Last week, we shared

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
  

Sweet Dreams – Chapter Five

Emma was slowly growing accustomed to her new surroundings. Things may not be as she would wish, but they were a far side better then they were. At least she no longer had to worry about where she and Benjamin were to live.

And when she grew discouraged, she reminded herself how far she had come in just these past few weeks.

She glanced around the kitchen where she had been baking since her son left for school this morning. She scrunched up her nose. All right, it wasn’t the Ritz.

A brown stain was forming in the ceiling which meant that Maria Rodriquez’s sink was leaking again. And Mr. Timberman next-door had kept her up past midnight with the television blaring. Medicare didn’t cover hearing aids, he had told her.

But it was safe and for that she was thankful.

She pulled out a mixing bowl and thought about her new set of friends at the soup kitchen. She volunteered there twice a week making pastries. It had quickly become her favorite time of the week. Everyone was always so encouraging and cheerful. It was a balm to her soul, especially on the days that she let the devil in to taunt her with fears about the bleakness of her future.

“Keep your mind on the present,” Ava once counseled. “St. Francis de Sales once put it…

“Have no anxiety about tomorrow, for God Who reigns today will rein
tomorrow. Either He will shield you from adversity, or if He allow it to come upon you, He will give you unfailing strength to endure it. Be at peace, then, and put aside all anxious thoughts and imaginings.

“Let the Lord worry about what’s down the pike.  He’s responsible for you, just as you’re responsible to your child. You wouldn’t let Benjamin go without the things he needs and neither will God abandon you in your needs.”

Emma held that thought tight to her heart. And as Ava had predicted, God did not abandon them.  He had provided her with a job! The Main Street Deli had given her a weekly standing order of a dozen fruit pies. It wouldn’t make her rich, but it would pay the utility bill with a little left over for an occasional movie matinee. She knew how much Benjamin enjoyed the movies.

Father Joe had just smiled, when she told him.

“A God-incidence,” he said and she agreed.

Surprisingly, the apartment’s closet size open kitchen was working out quite well. She had moved the long, maple kitchen table in front of the small row of cabinets to use as an island.

Emma sprinkled a soft coating of flour over the pine surface made smooth by decades of use. She loved this piece of furniture that had meant more to her than all the Thomasville pieces that Jerry had insisted fill their home.

It had belonged to Aunt Emma, her name sake who had shared her love of baking with her as a child. Whenever she rolled out pie dough or mix a cake on its scarred wooden surface, she would think of her standing in a flowered housedress and white apron, her eyes as soft as a dove as she shared a special recipe or a technique. Emma’s wooden recipe box was filled with her aunt’s cooking secrets.

The pie recipe that she was now using had been her Aunt’s.

Taking the heal of her hand, Emma gently flattened a ball of dough, as she mused how things had come full circle. The pies that Aunt Emma had taught her to make right at this table now provided her with a small income.

She had been baking for hours, lost in these sweet childhood memories when the phone rang. She dusted the flour off her hands but still managed to leave a white smudge on the receiver as she lifted it to her ear.

“Hello.”

“Is this Mrs. Smith?”

“Yes…”

“Mrs. Smith, this is Principal Tate at Madison Central High. I’ve just been informed by our attendance office that your son, Benjamin is missing from class.”

“Missing?” Slivers of fear stuck in her throat. Jerry had been missing.

Dear God. If Benjamin wasn’t in school, where was he?

“In fact, Benjamin hasn’t attended classes for the last three weeks.”

“Three weeks?!” she exploded. “And you’re only calling me now to let me know?”

“In fact, we tried to call you several times. But your answering machine isn’t working.”

The machine sat beside the phone. On a hunch, she slid open the case and exhaled in frustration. The tape was missing. Suddenly, it became clear.

“Mr. Tate, I have no idea where he is, but I can assure you that I will know by the end of the day.” Anger fueled by Benjamin’s deception burned hot. “I can also assure you that I will get an explanation about where he’s been all this time.”

The call ended with Principal Tate extending an open invitational to assist her if there was anything that he could do to help.

She thanked him and hung up, vacillating between concerns for Benjamin’s safety and blind fury. Deep down, however, she really wasn’t too surprised.

Benjamin had made it very clear that he hated Madison and the kids that went there. They had argued about nothing else since the move. Not that she could blame him. This was his senior year. He had worked hard to maintain a perfect 4.0 average and was up for a full scholarship to Penn State which he was in danger of loosing with the school change. The courses he needed to complete in compliance with Penn’s admission requirements were not available at Madison.

She sank down on a kitchen stool. This was partly her fault.

She had tried to find a way for Benjamin to remain at Canfield High. She had contacted Mr. Sands, the principal and pleaded with him to allow Benjamin to finish out his senior year. There was only five more months until graduation, she reminded him. His classes were set. It wasn’t as though he was taking up another student’s place. He was a good student. But her pleas had fallen on deaf ears.

“Mrs. Smith,” he said with the infuriating tone of one speaking to the mentally impaired. “You originally moved to this area because we have the top rated schools in the county, am I correct?”

She had never liked the short, myopic, man with the Napoleon complex who felt his position as principal of Canfield High reflected his superior academic skills when in fact, it simply reflected his grandfather’s influence as the District Superintendent.

Since the question was a rhetorical one, she didn’t bother answering.

“Everyone would like to see their child take advantage of our wonderful academic environment,” Sands droned on. “But rules are rules and must be maintained. If I made an exception for your son, I’d have to make the same exception for others. You, do see where I’m going with this, don’t you?”

Straight to hell?

But loosing her temper would not have helped Benjamin’s cause. Instead, she took a deep breath and in her most pleasant voice, reminded him of Benjamin’s fine academic record, and his chance at a full scholarship.

“Mr. Sands, my son’s entire future rests on his ability to finish out his senior year here and complete the course requirements for Penn State. Can’t you find it in your heart to let him stay?  No one other than us need to know.”

He tilted his head forward, zeroing in on her face over his reading glasses. His expression was that of having swallowed something foul.

“You are wrong, Mrs. Smith. Very wrong because I would know.”

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he went back his paperwork. “Now if you don’t mind, I have other things to attend to.”

There really wasn’t anything else she could have done.  Or was there?

A half dozen empty pies shells lined the counter waiting to be filled with the berries she had purchased fresh this morning at the farm stand just outside of town. She had fingered her rosary all the way out. The car was coughing and spitting more than usual lately and there was certainly no extra money to have it repaired.

She ran her hands through her hair and pulled.

Car repairs, utility bills and food stamps that never made it to the end of the month. Hadn’t she enough on her plate without Benjamin taking off for parts unknown?

Frustration, anger, disappointment merged. She needed to throw something. She looked around. Tears formed behind the lids, realizing that there was nothing in the entire apartment that could be spared to a fit of rage.

If she was a woman who swore, now would be the perfect time to let it rip.

Her eyes settled on the row of empty pie shells. More tears. If she left them at this stage, they’d all be ruined which meant that she would have to begin from scratch and loose any profit that she had been counting on.

Would this nightmare over money ever end?

But motherhood came before finances, she reasoned.

“Wait until I get my hands on you Benjamin Smith.”

She washed her hands and grabbed the car keys.  The question was…where should she start looking?

A familiar heart arrhythmias kicked in. She slipped into a sweat jacket, trying to ignore the uneven rhythm. One of these days, when she had some extra money, ha, ha, ha…she would get it checked out. But for now, she forced herself to stay calm. Anxiety only made it worse.

She stepped out into the hallway and paused to utter a quick prayer for help although she was pretty certain that God had better things to do with His time that find a truant teenager.

