VgCq9PRikSZwyNJUsJIkbnft2y5sPbSQA_BZUW4RTOMFbk4WEKpUsr_erlV8QpSPZYnDlMUYGakLT_9lGEH2qc-w_dnYetWuaBtx4WRkUscmrpoOlbNTf8/s2448/Daniel%27sPlace3-20-20%20%282%29.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="1836" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeB0ReCQOtdBafFB5s6QmvE0O7nQ4JI5NeY5mDWAp1uMFtycFm632JonjQZFSHfXGA2irn6VgCq9PRikSZwyNJUsJIkbnft2y5sPbSQA_BZUW4RTOMFbk4WEKpUsr_erlV8QpSPZYnDlMUYGakLT_9lGEH2qc-w_dnYetWuaBtx4WRkUscmrpoOlbNTf8/s320/Daniel%27sPlace3-20-20%20%282%29.jpg"/></a></div>
As I walked the circular driveway, passing the
familiar gravestones and landmarks, flashbacks
played through my mind. Here, I had once wanted
to die, before my healing had begun.
<br />
<br />
Four years into my grief, I was invited to
facilitate a writing workshop. Sascha, a poet and
bereaved mother who had lost both her children—
the youngest to drowning and the oldest to
suicide—asked me to fill in for her at a conference
in Denver, Colorado. She was ill and needed a
substitute. I was instructed to share how beneficial
writing from heartache is. As I stood at the podium
before forty bereaved parents, I knew writing
helped me. But did others find it therapeutic? I
introduced some writing prompts and was pleased
when parents stood to read their poetry in memory
of their son or daughter.
<br />
<br />
After I made it through the workshop—where I
hoped no one had noticed my insecurity from being
a novice—one of the event volunteers approached
me. I thought she was trying to make me feel good
when she said, "Alice, there was a lot of healing
going on in that room." I had no idea what a room
of healing looked like.
<br />
<br />
Decades later, I know. I know how a grassy
landscape of remorse becomes a sanctuary of
discovery and gratitude. I know how God takes our
most profound agony and replaces it with his joy. I
know how pouring pain onto paper transforms pent-
up anguish into hope. I have experienced how a
mother lacking confidence dared to seek
fulfillment. This did not happen over weeks; it took
years.
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURU0-EJ6GA2agrm4AZLOOJ1k7JPgHjAAw243NItjlVh4ChWy2n_QA1IXx-Qo9y8XWHXh1Ok2JxiQZZ8NMuey8nmpJk2JsBpvrnAL0IQ67BwPqEA1Ue3gHV0FoV8rbhvnslhh0LNkpUWcKIqPN8-k6b9w1ZB0LcGWCTKfkNUzVZbsYelT_KB_nOc9iLdk/s2024/DanielWithLittleFoot.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1518" data-original-width="2024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgURU0-EJ6GA2agrm4AZLOOJ1k7JPgHjAAw243NItjlVh4ChWy2n_QA1IXx-Qo9y8XWHXh1Ok2JxiQZZ8NMuey8nmpJk2JsBpvrnAL0IQ67BwPqEA1Ue3gHV0FoV8rbhvnslhh0LNkpUWcKIqPN8-k6b9w1ZB0LcGWCTKfkNUzVZbsYelT_KB_nOc9iLdk/s320/DanielWithLittleFoot.jpg"/></a></div>
The cemetery welcomed me that Sunday in
April. True, the dead were still silent; they could no
longer share their opinion, ponder, or rush to be
anywhere. For them, what was done was done; it
was over. As for me, I still had a course to run—
peace to absorb, ideas to wrestle with, lessons to
invite, and healing to embrace. Gratitude for the
quiet landscape rich with my history filled me; I
started to sing. I belted out one of my favorite
hymns, repeating the first verse six times because
that was the only verse I knew from heart. “Our
God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to
come, our shelter from the stormy blast, and our
eternal home.”
<br />
<br />
And that is another pleasure of being at the
cemetery: the dead don’t complain.
<br />
<br />
Read it all! Get the memoir <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/0967674069/">here</a>!
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-79274307922658032942023-06-26T15:47:00.005-07:002023-06-27T05:39:24.906-07:00A Little Book that Took a Long While
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlzRdARLiyv8dUVWPomun_GJsmkPjtMeStPTbzfXcdlEHI-7EnTPzUiXs5Wcn18fWRJB7b_kvEkwKbYsro3roewKV14zGEni1AJ4urhGJUQT1nda9--0LyMxh6m5_FSHSSxXycCVY5Ty7DerCypWmsAyD4rx9aB1dkNKbKdLeGN9KOi_fb2bytzyOoVIs/s3264/IMG_20230623_182134566.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlzRdARLiyv8dUVWPomun_GJsmkPjtMeStPTbzfXcdlEHI-7EnTPzUiXs5Wcn18fWRJB7b_kvEkwKbYsro3roewKV14zGEni1AJ4urhGJUQT1nda9--0LyMxh6m5_FSHSSxXycCVY5Ty7DerCypWmsAyD4rx9aB1dkNKbKdLeGN9KOi_fb2bytzyOoVIs/s320/IMG_20230623_182134566.jpg"/></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It's here, it's here, it's here!
<br />
<br />
My memoir, <i>Life at Daniel's Place</i>, is now in both paperback and e-book! If you've been following my blog posts and newsletters, you will understand the enormity of what has finally transpired. My memoir has had so many starts, stops, epiphanies, and overhauls. Whew!
<br />
<br />
Can a graveyard ever offer tranquility after turmoil?
At first, Alice wants to run from the cemetery because it symbolizes that Daniel, her four-year-old son, is gone. Being at the grave fills her with shame, guilt, and doubt. Gradually, thanks to geese, picnics, helium balloons, and epitaphs, the cemetery, named Daniel’s Place by Alice’s family, becomes a haven of discovery and beauty. Life at Daniel’s Place is the story of a mother’s heart transformed from fear to certainty and confidence. Alice’s reflections remind us that even in trauma, a renewed faith in God is possible and welcomed.