Then the strangest thing happened.  On the wings of the prayer, she felt a sudden urge to call Canfield High.  She closed the apartment door, ignoring the strange notion and kept heading down the corridor, but the thought persisted. Finally, she headed back to her apartment and dialed the school.

The school’s secretary remembered her right away.

“How nice to hear that you’re up and about Mrs. Smith. I hope you’re feeling better. Benjamin was just saying this morning that you’ve come down with a terrible case of the flu and that’s why you haven’t been in to fill out his paperwork.

So, that’s where he’s been.

“We’re so thrilled about your good news,” the secretary continued.

“Good news?” What good news?

“Imagine your late Aunt leaving you all that money so you could buy back your old home.  I bet you’re thrilled to be out of that terrible apartment house.”

At three o’clock, Emma was standing in front of the school, leaning against the rusted car that Benjamin hated along with everything else about their new lifestyle while working to keep her temper in check. She hadn’t bothered to change from the sweats covered in flour or the stained apron. She had been too busy baking so they wouldn’t be sitting in the dark.

The dismissal bell sounded. Students poured out of the main doors. She spied him as soon as he stepped out of the front entrance. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Benjamin! Over here!”

He looked up. The color drained from of his checks as he tucked his head down and headed over.

“You are soooo busted,” Emma said, opening the passenger side door to the rusting sedan. The hinges squealed. She remembered the can of   “Two and One” oil in the backseat. She had forgotten to oil them.

“Nice car, Mrs. Smith,” a group of boys snickered.

“Thanks for embarrassing me in front of my friends,” Benjamin hissed. “Are you happy, now?”

She slammed his door. “About as happy as I was when Madison’s principal called to say that you had been missing for three weeks. And we won’t even get into how the answering machine tape had been removed and the number of jobs that I might have missed because of it.”

“It’s not like anyone would have hired you,” he snapped.

“Watch it. You’re on very shaky ground,” she warned. Her temper had been stretched to the limit.

He slouched down encased in a stony silence.

Neither spoke a word on the ride home, but once they walked through the apartment door, Emma tore into him.

“Where do you get off lying your way back into Canfield? Did it ever occur to you that someone would eventually find out and then what?  If Mr. Sands had discovered your little scheme, he would have had you charged with criminal trespassing. Now that would look great on your college application, don’t you think? I’ve also discovered that it would be in his right to charge us a fee for the days that you’ve attended. Where did you expect that money to come from? And we won’t even get into how worried I was when Mr. Tate called and said that you had been missing for these past three weeks.”

Benjamin fired back.  “Some school you want me to attend. It takes them three weeks to figure out that I’m missing.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, it’s not,” he said hotly, slamming his books across the kitchen table, sending a nest of empty pie tins rattling to the floor.

“Madison is filled with losers. I want to be somebody and that’s not going to happen if my diploma reads, Madison High.”

“I know you’re disappointed,” she said, softening.

Her heart ached for her son. None of this was his fault, really. Like her, he was a victim of circumstances. His father’s disappearance. Their plunge into poverty. The policy at Canfield. It was horrible. All of it.

But a part of her wondered if it wasn’t time that he learned that not everything in life was always fair, and that sometimes, we simply had to make the best of the hand that we’ve been dealt. Granted, it was a hard lesson for a boy so young, but she would be remiss as a parent if she didn’t teach him that we must face life challenges, unlike his father who had elected to run.

“I’m disappointed for you, too, but that doesn’t mean that because life has thrown you a curveball that you’re out of the game. There are other schools. Other ways to meet your dreams.”

“Like a state college?” he snarled. “It’s not just about courses. It’s about making contacts. Dad knew that. That’s why he always said to aim for a top school.”

“Your dad said a lot of things that have proven false,” she said and instantly regretted the comment. She had made herself a promise never to speak negatively against Jerry. He still was the boy’s father.

“So, you want me to accept this, is that what you’re saying?” he challenged.

“I’m saying that your focus should be on what’s in here” She thumped her chest. “Not a particular college. There are lots of entrepreneurs who had made it big and who never went to college.

“Instead of seeing this as a negative experience, why not view it as an opportunity to turn it over to God and see where He takes it?  With His help there’s no limit to what you can do, with or without a prestigious college education.”

“You sound like one of those street corner evangelists,” he said in dismissal. “I don’t know what’s happened to you. You never used to be religious. Pretty soon you’ll be dragging me to that stupid church of yours, or want me to help out at that soup kitchen you spend so much time at, surrounded by other losers.”

“Is that who you think? That I’m a loser?”

“I think that you’ve accepted all of this. But I never will.  I will go to Penn State no matter what it takes because, unlike you, I will never just lie down and die.  One day I will be rich.  Filthy rich because in the end that’s all that matters.”

“Benjamin! You can’t really believe that?”

“Oh, can’t I?  Money rules the world, mom. More importantly, it allows you to chart your own destiny, and I can assure you that when I’ve made it, I will never have to count on anybody every again. Not you. Not dad. No one.”

At that moment, it was like staring at Jerry. He had that same look whenever she had suggested that money was not the standard that should be use to measure one’s life. Regrettably, she saw now that she should have been more forceful in defending her belief.

For years, she had passively stood by and ignored how her husband had tried to define their family by a stream of luxury cars, enormous home, exclusive country club memberships. Look what it had gotten him? He had abandoned his family.  He was wanted by the law as a felon. She would not let her son travel down the same path to destruction.

“There is more to life than money,” she said, emphatically.

“Said by the woman who now bakes pies for a living,” he sneered. “How many do you need to meet this month’s electric bill?”

“That’s not fair.”

“Fair. You want to talk about fair?  Life in this dump is not fair.” He kicked the wall. “It’s pathetic and I won’t accept it. So, if I have to lie to get what I want, I will do it.”

With a sense of defeat, she sank into a chair. Had he learned nothing from his father’s past sins?

“Please, don’t say that Benjamin.”

“It’s the truth, so get over it.”

“Benjamin!” He had crossed a line. She would not allow him to speak to her this way.

“Don’t you take that tone with me! I’m not the villain here. It was your father that left us in this fix, not me, and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying my best to get us through this.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips.

“Well, apparently your best isn’t good enough,” he yelled back.

She had had enough. Having compassion for the way he was hurting was one thing. Allowing him to be rude? That she would no longer tolerate. She jumped out of the chair and pointed a finger in the direction of their only bedroom. Emma slept on the couch.

“Go to your room and stay there until you can be civil again.”

“I don’t have to listen to you,” he snarled.  “I’m eighteen. I’m not a minor anymore. ”

“As long as you live under this roof, you most certainly do,” she said, fueled by a sudden burst of red, hot anger. How dare he speak to her that way? Hurt or not, she was still his mother and he would respect her.

“And you will finish out your senior year at Madison. I’m sorry, Benjamin. I know it’s not fair, but I don’t make the rules.”

“The hell with you! And the hell with this place!”  He scooped up his backpack and tore out of the apartment.

She raced after him. “Benjamin, come back here!”

He bolted down the hall and shoulder slammed the front door then disappeared.

Great, you really handled that well, she thought, rubbing her forehead.

Where had she gone wrong? Why couldn’t she get through to him, make him see that his father’s lifestyle was not something to be emulated, but pitied? It was shallow and hollow and without substance, certainly not the kind of life she wanted for Benjamin.

She headed back to her apartment, closed and double locked the door, then leaned her head against its cool metal frame, wishing that she could afford a bottle of wine. Right now a tall, glass would be most welcomed. Instead, she settled for a cup of tea. She filled the teapot, set it on the stove and waited for it to boil while her anger slowly ebbed like an outgoing tide.