<br />
<br />
I am so glad that my memoir is now in print and ready for you to read!
<br />
<br />
I hope you'll get your copy of <i>Life at Daniel's Place: How the cemetery became a sanctuary of discovery and gratitude</i>. You can order from <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Life-Daniels-Place-sanctuary-discovery/dp/0967674069/">Amazon</a> now.
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-10065882747627727862023-05-19T15:19:00.000-07:002023-05-19T15:19:08.272-07:00The Cover is Here!<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSxnnJ0PYQIIUhdoa1f1g9bkFmdFtIj-JZr-BUoF1_SPSr27N3AKCeydtZJWKe1OpFzXcjGG3T86v8Mcf70UzPv3ROXo7RbwnTYK3NlyvApbItzpgKyZrRFNpqIZ_Xqh98XkEO43a8hwdJ5ubnR_fXPbbHQ4qxCJ2-0V11TYE6--q4TI3FdF3HFtg7/s3154/Life%20at%20Daniels%20Place%20Final%20Cover%20JPG.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="2475" data-original-width="3154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSxnnJ0PYQIIUhdoa1f1g9bkFmdFtIj-JZr-BUoF1_SPSr27N3AKCeydtZJWKe1OpFzXcjGG3T86v8Mcf70UzPv3ROXo7RbwnTYK3NlyvApbItzpgKyZrRFNpqIZ_Xqh98XkEO43a8hwdJ5ubnR_fXPbbHQ4qxCJ2-0V11TYE6--q4TI3FdF3HFtg7/s320/Life%20at%20Daniels%20Place%20Final%20Cover%20JPG.jpg"/></a></div>
<br />
<br />
There's nothing like a new book cover!
<br />
<br />
Here's the sneak peak of the cover for my memoir, <i>Life at Daniel's Place</i>. The graphic designer worked with what I provided for the front of my cover using the pinwheel photo I took one day at the cemetery. I needed the spine and back copy to be created and he came up with what you see above.
<br />
<br />
Once my editor is finished with her work, I'll revisit my memoir and make the necessary corrections. Soon after that, <i>Life at Daniel's Place</i> will be ready to preorder!
<br />
<br />
So what is this memoir about? Here's the back blurb:
<br />
<br />
<blockquote>At first, Alice wants to run from the cemetery because it symbolizes that Daniel, her four-year-old son, is gone. Being at the grave fills her with shame, guilt, and doubt. Gradually, thanks to geese, picnics, helium balloons, and epitaphs, the cemetery, named Daniel’s Place by Alice’s family, becomes a haven of discovery and beauty. Life at Daniel’s Place is the story of a mother’s heart transformed from fear to certainty and confidence. Alice’s reflections remind us that even in trauma, a renewed faith in God is possible and welcomed.</blockquote>
<br />
<br />
And of course, this story gets its inspiration from this guy, my son, Daniel.
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3hxcjLUhlBXBfFpH7lnaIJa71HxHMHoOm4QaZG81_OrpF-JxkSy7OndLFZtTszZ6Fl65pApY4BWieSQWi8kLWWGGRivHAGgttI8Q89lwWg1yWXiDHfa6I1-aLnbLM7Hcd8PNXlmsgybEAyFxDCdVZWi0cBWw6UdHc6nK3JBoMTP67NnJeFuB-pTo/s1920/DanielwithLittleFoot.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx3hxcjLUhlBXBfFpH7lnaIJa71HxHMHoOm4QaZG81_OrpF-JxkSy7OndLFZtTszZ6Fl65pApY4BWieSQWi8kLWWGGRivHAGgttI8Q89lwWg1yWXiDHfa6I1-aLnbLM7Hcd8PNXlmsgybEAyFxDCdVZWi0cBWw6UdHc6nK3JBoMTP67NnJeFuB-pTo/s320/DanielwithLittleFoot.jpg"/></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-15806101722941049172023-05-03T15:19:00.005-07:002023-05-03T15:48:15.994-07:00Life at Daniel's Place --- The first part of the journey to getting a book out there<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXnaeHiCkSL3nt0Mv4yjid_GQAq_013-qHnaippK7RntVW2PcxAb3e_MiktxwMJinsV5hsrx-xl166ZLbev8LEoc1vODPAjN79VtOxyo5kjUAVJotJOrlhNyB8MuJuq7bvB2ear1km_U258lKq1fmhfOat3CChdWPgwt2RoCoBcy_l4n_QO8EhJCF/s1148/Book%20CoverTiny.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="400" data-original-height="1148" data-original-width="719" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVXnaeHiCkSL3nt0Mv4yjid_GQAq_013-qHnaippK7RntVW2PcxAb3e_MiktxwMJinsV5hsrx-xl166ZLbev8LEoc1vODPAjN79VtOxyo5kjUAVJotJOrlhNyB8MuJuq7bvB2ear1km_U258lKq1fmhfOat3CChdWPgwt2RoCoBcy_l4n_QO8EhJCF/s400/Book%20CoverTiny.jpg"/></a></div>
The road to publication is a long one. If you have a literary agent that lands your manuscript with a publisher, most likely you have waited a number of months for this deal to transpire. By the time your book is available for sale, you’ve experienced the process of deep editing, cover design, and marketing.
<br />
<br />
My first novel, <i>Rain Song</i>, was accepted by a publisher (Bethany House) two months after my literary agent sent my manuscript to them. Oh, happy day, when I got the phone call! I was going to finally, finally, have a book published! Then I had to wait 20 months (that’s not a typo) before my debut novel was published. The waiting was long. During that wait-time, I started this blog.