Why had she allowed her temper to get the best of her instead of focusing on how much Benjamin had been made to endure these last four months?  His dad’s disappearance. The move. A new school during his senior year.  Even at eighteen, it was a lot to handle.

She also worried about college. His heart was set on attending Penn State which was only a reality if he received a full scholarship and that would only happen if he was reinstated back at Canfield.

But even then, there would be traveling expenses and money for books and non-essentials. It would mean more sacrifices, but she would find a way to cover it.

If  Benjamin received just a partial scholarship, however,  there was no way she could make up the difference. Financial aid was not an option. Government officials were watching her closely to see if she had access to the bank’s missing money. She had already been informed that if she needed to apply for financial aid for college tuition, it would be a nightmare. She would be required to produce a ream of paperwork that verified their former lifestyle was no longer applicable and that there was no off shore bank accounts.

She wished.

She waited for the water to boil and went back to baking. There were still four more pies that needed to be baked.

As she measured out flour and lard, she consoled herself with the thought that the best thing for Benjamin right now was to be given time to cool off. He’d be back when he had calmed down. Then they’d talk. Makeup.

The kettle sang. She poured her tea, carrying it back to the table and took several sips before setting it a safe distance from the work area. Using a pastry blender, she began to work lard and butter into the flour, watching for little beads to form.

While she worked, she rehashed their conversation again and again. First berating herself for allowing her temper to flare. Benjamin was just mouthing off to show his deep hurt. Then quickly vacillating onto the deep hurt she felt at his indifference for how hard she had worked to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table.

Granted it wasn’t the kind of lifestyle that he had grown up with; the one he felt entitled to, but she had kept them together. They were a family, even if a fractured one.

She slipped the last pies into the oven making certain that the edges didn’t touch; set the timer then grabbed a sponge and began to scrub down the work area.

Benjamin had been right on one count. She should have been able to care for him better. If only she had refused to give in to Jerry’s ‘there’s no need for you to work. I make more than enough’, she would have had a career, been able to keep their home, then Benjamin wouldn’t have been made to leave Canfield.

It was a useless train of thought, she realized since there was no undoing the past, but it persisted until she felt herself sliding into a dark, funk.

She went about restoring order to the tiny kitchen while keeping a steady eye on the stove’s clock. She’d give Benjamin his space; let him blow off some steam as long as he was safely inside the apartment before it got dark. The surrounding streets were dangerous and Benjamin was hardly street wise.

As the late afternoon ebbed into dusk, she felt the first stirrings of concern and began to make calls to his friends. None had seen him. Did they know where he might have gone? No, but they promised to call if he showed up.

When the clock registered seven, concerned turned into full blown worry. She rummaged through her purse, found the car keys and headed out. Hoodlums and miscreants appeared like cockroaches along the business district after dark. If that’s where Benjamin had gone, he was certain to be tagged as an easy target.

Fortunately, the Buick was parked just outside. The area around the apartment house wasn’t much safer. She climbed in and locked the doors. Main Street was just four blocks over but there was no way she was hoofing it by foot.

She cruised her way along Main Street at a crawl, but it was nearly impossible to make out anything in the darkened spaces. Behind her, impatience drivers blared their horns. Finally, she found a parking space under one of the few lighted streetlamps and as much as she hated it, decided to set out on foot.

Most of the buildings were boarded up. The few that remained were closed and gated after dark. Except for the raised voices of those gathered on corners, an eerie silence had settled along the avenue punctuated by the muffled sound of her footsteps.

She scoured the diner and the video arcade. She’d even peeked into the hamburger place where she had applied and found herself wondering what had she been thinking, working here at night.

Except for the girl who had beaten her out of the job and was flirting with the young manager, the place was empty.

Pockets of light became further spaced apart as she drew to the end of the main thoroughfare. Most of the streetlamps had either burnt out or had been shot out. Either way, the town was in no hurry to replace them.

She had bravely checked out both sides of the street, showing Benjamin’s photo to those who didn’t look too frightening while intermittently, shining a flashlight into cavernous holes while praying that she wouldn’t uncover a drug deal going down or something worse.

There was no sign of her son.

Her car was parked about a half mile further up the road. She decided to head back, formulate a new plan.

“Hey, what’s up mama?”

Two youths stepped out of the darkness. One wore a skullcap and had a gold tooth. The other was dressed in baggy jeans and a black tee shirt that was tied with a red “rag”.  He looked vaguely familiar.

The taller of the two with the gold tooth circled round with a swagger, eying her up and down. “You ain’t from ‘round here, now are ya little lady?”

“Maybe she’s lost and needs an escort home,” his friend offered, folding his arms across his chest to study her more closely.

Fear tightened like a noose. Suddenly, it was hard to breathe.

This section of the street was completely deserted. They were standing near a darkened alleyway.  She eyed it nervously.

“Please, let me pass.”

They came together and blocked her path.

“The lady wants to pass,” they laughed, pushing their faces close against her check.     They smelled of liquor and something sweet and sickly that she couldn’t place.

“I’ve been looking for my son,” she explained, forcing her voice to sound normal.

She must let them see her fear.  She reached inside her pocket and withdrew Benjamin’s photo.  If she could divert their attention, she might be able to make a break for it.

“He’s about this high,” she leveled a shaky hand a few inches over her head. “Blonde hair. Stocky build. His name is Benjamin. He was wearing a dark blue pullover and khaki pants.”

“Juan, you seen any dudes wearing ‘khaki’ pants?”

Juan? That’s how she knew him. He was Maria Rodriquez’s son.

The revelation brought a new flush of fear. She knew he was prone to violence. Maria was terrified of him, and Ava had bared him from the apartment building.

“What are khaki pants?”

“White folk’s sense of style,”    Juan laughed.

“But this little lady has lots of style.” His friend grabbed a fistful of her hair and forced her head back. “I think we should get to know each other a little better.”

“Let me go!” she reached back, trying to free his hand.

Please God, help me.

“Let me go, or I’ll start screaming!”
They both laughed.

“Ain’t no one going to come to rescue you here.” He tightened his hold, bringing tears to her eyes. “Ain’t that right, Juan?”

“My man’s speaks the truth. There ain’t no one along this entire street that cares what we do to you.”

“Yes there is,” a deep bass voice sounded.

Her capture pushed her away and reached inside his back pocket for a knife.

“Donny?” she cried in surprise, breaking free and racing to his side.

Donny sometimes helped out at the soup kitchen when he wasn’t propped against a doorway, liquored up. But as much as she appreciated his intervention, he was hardly a match against these two. Donny was reed thin and constantly wheezed with the slightest exertion due to his two-pack-a-day cigarette habit.

“You serious man?”  Juan laughed. “Put away the knife,” he told his partner. “I could take him with one hand tied behind my back.”

Donny wedged himself between Emma and the men. “Get out of here, Miss Em.”

She paused, reasoning the unlikelihood of him coming out alive in a brawl with these twos.

He saw her hesitate and shouted, “Go!”

Adrenaline overrode reasoning. She took off on the run, squelching the temptation to turn around when she heard Donny yell out in pain. Halfway down the street, she spied a phone booth. She yanked the folding door open, dumped her purse full of coins on the metal shelve and placed a call to 911.

“Hurry, please. They’re going to kill him,” she told the dispatcher.

“Ma’am, I want you to stay put until the officer arrives. There’s a squad car in your area with an ETA of five minutes.”

She hung up and sprinted towards her car. Five minutes would be too late for Donny.

She slid into her car, gunned the engine and headed back, not really sure of her plan, but knowing that she couldn’t just stand idle by, waiting for a cop to show up while they pummeled Donny senseless.

For the first time, she was grateful for the old clunker which felt more like an armored car. The hoods didn’t notice the car until she was on them. She ran it over the curb, the headlights catching the threesome wrestling on the ground.

She leaned down hard on the horn, hoping to scare them away.

Donny looked up. Surprisingly, he was holding his own.

Join us next Monday for the next chapter of Sweet Dreams by Katherine Valentine.

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

I’m so happy to announce that my terrific friends over at The Catholic Company have gone above and beyond to make my new book, The Handbook for Catholic Moms: Nurturing Your Heart, Mind, Body and Soul, available for pre-order on their website here.  There is so much I want to share with you about this book, but today I am actually playing “beat the clock” to complete final edits.  Please visit The Catholic Company for an introductory preview of the book and to read what some of those who have already read it are saying.  If you could also share this information on your personal blog or email it to a friend, I would be grateful and indebted to you!

Check out The Handbook for Catholic Moms today.

Not so with Rick Rieser’s first children’s book.

I have to say that this little gem really impressed me. It’s your basic story about individuality and uniqueness…how we are all different but special, BUT Rick Rieser doesn’t succumb to platitudes. He weaves a tale of one tough little bird and his wise momma who teaches him that perfection doesn’t exist. The illustrations are absolutely stunning.

Rick, you clearly know how to talk to kids without speaking down to them and that really carries in Percy, making the message about self-esteem and self-acceptance more authentic.  Will there be more stories about Percy?

There will be more stories about Percy and the changes that occur in the henhouse.  I believe that the “reformed hens” should get a chance to show their true selves now that they have been freed from perfectionism.  Also, there are some unanswered questions about Percy’s origin.  I would like to further explore the relationship between Percy and his loving mother.  I see the next book as a prequel/sequel.

I really like the role the mother hen plays in Percy.  She’s very wise and a good example for parents.  How did you come up with her?

I know from experience that parents and family are the most influential and important element of a child’s life.  Regardless of what we read or think, friends, television, and movies rank a distant second, third, and fifth to the power of families.  I have a wonderful Mom and had a fantastic Grandma.  It was just intuitive for me to portray the wisdom of Mama Hen.  We will learn more about Percy’s Papa in the sequel.

What advice would you give to parents so they can foster inner strength and nourish potential in their children?

I believe that freedom from perfectionism is ultimately a legacy every parent will want to leave their children.  It is tough being a parent in today’s world.  With good intentions we try to push our children to succeed. We need to remember, however, that even though they are our children, they were born to follow their own star.

What is your greatest hope for your book?

My greatest hope for Percy is that it makes a difference in the lives of children who need the message.  Striving for perfection and not accepting differences puts children at risk.  It is a primary cause of both being a victim or a bully at school.  It can also lead later in life to depression or other unhealthy ways of thinking.

To purchase a copy of Percy The Perfectly Imperfect Chicken, please visit RickRieser.com



LISA BARKER reviews children’s books for ages 0-12 on www.BiblioReads.com.  For book reviews, author interviews, content for your website/publication and advertising on BiblioReads.com please contact Lisa at BiblioReads.info@gmail.com.

I just finished a terrific novel and simply had to pause and share my review with you.  The book in question is Through the Open Window by Catholic author Anne Faye. Here’s what I shared on Amazon:

If you’re looking for a great read that will uplift, edify and inspire you, look no further than Through the Open Window by Anne Faye.

The book’s heroine, Lucy, is looking to lead a simple, contented life employed as a children’s librarian in a new town where she doesn’t know a soul. Beyond her better judgment, Lucy decides to sign up for “NaNoWrMo” – a real world phenomenon called National Novel Writing Month. Committing to the task of writing 50,000 words of fiction during the month of November connects Lucy with Mike, an eclectic (and gorgeous) Art professor who leads the local NaNoWriMo group at Lucy’s library.

As the words of Lucy’s novel begin to pile up towards her goal, we watch her personal story begin to unfold. We learn about the heartbreak and tragedy that caused her to begin a new life. We watch as her growing friendship with Mike has to withstand a few tests and challenges. We see Lucy take timid steps toward a faith life she has dismissed in anger. When a very sad dilemma develops in Lucy’s family, we watch as she must walk away from the life she is just rebuilding.

Ultimately, Lucy’s novel and her own life come to a satisfying conclusion that will have the reader wiping away a few tears and looking for a sequel to this very engaging story.   Author Anne Faye definitely has a way with words and creates characters you will quickly grow to know and love. Hope for more soon from this talented writer!

Purchase Through the Open Window and support CatholicMom.com.

Last week, we shared Chapter Three

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three

Sweet Dreams – Chapter Four

Ava Cook had heard the new tenants moving in. Since the apartment was directly across from her place, she hoped that this time the good Lord had sent a tenant that wouldn’t blare music all times of the day and night or she’d find passed-out in the stairwell.

Ava had lived in this building most of her adult life. Although her tiny, three room apartment might be considered sub-standard by today’s need for huge spaces and cavernous rooms, it fit her just fine which was why when the area began to decline and HUD took it over, she had elected to stay. Her small social security check had qualified her among the needy, but more importantly, she felt that this was where God needed her to be. Tenants came and went with regularity, so there was always someone who could use a helping hand or a word of encouragement. People never landed here out of choice.

As a low-rent housing projects went, this one was probably better than most. The state supervisor did a good job of screening applicants. Except for a few low-lives like the man who had just been asked to vacate the apartment next-door, most of the tenants were either elderly, like herself, or were single moms.

Everyone looked after each other. And although there were a couple of teenagers in the building that sometimes made things difficult, like Maria Rodriguez’s boy, Juan, the newest gang member of the Latin Kings, it was safer than most apartment houses in the area.

Ava gathered her patent leather purse and her daily missal, made the sign of the cross, asked the Archangel St. Michael to protect her then stepped out into a dimly lighted hall. The bulb had gone out in front of her doorway. She pulled out a notebook and made a notation. Ava was the unofficial on-site manager. The building supervisor would receive a call as soon as she returned home and heaven help him if he didn’t act on it immediately. Ava was relentless.

The hallway was thick with Mexican spices which meant that there would be a delicious meal delivered when she returned home.  Maria Rodriguez watched over her like a daughter.

Ava wished she could reciprocate and help ease her fears about Juan. Sometimes the boy didn’t come home for days.  Maria worried that he had been killed or arrested. She had tried her best to keep him home and to get an education, but the call of the streets and drug money was too big a lure.

Ava double checked to make certain her door was locked and was about to start down the short flight of stairs to main entryway, when she heard crying.  She paused a moment, tracking the sound. It was coming from the apartment directly across from hers.

She checked her watch.  Mass began in fifteen minutes. She hated to be late, but she couldn’t just take off and leave this poor soul who was obviously in a great deal of distress without asking if there might be something that she could do to help.

She knocked soundly on the apartment’s door while praying the prayer of Isaiah,   Dear Lord, give me an instructed tongue to know the word that sustains the weary.

“Who is it?” a small voice asked.

“Ava Cook. I’m your next-door neighbor,” she announced. “I wanted to stop by on my way out to introduce myself.”

There was a slight hesitation. Ava waited it out.

“Just a minute, please.”

Boxes rustled and were pushed aside. The door slowly cracked opened to reveal a gentle looking woman with brown hair tied at the nape of her neck, a round face and red rimmed hazel eyes.

“Hello.” Ava smiled, working to put the woman at ease. The poor thing looked as though she had been through a war.

“I’m Ava Cook. Apartment 3A.” Ava pointed to the door across the hall.