<br />
<br />
This time, with my memoir, <i>Life at Daniel's Place</i>, I decided to pass the whole agent/publisher process and publish on my own. Here’s where I have to be honest, this manuscript of mine has never been sent to an agent or a publisher. I have, after much prayer and thought, decided to independently get my book out to the masses. In the past, I’ve published three memorial cookbooks on my own, so I know a little about the work involved. For the stuff I don’t know as much about as I need to, I turn to the Internet and the gurus who can help.
<br />
<br />
I hired an editor. I think every good book needs an editor . . . or two. A book is only as good as its editor, someone to get the commas in the right place and check for inconsistencies. Publishing houses either have their own in-house editors or hire freelancers. There are masses of developmental, copy, and line editors out there, as well as proofreaders, ready to be hired. And that's a good thing because they are needed. It’s hard to catch every mistake when it’s your own work. Another pair of eyes does wonders.
<br />
<br />
I sort of worked backwards with this book. But I have often not followed the "rules". I created the title, then the cover on Canva, and then wrote the back cover blurb. I set a date for publication, hoping that would motivate me to write the content. Actually, I have so many files pertaining to a story about my son Daniel and our family, that it was really a matter of selecting which scenes to include. The dream for this memoir has been brewing for years.
<br />
<br />
So, this is my quick update about my newest book to arrive this summer. I plan to write more about this journey as time goes on. Thanks for reading!
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-7110910098529053282023-01-14T07:44:00.001-08:002023-01-14T07:46:28.491-08:00You Have the Words: Who Do You Seek When You Need Reassurance?
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Then Jesus said, “This is why I told you that no one can come to Me unless the Father has granted it to him.”
From that time on many of His disciples turned back and no longer walked with Him.
So Jesus asked the Twelve, “Do you want to leave too?”
Simon Peter replied, “Lord, to whom would we go? You have the words of eternal life. We believe and know that You are the Holy One of God.”
(John 6:65–68, NIV)
<br />
<br />
Bad days, we all have them. Those mornings when we wake to face one dilemma after another, and then things continue to go wrong until we feel we just can’t go on. When I have those kinds of days, I turn to friends for comfort. I seek out friends who will offer words of encouragement and assurance that I will feel better.
<br />
<br />
In chapter six of the book of John, Jesus had fed the 5,000, walked on water, talked about being the bread of life, and garnered a large following. But then he talked about some things that bothered many. He said God is the one who gives the gift of submissive faith. His words were focused on the spiritual, not just the physical.
<br />
<br />
He said, “The words that I speak to you are spirit, and they are life.” (John 6: 63, NIV)
<br />
<br />
That’s when a number of his followers had had enough of Jesus. They walked away. Perhaps they realized he wasn’t going to overthrow the government or make them rich. We don’t know all of the reasons why they or why anyone chooses to step away from Jesus.
The<br />
<br /> words to eternal life
When my son died, my season of deep sorrow caused me to wonder if following Jesus was too difficult. I had been a believer for decades, but losing a child knocked me down. I felt abandoned by Jesus. I wanted to leave my faith. Yet, where else was there to go? Peter’s response to Jesus’ question played inside my heart.
<br />
<br />
To whom would we go? You have the words of eternal life.
Life — both now and for eternity. That’s what Jesus promised us. He is the Messiah. He is the son of the living God. He is one worthy of our praise. Th<br />
<br />rough his life, death, and resurrection, he became the logic of our universe.
With the help of loving friends who listened to me in my anguish, I was able to grow in my faith. As my commitment to Jesus deepened, I knew that when we draw near to Jesus he draws near to us, providing, caring, loving, and never leaving.
Hope in a chaotic world
<br />
<br />
Jesus calls us his friends and his disciples. He reassures us that he is the Holy One of God. As we take his words and write them on our hearts and minds, we learn to abide in him, looking to him for our daily needs. We discover that he’s trustworthy even in our darkest seasons. His words are the hope and reassurance we need in a chaotic world.
Let’s pray
<br />
<br />
Holy One of God, please help us want to spend time in Your Word so that we can build our faith as we embrace all that you have for us, including eternal life. Amen.
<br />
<br />
First published on <a href="https://medium.com/devotable/you-have-the-words-a225a712ddfa">Medium.com</a>.
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-76750544044327141622023-01-13T15:39:00.001-08:002023-01-13T15:39:46.642-08:00Healing Ink: Writing Into Your Grief <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsV8O-dxyLNZVWZQQ0SJxH1JiBnryGH0ixnZ5sgD6Nbw9I8K3kKd3PUKIG0E3VOFAQcFMR7PiqzKP3F5oOMJhAja1P-T04lAyLNwkuuf2ESaYkeOB_I25LZY3oQdBEgy34LRBZqs1vDSrmh1Gnkbm2QUnkUvQydVTvEE1Dth_-nh41q4j0FrhJ3Pom/s2160/DownTheCerealAisleCover.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2160" data-original-width="1738" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsV8O-dxyLNZVWZQQ0SJxH1JiBnryGH0ixnZ5sgD6Nbw9I8K3kKd3PUKIG0E3VOFAQcFMR7PiqzKP3F5oOMJhAja1P-T04lAyLNwkuuf2ESaYkeOB_I25LZY3oQdBEgy34LRBZqs1vDSrmh1Gnkbm2QUnkUvQydVTvEE1Dth_-nh41q4j0FrhJ3Pom/s320/DownTheCerealAisleCover.jpg"/></a></div>
<b>When written words help us understand who we have become in our tragedy</b>
<br />
<br />
A weeping willow tree, one flowery journal, two pens (in case one ran out of ink), and a box of Puffs tissues. Those objects stayed close beside me. In my early confusion over the loss of my son, these items never ignored my grief or told me to “get over it.”