“Emma Smith,” the woman said with a weak smile, cranking the door opened a tad more.

Ava noted the designer jeans and expensive fitted blouse. Well, one thing was for sure. She certainly didn’t come from around here.

“I was wondering. Do you have any plans for the next hour or so?”

“Plans?” The woman’s brow wrinkled in confusion. She glanced back into the apartment. “I have a lot of unpacking still to do.”

“You can let that go for a while now can’t you? Why don’t you grab your house keys and join me? You look like you could use a good friend in this neck of the woods, and I know just where to find one.”

When Father Joe peeked out of the sacristy this morning, he received a pleasant surprise. Ava Cook was seated in her usual place (third pew on the left) and seated right alongside her was Emma Smith.

Well, I’ll be… Praise God.

He had thought of Emma often since their meeting and wondered how she had fared. There was something special about this woman. He could feel it in his spirit.

He’d seen similar situations play out through his priesthood. The Lord takes an ordinary person, confronts them with a seemingly impossible crisis and then turns their lives into living parables of His grace. Later, their testimonies encourage others during their times of trial.

What do you have planned for Emma Smith? he wondered, adjusting the sleeves to his robes. Must be something exciting, he mused, if the Lord had called in Ava Cook.

He and Ava went way back. It was his first day as the new pastor at St. Gerard’s. The previous priest, Father Kelly had been retired by the bishop. The last ‘amen’ had barely left his lips, when Ava came charging after him, rolling off a list of things she thought he might need to know.

He should slow down when reciting the Penitential Rite. People liked to follow it along in their missilettes and they had barely found the page that morning before the ‘amen’.

And speaking of missilettes… he should order more large print versions. Seniors liked to follow the liturgy and make certain that he didn’t skip any parts like the other pastor.

And…he was not to even ‘think’ about switching from lighted candles to eclectic ones regardless of how much money the Parish Council thought they could save in insurance fees.

She was a pistol, all right.

Over the years, Ava had become his eyes and ears around the parish. If there was a family in need of food, or a husband out of work, Ava made sure that he knew about it.

Just about every morning before Mass, he would enter the sacristy and find a handwritten note from Ava, listing people in need of prayer.

She may be bossy, bordering on overbearing, but she had a love of the Lord and His people that few equaled.

Like so many other soldiers in God’s army, Ava’s compassion was forged in her own crucible.    Ava and her four children had once lived in a small cape cod in the blue collar section of town.  Her husband, a plumber, drank away most of his paycheck, forcing Ava to take a succession of low paying jobs in order to feed the family. One of those jobs was working the graveyard shift on weekends at a diner near the interstate.

That’s where State Trooper, Ted Hawker found her that night. He took her into the back kitchen and with tears streaming down his normally impassive face, told her that there had been a house fire. Her husband had passed out with a lighted cigarette. He and all four children had died in the flames.

Over the weeks and months that followed with the help of people in the parish and others like Officer Ted Hawker, Ava was able to slowly piece her life back together.

Folks took up a collection; gathered furniture and household items and helped her move into the newly completed, once prized, apartment complex that still remained her home today. Meanwhile, Ava continued to work at a collection of menial jobs—salesperson, waitress and house cleaner.

But her days off were always spent at the Elm Street Soup Kitchen. The parish had just begun the mission and was in need of volunteers.

It was a small town. Word had gotten around about Ava’s tragic loss. Street people gravitated to her. Because of her own suffering, they felt comfortable sharing their stories.

And those who sought her out always left feeling hopeful. They reasoned that if Ava could get through all that she had endured then maybe so could they.

Father Joe once asked her why she felt drawn to help others in need rather than giving into grief and despair. Her answer had stayed with him.
“The only way to rise above your troubles is to reach down and lend a hand to someone who needs help more than you.”

Father Joe stepped out onto the altar, made the sign of the cross to signal the commencement of Mass, knowing that Emma was in good hands.

After Mass, the small group of parishioners filed out of church.

“Let me treat you to a cup of coffee,” Ava said after the women had shaken Father Joe’s hand who told Emma that he hoped to see her here again.
The young woman paused for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. “Why not?  I imagine the unpacking can wait a bit longer.”

Emma followed the strange little woman who had practically dragged her out of her apartment. Ava, not Mrs. Cook, as she insisted being called, reminded her of a hard as nails, bossy grandmother who no one dared disobey.

For the life of her, Emma still couldn’t understand why she had allowed herself to be dragged out of her apartment, but she was glad she had. Sitting in the church pew, watching the ritual of the Mass unfold, she felt centered; protected from the harsh realities that had suddenly become her life. A small miracle had happened.

For the first time in months, she could breathe again without the heavy knot in her stomach. The ritual of the mass reminded her that she was not alone.  She was part of a larger whole.

Now, if she could just transfer some of this peace to her son.

The transition from their home at Shiloh Point to the apartment had not been easy. Benjamin blamed her for everything, as though she had awakened one day and simply decided to make his life a living hell.

This morning’s confrontation had been the worse. She had finally had to tell him that their change of address meant that he could not finish out his senior year at Canfield High. Instead, he would have to attend Madison Central.

“That’s where all the crack heads and druggies go. You can’t be serious.”

He stood dwarfing the living room and for the first time, Emma realized that he was no longer a boy, but a young man. Eighteen in a few weeks.

“Everyone knows that Madison’s just a holding cell for losers. I won’t go there!” he said with finality.

“You don’t have a choice.”

She rubbed the space between her temples where another type of storm was brewing. The headache that she had carried around for weeks was intensifying like a low, forming pressure system.

She looked across at her son whose entire body was geared for battle, she being the adversary.     God, she was tired of the abuse Benjamin kept heaping on her.

His eye narrowed. He pointed a finger like a dagger. “This is all your fault.”

“My fault?” A laugh rippled through her chest and came out like snort. “How do you figure that?”

“You should have found an apartment nearer my old school. This is my senior year. My senior year!” he ranted. “I’m supposed to be having fun. And you expect me to leave all my friends behind and miss out on everything? The parties. The prom?”

She was dumbfounded. Was that all he cared about? Having fun? Couldn’t he see that they were fighting for survival?

“Do you honestly think that I would have moved us here if there had been any other choice? We didn’t have one, Benjamin. None! Zippo! In fact, we should count ourselves lucky to have any roof over our heads.”

She reigned in her anger and lowered her voice. He may look like a young man, but the truth is, he was still a teenager.

“I know this has been hard on you. It’s been hard on both of us, but you have to believe that I’m doing the best that I can.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, you should try harder.”

“That’s not fair. In case you haven’t noticed, I didn’t do this to you. Your father did.”

She laid a hand on his shoulder, felt the muscles beneath polo shirt tighten.

“I’m sorry that things aren’t turning out as you had planned, but since there’s nothing I can do about it, we must try and make the most of it. In a few months, you’ll be leaving for college. Things will be better than.”

“Better? How?  Do you really think that Madison will be dishing out the kind of scholarships that you’re asking me to leave behind?” He gathered his things and stormed towards the door. “Instead of just accepting this, you should be fighting back.”

“Oh, Benjamin…”

“You may be willing to settle for this but I never will,” he spit out, slamming the door behind him.

Emma had been so deep in thought that she hadn’t noticed Ava stop beneath a sign that read, Elm Street Soup Kitchen and Shelter.

“Here we are,” Ava said, waving her over. “Best coffee on the block.”

Coffee at a soup kitchen. Why not? The morning couldn’t get any more bizarre.

She followed Ava through a cavernous room set with rows of eight foot long tables and into a large industrial size kitchen that hummed with activity. A crew was hard at work, getting things ready for the lunch crowd. Doors opened at eleven-thirty sharp.

“This is Emma Smith,” Ava announced to a group gathered around a large metal table. Two middle-aged women dressed in slacks and aprons were chopping up vegetables. The women smiled and nodded a welcome.

“We could always use an extra set of hands,” one of them said. “There’s a sign up sheet over there by the upright freezer if you’re interested.”

“Watch out for Birdie,” a deep baritone voice warned her. A man with grey temples and a broad friendly face extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Rich Tyner. Welcome.”

“This is our Director,” Ava explained.

“And pot scrubber, peacemaker and general handyman,” he added. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Love some.”

He handed her a mug then reached for a Pyrex pot.  “So, tell us, Emma Smith…”

“My friends just call me Em.”

“All right, Em. Did Ava kidnap you off the street or did you come willingly?”

Emma laughed softly “No, I agreed to come.”

“Don’t you mind him,” Ava said, shooting the Director a look of mock offense as she set out a small pitcher of milk and a sugar bowl. “Since you must know, I’m showing my new neighbor around.  She just moved into my building,”

“Is that right?” Rich asked. “Do you have any children?”

“A son. He’s a senior in high school.”

“Well, you and your son are always welcome. Feel free to drop in for a bowl of soup or one of Harry’s secret desserts.”

Rich pointed to a man scooping a yellow concoction laced with chocolate cookie crumbs into  paper bowls and pretended to whisper conspiratorially into Emma’s ear.

“We call it a ‘secret’ because none of us can quite figure out what they’re supposed to be.”

“I heard that,” Harry said and waved a chocolate coated spoon. “You’d better watch it. If you keep ribbing me about my cooking, I just might quit.”

“We can only hope,” Rich joked.

She settled on a tall stool, sipped her coffee drinking in their easy banter.

“I remember my first week at Ava’s apartment house,” a large woman with mocha skin said who had been introduced as Alisha.

Ava rolled her eyes. “You make it sound as though I own the place.”

Alisha laughed. “Maybe you didn’t own it, but you sure did watch out for all of us who lived there. I was alone with three kids to raise. My husband had just died of cancer. I was scared silly. But then I met Ava and we became friends.”

“Alisha lived in the apartment over yours. Where Maria lives now,” Ava explained.

“There was a whole group of us single moms back then. Ava used to pitch in when we needed a babysitter or a shoulder to cry on, and in those days it seemed as though there was always something to cry about. But, somehow, things always worked out.”

“She and her new husband, Jim just bought one of those fancy retirement communities on Route 25,” Ava explained. “But to her credit, she still comes back to volunteer twice a week to be among old friends.”

While the two women continued to reminisced, Emma leaned back, enjoying the warm camaraderie among the group. There were no social lines drawn here.

The homeless men scrubbing pots and pouring boiling water into the steamers were treated as equals by the volunteers who help to prepare the noon meal. All stood on common ground which was the complete opposite of the world she inhabited.

In her world, equality was determined by externals. The size of one’s incomes, the neighborhoods where one lived, the car one drove or the country club where one belonged.

Unlike her friends back at Shiloh Point, no one here had judged her.

When Ava explained that Emma had just moved into her building, the implication was clear. No one moved into the housing project for the view. Only the destitute, the poor sought refuge there.  Emma had closely watched their faces. No one had flinched. No downcast eyes.  What a blessed relief not to have to pretend or feel ashamed of a situation that she had had no control over.

She looked around the kitchen, people sharing laughter and friendship and suddenly wanted to be part of it. And since there was no time like the present, she placed her mug on the counter and walked over to the man named, Harry.

“So, what exactly is that you’re putting into those bowls?” she asked.

Join us next Monday for the next chapter of Sweet Dreams by Katherine Valentine.

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Katherine Valentine’s widely read novels explore God’s response to our prayers in times of need. They include:  A Miracle for St. Cecilia’s; A Gathering of Angels; Grace Will Lead Me Home; On a Wing and a Prayer; The County Fair and The Haunted Rectory. All can be found in major bookstores and on-line.

Last week, we shared

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two

Sweet Dreams – Chapter Three

Arlene Fields just couldn’t get Emma and her troubles off of her mind. She and Em had been friends since their two boys had started kindergarten.

Arlene and her then fresh out of medical school husband, Ira had just moved into town and knew no one. She was outgoing, loved people and missed what had once been an active social life. But the offer for Ira to join a highly prized medical team of cardiologists and heart surgeons had been too good to dismiss. She had fully supported Ira’s decision while keeping the growing sense of isolation to herself.

Just when she was beginning to believe that she might very well die of boredom, she had met Emma Smith.

Their first meeting took place at her son, Phillip’s school. It was an open house where parents came to meet and greet the teacher and to learn about the year’s upcoming curriculum. As soon as she had pinned on her nametag and noticed the other women carrying an assortment of cakes and cookies, she was struck with a sharp pang of guilt.

Phillip had been trustworthy in delivering his teacher’s note which asked parents to bring baked goods for tonight’s event. She, however, had not been so trustworthy in remembering to stop at the local Publix Market and purchasing one. Arlene didn’t bake.

Then a woman stepped into line behind her, carrying a large white cake box.

As they neared the refreshment table, she turned to confide to the pleasant looking woman that she had forgotten to bring a dessert and joked, “I hope that doesn’t mean my son will be passed over for monitor duty.”

The woman laughed then side-stepped around Arlene to hand her cake to a supersize lady in charge of the baked goods. “This is from Emma Smith and….” She glanced at Arlene’s name tag. “Arlene Fields.”

The woman opened the cake box and lifted out a beautifully decorated, four layer coconut crème cake.

“Oh, my, this is lovely,” she said, setting the cake in the middle of the display table. “Thank you ladies. I’m certain that the other parents will really enjoy this.”

“You actually ‘made’ that?” Arlene asked, following Emma to a grouping of pint-size chairs.

“I like to bake,” she said with a shrug.

From that day forward, she and Emma were the best of friends. But unfortunately, neither she nor Ira could stomach her husband, Jerry.

In the beginning, the couples had gone out to dinner a few times. But one night on the way home, Ira declared he had had enough.

“Did you hear him go on and on about his new watch. ‘It displays all twenty-five time zones’, he mimicked. “Now, why would I need to know the correct time in New Zealand.

“Besides always insisting that he pickup the check, I’m tired of listening to him go to great lengths to extol about his importance at the bank, or the superiority of his Mercedes versus my Lexus. Then there are the off-colored stories about the members of his exclusive country club.”

Ira shook his head. “Poor Emma. Did you see her studying her wine? She looked like she wished the floor would just open up and swallow her whole. I’m sorry, my love, but count me out next time.”

After that Arlene made excuses whenever Emma hinted that Jerry wanted them to join them for dinner. Finally, she just stopped asking, but Arlene got the feeling that deep down Emma understood which was probably why she always came alone to their holiday parties.

Down through the years, Ira never once inquired why Jerry was absent; so it took Arlene by surprise when this past year he asked if Jerry was coming.

“I doubt it. Why do you ask?”

Ira had been working to untangle the box of Fairy lights that was used to decorate the two potted plants by the front door, paused and looked out into space.

“He’s been on my mind a lot later. I saw him a few weeks ago. Walked right past me without saying hello.”

“Maybe he had something on his mind. You know how crazy it gets for most of us this time of year.”

“Maybe, but he sure was acting nervous. He kept looking back over his shoulder like he was afraid he was being followed.”

Ira went back to the lights. “It was just rather strange, is all.”