<br />
<br />
When it grew too dark to see underneath the stringy weeping willow, I carried my pen and journal inside a house that seemed too empty, and wrote some more. At night, I woke to grapple with turmoil, with the noises in my head, the flashbacks of the cancer ward, the cries of my son. I wrote the ugly words “why?” and “how come?” before I could sleep again.
<br />
<br />
I scribbled through myths and cliches. I unleashed resentment and longing. I addressed prayers to God.
<br />
<br />
And, surprisingly, I discovered. Some of the confusion slid away, some of the guilt abandoned me. There was nothing I could have done to save my four-year-old’s life. Even my love had not been strong enough to destroy that infection that flared inside his tiny body. I was human and really not as in control as I wanted to believe. I would have to live with that.
<br />
<br />
I began to understand the new me. She was a tower of strength and compassion; she was tender and vulnerable, realistic, with just the right touch of cynicism. She needed protection from too many plastic smiles; she could not go long without a hug or sharing a story about a blue-eyed boy with an infectious laugh.
<br />
<br />
My written words healed me. And I jumped at the opportunity to tell others. I’d found comfort and clarity. I smiled at my husband and three young children, and at last, I didn’t want to run my van over the cliff; I wanted to smell the peonies and taste the salt from the ocean on my skin.
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The beauty about grief-writing is that no one has to read it. You don’t have to worry about a teacher correcting your spelling or grammar. There’s no grade, no pass or fail. No one cares if your letters are sloppy. It’s written by you and for you. And, yes, it works.
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Find a secluded place to write where you can think clearly without distraction.
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Write, at first, for your eyes only. It doesn’t have to be shared with anyone.
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Write to chart progress for you to read years down the road.
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Write with the feeling, “I will survive this.”
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Write to identify your emotions and feelings.
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Write to help solve some of the new situations you must now face.
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Think of your journal as a friend who never judges and who can never hurt you.
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Write your spiritual struggles.
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Write to rebuild your self-esteem and your self-confidence.
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(From Down the Cereal Aisle: a basket of recipes and remembrances by Alice J. Wisler, Daniel’s House Publications, 2001)
First published at https://www.opentohope.com.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-70938731339129956932023-01-13T14:48:00.001-08:002023-01-13T14:48:03.880-08:00The Simple Quiet<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOQO04cI1IAXruUxgGO1iaSUGX1JgFRcoxRxcIUNk_9haPk1KkfUJyl6HqFpeSxMkjHA_sygyJvqNmBp_hKCh27PQuEwGpacx3MYLCu_xCdRs-oWOvNlCiwfvV7k5yVhMUZZR1fvtPkxa-MNkBOckRaV-blHchu8iQSbnkVbKsvJlN3GlH1ECUl2L/s1926/Daniel%27sPlaceJune2020.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1083" data-original-width="1926" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOQO04cI1IAXruUxgGO1iaSUGX1JgFRcoxRxcIUNk_9haPk1KkfUJyl6HqFpeSxMkjHA_sygyJvqNmBp_hKCh27PQuEwGpacx3MYLCu_xCdRs-oWOvNlCiwfvV7k5yVhMUZZR1fvtPkxa-MNkBOckRaV-blHchu8iQSbnkVbKsvJlN3GlH1ECUl2L/s320/Daniel%27sPlaceJune2020.jpg"/></a></div>
After he had dismissed them, he went up on a mountainside by himself to pray. Later that night, he was there alone . . . (Matthew 14:23, NIV)
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When lockdowns happened with the Covid Pandemic, I went to the cemetery. There I walked the asphalt around the grounds, mothered my son's tiny grave, and prayed. I had sins to confess, and doubts to sort through.
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Being without sin, Jesus had no need to ask for pardon, but he did know that he needed time with his father in Heaven. So he went away from the crowds, the loud noises, even the Temple. He went to the mountain to get away from the distractions so that he could focus solely on his time alone with God.
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I call my time away at the cemetery, the simple quiet. During the Pandemic it was great to have a place that was meaningful to me where I could go. I never had to wear a mask. I never had to worry about getting the virus or giving it to anyone. The dead, are after all, protected from these things. As breezes blew over treetops and birds sang, I sat on a towel by my son's grave and enjoyed the calm solitude.
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Find a place to pray away from distractions. Go to that spot where you can freely talk to God.
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First published on <a href="https://awisler3.medium.com/the-simple-quiet-ae2f718d9b?postPublishedType=initial">Medium.com</a>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-52044143045194276352022-09-24T15:35:00.056-07:002022-09-30T10:29:49.574-07:00Being Prepared and Unprepared<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvhMoludqra_1oetw-oC3wOKzVBA1aNLZfCYcmd1jGvqHWaC5-0dqk7jb3YLUWyZDptE0m2qgX0QfQ1XGep9a52O92UIH5zIWQgYAuaKxiLeKJSr5lGJsi55p9un9rK81UVeSWeBUJnYiI0JuToMuIFDMOnotaTd_kzusYCIXYwcEWsub21_EHrKXE/s474/Micphoto2.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvhMoludqra_1oetw-oC3wOKzVBA1aNLZfCYcmd1jGvqHWaC5-0dqk7jb3YLUWyZDptE0m2qgX0QfQ1XGep9a52O92UIH5zIWQgYAuaKxiLeKJSr5lGJsi55p9un9rK81UVeSWeBUJnYiI0JuToMuIFDMOnotaTd_kzusYCIXYwcEWsub21_EHrKXE/s320/Micphoto2.jpg"/></a></div>
The invitation to be a guest on a podcast arrived in my inbox. I accepted. I was sent the time and date for the taping as well as a list of questions regarding the death of a child, writing, and grief. All topics I was familiar with---like breathing.