When the news came out that Jerry Smith had disappeared along with a great deal of cash, Arlene remembered that conversation. Thinking back, Jerry probably had reason to fear he was being followed that day. He was probably already stashing away wads of cash, she mused, pushing open the glass door with large, etched letters that read, Midway Cardiologists. Ira Fields, Chief Physician.

The two young women who manned the reception desk waved her into their inner sanctum as she stepped through the door.

“Come see what we’ve bought Dr. Simmons,” the girls cried.

They were all huddled around a handsome Monte Blanc pen inscribed with the doctor’s initials. Ira’s colleague, Arnold Simmons was retiring the first of next month and Arlene was handling the retirement party.

She examined the pen up close. “This is lovely. I’m sure he’ll treasure it.”

“You’d better put that away. Arnold is right behind me.”

All three jumped.

“Ira, you scared us half to death,” she admonished.

He planted a warm kiss on her check, enlisting a chorus of ‘aaahhhs’ from the young girls. He smiled good-naturedly.

“Don’t you ladies have something you should be doing?”

“Yes, doctor,” they said in chorus and scattered.

“I have that list of names you need for the invitations,” he told his wife. “It’s on my desk.”

Arlene followed Ira to his office that she jokingly referred to as a study in disorganization; yet she knew that if questioned, he could find whatever he needed in a snap. He handed her a sheet of names, then drew up two chairs. Arlene had overseen similar functions. Ira knew he could trust her to make it a memorable event.

For the next thirty minutes, they discussed the wording for the invitations, flower arrangements (Ira would have preferred there were none. Too, fussy, he said, but she overrode him) and reviewed the luncheon menu, all of which was charted in a brown leather events journal.

In closing, it was decided that Ira would take care of the gift, a set of monogrammed golf clubs.

“I would like to ask Emma to provide the cake,” Arlene said, filing a small leather bound notebook that held all the details inside her tote. “She could use the money.”

“That’s a great idea,” Ira standing to stretch. “Funny you should mention her name. I just happened to think about her during Shachari this morning and offered up a prayer.”

“That’s lovely. Thank you. Em could use all the prayers she can get.”

Ira attended daily services at Temple Shalom and had just been asked to join the Board of Finance. Since synagogues were financed through membership, not by collection plates as in churches, Ira would help to oversee annual dues and the purchase of reserved seats for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

“I still can’t believe the mess Jerry left that poor woman in,” he said with a shake of his head.

“You and me both,” Arlene said, bitterly. “I dropped in to see her on the way over. She was crying her eyes out. The bank served her the final notice on the house. She has ten days to get out or the sheriff will physically remove her and move her belonging out on the street.”

“What’s she going to do?”
”
“I don’t know,” she said, her face tight with concern for her best friend. “I’m really worried, Ira. She has no place to go. I offered her our guest room, but she won’t take it.”

“Have her talk to Sadie Kaufman,” he said. “She belongs to our synagogue. She also heads the social service department here at the hospital. She’s an incredibly sharp woman with a heart of gold. If anyone can help Em find a place to live, she can. She can also connect her with other social service programs.”

“Oh, Ira…that’s a great idea!” She flew out of her chair and planted a huge kiss on his lips.

“Well…” he said, leaning back in his chair with a wide grin. “I should try to come up with more brilliant ideas.”

For the first time since learning of Emma’s problem, Arlene felt a surge of hope. She stuffed the guest list inside her purse, gathered the journal and scrambled out the door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll catch up with you later. I need to talk to Sadie and find out how soon she can see Emma.”

When Emma got home after another unproductive day of job hunting, there was a message from Arlene on her answering machine.

“Em, I’ve got some great news. I spoke to a woman whose name is Sadie Kaufman. She’s a social worker at the hospital. Ira has known her for years. Anyway, I stopped by her office, and we had a little talk about your situation. I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t give her your name.

“She’s offered to help you file for Public Assistance and sigh up for a HUD housing voucher. Apparently, there are certain apartment houses subsidized by the state that you can rent on a sliding scale basis. But she’ll explain all of that when you call. Her number is 889-6500, extension 2213. I hope this helps.

“Oh…I almost forgot. If I were to purchase all the ingredients, would you be up to baking a cake for Arnold Simmons’s retirement party, but only if you let us pay you. You can’t afford to keep baking cakes for free. Give me a call and we’ll discuss the particulars.”

Emma dialed Sadie Kaufman’s number without bothering to take off her coat.

“You must be Arlene’s friend,” Sadie said in a bright, clear voice that filled Emma with hope. “She wouldn’t divulge your name, of course. So, I’m glad that you decided to call. Now, I understand that you’re experiencing some personal challenges. How can I help?”

How could she help? The offer brought tears to her eyes.

She quickly explained her situation, emphasizing how she had been searching for work but without any luck. She didn’t want the woman to think that she was a deadbeat or just looking for a handout. She wanted above all else to be independent. But at this moment, she couldn’t see how.

“I know how frightening all this must be for you, but don’t get discouraged,” Sadie said with the confidence that comes with years of assisting people in similar situations.

“There’s help out there. You just have to know where to look for it and since it’s my job to know, you’ve come to the right place. Now, let’s start with your immediate needs. How are you on food or heat?”

“We’re all right for the moment. Oil tank is half full and I have about ten dollars left in cash, but there’s food in the pantry. I stockpiled whenever I saw a sale. If my son doesn’t mind eating pasta and canned soups, we’ll be okay for awhile.”

“Tell me about your housing situation. Arlene mentioned that you’re home is coming into foreclosure. How soon will you need to vacate?”

Emma glanced at the big black ‘x’ on the wall calendar. “Ten days.”

“That doesn’t give us much time, but as I told Arlene, there happens to be a unit at the housing projects on Maple Street that’s just opened up. It’s pretty basic, one bedroom…maybe one of you can sleep on a couch…a living room kitchen combo, but it will keep you and your son off the streets. Meanwhile, give me the name of your bank. I’ll see if I can get you an extension.”

Emma relayed the information.

“Since time is of the essence, why don’t we meet at your house tomorrow, say at six? I get off here at five.”

“That would be fine.” Emma gave her the address.

“We’ll fill out some paperwork, and I’ll explain the types of programs that are out there and if you’d like, I’ll set up an appointment with the supervisor at the housing project so we can tour the apartment. How does that sound?”

It sounded wonderful. Someone had just thrown out a safety net. She was no longer in danger of falling off a cliff.

She finally removed her coat, pumped up the thermostat two more decrees. She kept it on sixty to conserve fuel.

A school friend of Benjamin’s would be dropping him off shortly. It didn’t matter that he was eighteen and was just a few months away from graduating high school; she still liked to have a snack ready when he got home.

She removed the remainder of a half gallon of milk from the refrigerator, a canister of dark chocolate from the cabinet, a bottle of vanilla extract and a bowl of sugar. Packaged foods were an enigma to Emma. She felt that everything tasted better made from scratch. With practiced skill, she quickly mixed her special blend of homemade hot chocolate in a saucepan and began to stir.

As the first sweet scent of chocolate filled the kitchen, her mind wandered back to the chance meeting with Father Joe. Could this sudden answer to her most urgent needs had been one of those ‘God-incidences’?

What had Father Joe said? That God often replies to our needs by sending a series of seemingly random events that helps to propel us towards the answers we seek. She heard a car pull into the driveway, followed by her son’s voice. She took down a mug and set it on the counter, suddenly feeling less alone.

One week later, Emma stood in the middle of an empty apartment that reeked of urine and a sickening sweet smell that she couldn’t place, reminding herself that she should be thankful that Sadie had found her a place so quickly.