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But when Claudia, the <i>Being Well Informed</i> podcast hostess, emailed me moments before the show was to start, she told me this was a webcam interview. No over the phone stuff. Her segments were both on YouTube and on her podcast streaming service. I gulped. I was not prepared to be presentable for her audience. When my devotional came out, my publisher was big on setting me up with various radio stations for over-the-air interviews. I could be dressed in anything, have my hair in five different directions and still be able to talk over the phone. After Claudia told me that my interview was going to be showing my face, I asked her to give me a couple minutes. That was after I thought maybe we should just cancel the whole thing. I went upstairs to comb my hair, add some lipstick, and jewelry. A woman needs her earrings!
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The next decision was what I was going to have as my background. Back in the days when we had Zoom Sunday School classes I sat at the pub table in our kitchen with the lime-green pantry door behind me. But Carl was in the kitchen frying kielbalsa for Jambalaya and that sausage does not have a quiet sizzle. I was not familiar with the video recording service that the hostess told me she was going to use but I knew I needed my laptop and an uncluttered background. I flew into my daughter's mauve and pink bedroom (what used to be her bedroom; she moved out years ago) and worked on the logistics. I placed the computer on top of a tall stack of cardboard packing boxes. The bedroom has become a storage area where packing supplies for Carl and my online business are kept. I shut the door while our dog, Bella, breathed on the other side. I hoped she wouldn't bark. The minutes ticked away as I checked the lighting, turned on a lamp, and the ceiling fan. I made sure the walls were free of cobwebs. I found a chair and sat. When I logged into the video service, I was greeted by the awaiting hostess, and the interview began. I was late; but I made it.
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What a treat it was to be asked questions about grief and the benefits of journaling for dealing with the loss of a child. What an honor to be on Claudia's show! And isn't this just like so much of life---we think we're all set and ready, when really we aren't. Much of life is scrambling around. Adapt and adjust----I've been doing it for 25 years since Daniel's death.
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There are two ways to listen to the interview---with a video or without. Of course, I hope you will listen via the podcast link, but if you want to see me seated in front of a mauve door and pink wall, watch. :-)
Here's the video - <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=28xhFbj7PMY&feature=youtu.be">A Parent's Survival Tools When Losing A Child</a>.
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Here's the <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/a-parents-survival-steps-when-coping-with-loss/id1642612244?i=1000580366144">podcast</a> of the same segment</a>.
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-78946190829194504872022-08-04T10:52:00.003-07:002022-08-04T10:57:31.596-07:00The Writing the Heartache Podcast has made her debut!<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS5iqfM0paIzgkbK_NZEIhZ-KrhI06r15T8hiaYpMMm13kweLMiXDKsjFsASp996P6upH6AEBh1KYIxW0lozkza1ZGNj9f5rm4zJRHFHR00QYClyjZGKaoqmhGDTMKnSg6k64dZHfHQ2t7cKP4xS20hf8CcFDcM4Uo4XKXu4FkIVRDZ0eKk2x9756G/s2091/JournalandPens.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1717" data-original-width="2091" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS5iqfM0paIzgkbK_NZEIhZ-KrhI06r15T8hiaYpMMm13kweLMiXDKsjFsASp996P6upH6AEBh1KYIxW0lozkza1ZGNj9f5rm4zJRHFHR00QYClyjZGKaoqmhGDTMKnSg6k64dZHfHQ2t7cKP4xS20hf8CcFDcM4Uo4XKXu4FkIVRDZ0eKk2x9756G/s320/JournalandPens.jpg"/></a></div>
Do you remember when I did Blogtalk radio segments? No? That's okay; it was a while ago. I had about 12 episodes where I spoke on
grief and the bereavement journey.
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Now, after much trepidation, I have joined the podcast world. <b>Writing the Heartache</b> is the theme and has
been my push/shove/advice since Daniel died when I realized the wonderful and inexpensive therapy that comes from
writing after loss.
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My first podcast (Anchor.FM) is short; it will take just over 5 minutes of your day. The topic is:<i> No Grammar or
Spelling Worries; Just Get it Out There.</i> I share a few benefits of writing from grief.
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You can listen by going to the Anchor.FM page. If you don't have a Spotify account (I don't), you can listen by scrolling down the page and pressing the arrow. <a href="https://anchor.fm/alice1660/episodes/No-Grammar-or-Spelling-Worries--Just-Get-it-Out-There-e1m12g7?fbclid=IwAR3pej22ZrP89KCpVw1Kg9ecDyhuOfXnN7ltHHc_PV_-9FjQ-9S89RxcrR8">Go here</a>.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-15207461244161743742022-07-23T15:03:00.001-07:002022-07-23T15:10:31.908-07:00Good Lists Versus Bad Lists--Steering Toward Peace<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrDpn7gQ-AuSYsM0K6QaorLI9jmN3l3Tmj1JLc89lVBtbgLL2yQlCaGtRpG9mSPenB4JAMz9H2fxwL3nIVSqlZIQ5o4ZmrViYUe7vGG3TdA_4Oce4RNsRSwQFK_u5bg7krVUT_pkqQB8xvSE8xMkEqgdEoBnEJpXR45KGCA66kvBPTH11lcAZtQSDx/s1950/NotePadSmallWithPen.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="1855" data-original-width="1950" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrDpn7gQ-AuSYsM0K6QaorLI9jmN3l3Tmj1JLc89lVBtbgLL2yQlCaGtRpG9mSPenB4JAMz9H2fxwL3nIVSqlZIQ5o4ZmrViYUe7vGG3TdA_4Oce4RNsRSwQFK_u5bg7krVUT_pkqQB8xvSE8xMkEqgdEoBnEJpXR45KGCA66kvBPTH11lcAZtQSDx/s320/NotePadSmallWithPen.jpg"/></a></div>
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I have a penchant for making lists, particularly the to-do and grocery kind. Both help me organize what needs to be done and the grocery one gets me in and out of the store with items I need that without a piece of paper to guide me could easily make me forgetful. Lately I found out that I keep another kind of list, one I have, unfortunately, used many times before. It's one that I store in my mind, one that is a tally of what I’ve done wrong or messed up doing. This type of list leads to regret, remorse, and for an unhappy Saturday (or any day of the week).
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Sure, we all have times we make mistakes. Usually we make amends, deal with the consequences, forgive if we need to, and move on. The damage is when we aren’t able to follow these steps and instead of moving on, we take the list in our head---a mental list---with us. The mental list can be degrading and when gone over too many times can cause us to miss out on living life to the fullest. The mental list of negatives is a violent thunderstorm happening in our heads.
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Recently I had a mental list going. It started with one disappointment, and another, then it grew larger when I added mistakes I'd made that week, all along telling myself <i>I should have known better</i>. This mental list didn’t grow on its own, I fed and watered it. It became worrisome and caused anxiety. Of course I prayed, asking God to help me. I knew the verses in the book of Philippians that tells us not to be anxious, but nothing seemed to help. I was in a funky state of mind.
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After a day of self-induced angst, my eldest daughter Rachel invited me to the beach. She knew nothing of my <i>bad</i> list because I'd shared it with no one. She wanted to spend a day with me and texted that she'd drive. A day at the beach! My heart did a little happy dance. A day at one of my favorite places would be therapeutic. Rachel and I planned, and four days later, we were at Carolina Beach enjoying the sun, the ocean view, salad lunches, seagulls who ventured close, laughter, and being together away from our other lives. We splashed some in the waves, but the wind and current were fierce, so we mostly stuck to the safety of the shore.
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When I got home, sunburned and sandy, I was able to think more clearly about mental lists of agony humans bring on themselves. I think we carry these types of lists too long because we don't trust that God does care for us as he tells us that he does in scripture. Instead of carrying petitions before God and allowing ourselves to continue on, trusting him enough to know that he does care deeply for us, we let the mental thunderstorms continue. The beach day was an unexpected blessing from God, a God who saw my needs and mental health when I was at a low point. A God who cared for me and will always care for me.
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Sometimes taking a piece of paper and writing my struggles on it and then crumpling it and tossing it into the garbage bin works to show that I will not carry negativity around with me. If only I can remind myself each time I'm tempted to recall those items on the piece of paper I've thrown out that I need to refrain. I have given my problems over to God. No backsies.
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I want to free my mind from worry and know that I cannot do it on my own. I will still keep lists to help organize my life, but the lists of tallying up my wrongs are not welcomed. Instead a list of gratitude will be just the thing to steer my mind toward a positive and peaceful direction. I'll end this with one of my all-time favorite scripture verses about God's care and our need to invite the peace he gives--and only he can give--into our minds.
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<blockquote>Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you. ~ Philippians 4:6-9, NIV
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-65076890045747122882022-06-15T11:20:00.004-07:002022-06-15T11:23:43.102-07:00Cooking With Author Susan G Mathis
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH1m2xWWyxf4tpKOxRAJcCxoC1yjncmvnQxzLBQRXKfJH7VQt1RL3NOn947H5m5sYkRsLlR-kwOt1ab9cpnPlJ2mNdrHpSuhtpDaFxjoLBhVC-OWNamn8KME3zPjRhViJwWrSRyYs65MqaRm20wEyXiXPyohzx5-qaD1jteuqxjk4iC9UE2aahP6NA/s1413/SusanGMathisPHOTO.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1413" data-original-width="999" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH1m2xWWyxf4tpKOxRAJcCxoC1yjncmvnQxzLBQRXKfJH7VQt1RL3NOn947H5m5sYkRsLlR-kwOt1ab9cpnPlJ2mNdrHpSuhtpDaFxjoLBhVC-OWNamn8KME3zPjRhViJwWrSRyYs65MqaRm20wEyXiXPyohzx5-qaD1jteuqxjk4iC9UE2aahP6NA/s320/SusanGMathisPHOTO.jpeg"/></a></div>
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Today's treat is a new novel and recipe from author Susan G. Mathis. Susan, welcome! We're glad to have you here to share with us! Take it away.
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<b>Traditional Thousand Islands Shore Dinner</b>
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Traditionally, the Thousand Islands Shore Dinner a big fishing party. Several skiffs rallied at one island, dispersed to fish until noon, partook of a shore dinner, and then fished again until late afternoon. Fine folk like George Pullman, Frederick Bourne, and J.P. Morgan—and even President Ulysses S. Grant when he visited the islands in 1872— took time to get away from big-city life and find a quiet fishing vacation in the islands.
The main boat would often be a small steam yacht. They would leave around 7 a.m., towing up to ten skiffs trailing behind them. The captain would choose an uninhabited island to use for a shore dinner, prepare the meal himself or drop off the meal preparers, and send the fishing guides off to row their guests to different fishing spots.
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Around noon, the fishing guides row the guests back to the steamer for a relaxing shore dinner, and then take the fishermen back out for an afternoon of more fishing.
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You’ve likely heard of the shore dinners of New England. But the traditional Thousand Islands shore dinners include fresh fish, French toast, and a sandwich with fried pork strips. And, of course, a salad with Thousand Islands Dressing.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOBJHgcfTMNbmxMaqinplqhy1TyvG_AQGBXLf3GZAIQyzAQRN5EwDFaJrOkBt5BLscECltsm1ZNVueJJsFYvVij4TU8uNVqhJPJREbPTYIqA-aj4guGY8wP5-tkG97l-aMV0HdFCoeGKoFd-CWta41O7Leq4TAJH4xzv4ueLzUcZDbQ9rwxEF5SgS/s658/shore%20dinnerSUSANM.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="658" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOBJHgcfTMNbmxMaqinplqhy1TyvG_AQGBXLf3GZAIQyzAQRN5EwDFaJrOkBt5BLscECltsm1ZNVueJJsFYvVij4TU8uNVqhJPJREbPTYIqA-aj4guGY8wP5-tkG97l-aMV0HdFCoeGKoFd-CWta41O7Leq4TAJH4xzv4ueLzUcZDbQ9rwxEF5SgS/s320/shore%20dinnerSUSANM.jpeg"/></a></div>
Appetizers consisted of fatback and onion sandwiches and a salad with Thousand Islands dressing, of course, and crumbles of fatback. The main meal includes plates of fish and potatoes. And dessert was coffee and French toast.
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When they made the camp coffee—they add a cracked egg, shell and all. That way, the grounds stick to the yolk at the bottom of the pot and the shells remove the bitterness. Hmmm…
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Then comes the French toast for dessert, also fried in the same pan as the pork and fish, and topped with lots of local maple syrup. Again, one needn’t count the calories; just enjoy the unique flavors of the shore dinner.
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Today, uninhabited islands are few and far between, so shore dinners became a little more complicated. But several companies still serve patrons who want a traditional shore dinner. In fact, the NY State parks were, in part, established to provide a place for shore dinners. Maybe one day you, too, can visit the Thousand Islands and enjoy a traditional shore dinner.
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Do you think you’d enjoy this meal? In Peyton’s Promise, they served fatback sandwiches to boaters sheltering on Calumet Island. Here’s a recipe for Thousand Islands Dressing!
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<b>Thousand Island Dressing</b>
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2 cups mayonnaise
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1/4 cup ketchup
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1 tablespoon onion, finely chopped
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1 hard-boiled egg, finely chopped
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1 tablespoon green pepper, finely chopped
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1 tablespoon red bell pepper, finely chopped
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1 tablespoon parsley, finely chopped
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1 tablespoon scallions, finely chopped
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Mix all ingredients together and chill to blend flavors.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwGNTIzNo9ymjHkpbx3mYsQrbm-WXP8RwcREHh3fEXu9Jc_Lvg9pYauW1fsd--fjsBoSkArMZwxLDTH4NPncT_G-POtFz3sDxDphcY8wpLLadTTfkv-JqQeEUNJ_SxIoZgc6U37fQY1TD0UkWt_Fld595S8Rxms21YFtYpzi905xItuTebz3DVqce/s1241/Peyton%27sPromise.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1241" data-original-width="866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwGNTIzNo9ymjHkpbx3mYsQrbm-WXP8RwcREHh3fEXu9Jc_Lvg9pYauW1fsd--fjsBoSkArMZwxLDTH4NPncT_G-POtFz3sDxDphcY8wpLLadTTfkv-JqQeEUNJ_SxIoZgc6U37fQY1TD0UkWt_Fld595S8Rxms21YFtYpzi905xItuTebz3DVqce/s320/Peyton%27sPromise.jpg"/></a></div>
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<b>About <i>Peyton's Promise</i></b>:
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Summer 1902
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Peyton Quinn is tasked with preparing the grand Calumet Castle ballroom for a spectacular two-hundred-guest summer gala. As she works in a male-dominated position of upholsterer and fights for women’s equality, she’s persecuted for her unorthodox ways. But when her pyrotechnics-engineer father is seriously hurt, she takes over the plans for the fireworks display despite being socially ostracized.
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Patrick Taylor, Calumet’s carpenter and Peyton’s childhood chum, hopes to win her heart, but her unconventional undertakings cause a rift. Peyton has to ignore the prejudices and persevere or she could lose her job, forfeit Patrick’s love and respect, and forever become the talk of local gossips.
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<b>About Susan:</b>
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Susan G Mathis is an international award-winning, multi-published author of stories set in the beautiful Thousand Islands, her childhood stomping ground in upstate NY. Susan has been published more than twenty-five times in full-length novels, novellas, and non-fiction books. She has seven in her fiction line including, <i>The Fabric of Hope: An Irish Family Legacy</i>, <i>Christmas Charity</i>, <i>Katelyn’s Choice</i>, <i>Devyn’s Dilemma</i>, <i>Sara’s Surprise</i>, <i>Reagan’s Reward</i>, and <i>Colleen’s Confession</i>. Her newest, <i>Peyton’s Promise</i>, came out in May 2022 and <i>Rachel’s Reunion</i> releases October 7, 2022. She just finished writing book ten, <i>Mary’s Moment</i>. Her book awards include two Illumination Book Awards, three American Fiction Awards, two Indie Excellence Book Awards, and two Literary Titan Book Awards. <i>Reagan’s Reward</i> is a Selah Awards finalist.
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Susan is also a published author of two premarital books, two children’s picture books, stories in a dozen compilations, and hundreds of published articles. Susan makes her home in Colorado Springs and enjoys traveling around the world but returns each summer to enjoy the Thousand Islands. Visit Susan's <a href="www.SusanGMathis.com/fiction">website</a> for more. And head over to <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Peytons-Promise-Thousand-Islands-Guilded/dp/1645263444/">Amazon</a> to get your own copy of <i>Peyton's Promise</i>.
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-27453427990314995992022-06-10T08:46:00.013-07:002022-06-10T09:12:35.265-07:00Summer Reading: Novels, Autographed and Ready to Send<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7Wv7vMvAwvlf1T_4miH8597re96mSGnaOra7U9CE7MgXcelpZZp6jNlmOnFVFgH9OPcoU91XjcFw2SS16AclRpGuEvfZoDnT_npIJYdRuYjAWdKQhLv15oWQdjkOWkugrWRhKhRrLqXm9YTGA2S7bolWF5p482LJbZybea2QLemTd44J5aKpWPZx/s357/SixNovelsandDevotionalSmallest.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="336" data-original-width="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7Wv7vMvAwvlf1T_4miH8597re96mSGnaOra7U9CE7MgXcelpZZp6jNlmOnFVFgH9OPcoU91XjcFw2SS16AclRpGuEvfZoDnT_npIJYdRuYjAWdKQhLv15oWQdjkOWkugrWRhKhRrLqXm9YTGA2S7bolWF5p482LJbZybea2QLemTd44J5aKpWPZx/s320/SixNovelsandDevotionalSmallest.jpg"/></a></div>
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Need a book to read this summer?
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In an era where print novels are not as readily available as e-book versions, I have three of my novels ready to sign and send to you. That's right,
paperbacks, the kind where you can turn and smell the pages. Each price includes shipping to anywhere in the USA. The novels retail for $13.99 and $14.99, but you get to save here.
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx1SKXBHAuDpzGYvcJOnz6omk1dJB-ZGkf9UzTPJFvKz-ySifK25HRmdtj4aWI4Af6ydCc2P5Y8BDexTO7AC1xD0FtJY9SBVrPOCJqsFOHWT-SsaR3k1pISdIJAjqHEG6JVhMqUS7tZvVWkEJtbvHvj786C7THV5wMS1OQY9X75RFr7PA0VnwcpJo1/s591/RainSongandMountOlivePickles.JPG" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="501" data-original-width="591" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx1SKXBHAuDpzGYvcJOnz6omk1dJB-ZGkf9UzTPJFvKz-ySifK25HRmdtj4aWI4Af6ydCc2P5Y8BDexTO7AC1xD0FtJY9SBVrPOCJqsFOHWT-SsaR3k1pISdIJAjqHEG6JVhMqUS7tZvVWkEJtbvHvj786C7THV5wMS1OQY9X75RFr7PA0VnwcpJo1/s320/RainSongandMountOlivePickles.JPG"/></a></div>
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<i>Rain Song </i> -- My first novel, a Christy-Award Finalist, set in the pickle capital of the world, Mount Olive, North Carolina! Middle-school teacher, Nicole, has a lot of questions about her past in Japan, and a mysterious man enters her life to help her solve them.
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<i>How Sweet It Is </i> -- Also, a Chirsty-Award finalist, this one is set in the mountains of North Carolina, where cake decorater Deena, finds herself teaching cooking to some wayward teens per her deceased granddad's request.
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<i>A Wedding Invitation </i> -- Samantha gets invited to a wedding where she knows no one. But her mistake leads her to a man from her past who broke her heart, and a Vietnamese girl she taught in a refugee camp.
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To order an autographed print novel, select from the <b>Buy Now</b> menu below. Prices include shipping to anywhere in the USA. Or if you'd rather send a check for $15.00 per novel, make it out to Alice Wisler and mail to:
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201 Monticello Avenue
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Durham, NC 27707
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<option value="Rain Song">Rain Song $15.00 USD</option>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaa4wrqh7GeO-8H3MSvTKBVsYFnacZDInSgX3q1GwVwkO8Cw4omxgRlJGj8L7E-m1O_F7aJB3-4D7jgvVVjj957NsgNubGUyyDbC5aGkcL15Ib5MqeMDV0SaxlMsai9QSb7aY6JgQrnQkMfTUw2hb6NmEGETbepxBm-9U8Kkr6-blx4WGXgO0Lw__F/s643/DayLiliestwo_2022.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="643" data-original-width="405" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaa4wrqh7GeO-8H3MSvTKBVsYFnacZDInSgX3q1GwVwkO8Cw4omxgRlJGj8L7E-m1O_F7aJB3-4D7jgvVVjj957NsgNubGUyyDbC5aGkcL15Ib5MqeMDV0SaxlMsai9QSb7aY6JgQrnQkMfTUw2hb6NmEGETbepxBm-9U8Kkr6-blx4WGXgO0Lw__F/s320/DayLiliestwo_2022.jpg"/></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1572803429264621145.post-38226308352580081962022-03-12T11:35:00.007-08:002022-03-12T11:53:15.103-08:00Good-bye Malaise; Hello Positive<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinbb6jcNUqFvqAP61UDY4Fy3oZryafm1ksjq8hx-jyVfkYkE544zceP5qBk9GFUpCEA3oTigNK5k5MGVUMEA-_xaByvi4C7zcU20BHFpBHVtpPfTtqt81bjoO_UcQg0pjTrEttlm3B-aXydxmuFvcj3cOT_LiPzNOUP5CMmEmmyc3Qj6Cc32Sb7OeC=s2935" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2935" data-original-width="1974" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEinbb6jcNUqFvqAP61UDY4Fy3oZryafm1ksjq8hx-jyVfkYkE544zceP5qBk9GFUpCEA3oTigNK5k5MGVUMEA-_xaByvi4C7zcU20BHFpBHVtpPfTtqt81bjoO_UcQg0pjTrEttlm3B-aXydxmuFvcj3cOT_LiPzNOUP5CMmEmmyc3Qj6Cc32Sb7OeC=s320"/></a></div>
<blockquote><i>Malaise --- noun: malaise; plural noun: malaises</i></blockquote>
<i>a general feeling of discomfort, illness, or uneasiness whose exact cause is difficult to identify.</i>
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The year is now is her third month and I realized I haven't posted much on this blog. While I have a hundred excuses, one is that I've started spending time at <a href="https://awisler3.medium.com/">Medium.com</a> where I got my profile completed and my page up and running. I've been faithfully posting and gaining readership and followers. If you've got a page there, please follow me and I'll reciprocate. Also my happy news is that I've become a writer for <i>Devotable</i>. <i>Devotable</i> publishes devotions, and so far, three of mine have made their debut. So if you'll head over to <a href="https://awisler3.medium.com/">Medium.com</a>, to see what I've been up to, I'll be happy and grateful.
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The truth is, this year I'm all about staying upbeat and grateful. Times are hard. Our country and the world are in sad states. I absorb news to keep informed and sometimes I have to step away and nourish my soul. Instead of letting malaise win me over, I want to look up, be still before God, and write more. I've always believed that writing is healing and healing is what I continue to need.
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I hope you'll join me!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0