Sadie took a disinfectant wipe and cleaned off a section of kitchen counter that was thick with grease (at least that’s what Emma hoped it was) and began the laborious task of filing out the endless reams of forms that society’s poor were subject to whenever they asked for help.

Emma tried hard to keep her eyes steady on Sadie, not the bug that was crawling up the wall.

“I think that should do it,” Sadie said, removing her reading glasses to let them dangle from a thick chain.

“So, this is all mine, now,” Emma said, taking a stab at levity, although her mind was locked in dread at having to live in a place that stank and had bugs crawling up the walls. What would Benjamin say when he found out that this was to be his new home?

“Emma…?”

She shook her heard, trying to loosen the tangle of thoughts. “Sorry, I was someplace else.”

“I understand. This is hardly what you’re used to.” Sadie had visited their current home. “But don’t let it get you down. Think of it as a bridge between where you are now and where you want to be in a year or two from now.”

“I wish I knew where that was,” Emma sighed.

“Give yourself some time. Things will work out.”

“Can I have that in writing?” Right now the future was looking pretty grim.

“Don’t look at how far you have to go. Look at how far you’ve already come just in a few short weeks,” she reminded Emma. “When you first came to see me you were about to be evicted and didn’t have a place to stay. You had no financial resources and now you have. And although this is not the Ritz, I’m confident that with your taste, you’ll make it your own. You’ll be surprised what a coat of paint will do. And for those financial needs…”

Sadie pulled out an envelope form her purse. “Here’s your first ration of food stamps. It works out to about sixty-dollars a week. I know that’s not a lot, especially with a teenage son in the house, so I’ve jotted down the address to the food pantry. It’s about two blocks from here. It will help at the end of the month when your stamps run out.”

Food stamps. Subsidized apartments in the less than desirable section of town. Emma walked over to the only window in the living-dining room-kitchen area and tried to harness the sudden surge of hatred directed at Jerry.

He was the one responsible for their having to live here be reduced to accepting food stamps to survive. He was the one who had taken apart their world brick by brick and left them in rubble. He was the one who had abandoned them, leaving them alone to fend for themselves.

Sadie stuffed the paperwork inside a satchel already thick with folders and handed Emma a key.

“This is all yours now,” she said, smiling. “I’ll deliver the signed lease to the agent and have the utilities transferred over. If you want a phone, that will have to be on your dime, but if you can’t afford one, there’s a pay phone in the vestibule downstairs that the tenants use.”

Sadie glanced around the apartment one last time. “Are you going to be all right?”

Emma nodded, forcing back the fear that was growing like kudzu, choking off her air supply.

How would she ever manage alone? It was a terrible shock to discover that at forty-two, she had never opened a bank account, filed taxes or worked out a budget by herself. What if she didn’t have the skills? Yet, she couldn’t fail. She had a son depending on her. With all her inadequacies, she was all he had.

“Thank you for all you’ve done,” she told Sadie, walking her to the door. “I don’t know how I would have managed without your help.”

“My pleasure,” Sadie said, placing a hand on her arm. “I know that you’re scared, but remember the saying that goes, What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger?”

Emma smiled. “Yes.”

“Believe it or not, when this is over, you’re going to find strengths that you never knew you had. You’ll be a better woman for it. I promise.”

Emma felt that might yet have to be proven. Right now, she felt like curling up with a blanket on her living room sofa (which was about to be repossessed along with most of the furniture Jerry had insisted they buy on time) and withdraw from the human race.

But as comforting as that thought might seem, it wasn’t an option. Benjamin had already been abandoned by one parent.

“If you have any questions, you know where to find me,” Sadie said, then disappeared down the hall.

Emma waited until her footsteps faded before giving way to the tears.

Join us next Monday for the next chapter of Sweet Dreams by Katherine Valentine.

• Chapter One
• Chapter Two

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Katherine Valentine’s widely read novels explore God’s response to our prayers in times of need. They include:  A Miracle for St. Cecilia’s; A Gathering of Angels; Grace Will Lead Me Home; On a Wing and a Prayer; The County Fair and The Haunted Rectory. All can be found in major bookstores and on-line.

As we close out this Month of the Rosary, it’s not too late to put a little spark into your devotion to the Rosary.  One of the best resources I’ve seen lately that will help you fall in love with this wonderful devotion is

The Rosary: Keeping Company with Jesus and Mary. 

I am pleased to share the following Book Spotlight interview with Karen Edmisten, author of The Rosary: Keeping Company with Jesus and Mary.

Please briefly introduce yourself and your family to our readers.

I’m the homeschooling mom of three wonderful daughters, ages 15, 13 and 7, and I am blessed to have been married to Tom for 25 years. We are both converts to the Catholic faith — I was received into the Church in 1995, and Tom came in five years later. It’s been a lively, unpredictable and exciting journey.

Please share an overview of your wonderful book, The Rosary: Keeping Company with Jesus and Mary.

Thank you! The book is meant to be a source of information, encouragement and support for anyone interested in the Rosary — cradle Catholics, converts, and even non-Catholics.

I include some personal stories about my own experience with the prayer, especially since when I first came into the Church, I had some anxiety about the Rosary. I worried that one had to pray it a certain way, in order for it to “count.”  It also seemed dry and rote to me, and not particularly meaningful. As I worked on this book, I found that my early anxieties weren’t altogether uncommon. So, it was important to me to address them in the book.

I also include a brief history of the Rosary, and cover some common misconceptions (held by Catholics and non-Catholics alike) about Mary, and about the prayers of the Rosary. There’s also an explanation of the role of the mysteries, and some down-to-earth, practical help offered — ways to incorporate the Rosary (and more prayer in general)  into our lives.

I’d love to hear about your conversion story and what prompted you to become a Catholic author.

I grew up without any kind of religious belief. My parents are great people, but they simply didn’t have a religious background, and they had no interest in Christianity. By the time I was in college, I was seriously questioning the meaning of life — more specifically, the meaning of my life. I explored a number of different philosophies and tried on different belief systems. But I couldn’t find a good fit — nothing answered all my questions. I stayed away from Christianity for a long time, because I couldn’t believe that such a “patriarchal” religion had anything to offer me. But I ran out of things to investigate … and since I wanted to honestly examine all options, I did begin to look more closely at Christian ideas.

Reading C.S. Lewis’s Mere Christianity was a huge turning point for me. Also, a good friend of mine had grown up Catholic, left the Church, and then returned, and he became a great source of information for me on what Christianity was really all about. Eventually, I began to read the Bible and pray that if God were real, He would somehow reveal Himself to me. I always say that once we start to pray, we “haven’t got a prayer”! And that was true in my case. Objections began to topple, and before I knew it, I desired baptism. At the age of 30, I was baptized by an Episcopal priest, and five years later, after further prayer and study, I was received into the Catholic Church. I love being Catholic, and I love to share this beautiful faith with others.

As far as becoming a Catholic author, it happened slowly. I worked with our parish’s RCIA team, and gave witness talks about my conversion. A priest friend encouraged me to write my conversion story and send it to OSV’s New Covenant magazine, which at the time was edited by Mike Aquilina. Mike very kindly accepted the piece (which was twice as long as what NC usually ran — he deftly edited it to an acceptable length, when he could have simply told me to take a hike for not reading the writers’ guidelines.)  I wrote several other pieces for New Covenant after that, and began to write a bit for other magazines as time, homeschooling, and mothering allowed.

What motivated you to write this book on the Rosary?

The book actually came about in a funny way. I started blogging in 2005, as a way of pulling all my writing links together in one place on the web. I occasionally review books (mainly books I love — I’m not always terribly objective) and I had just reviewed Mike Aquilina’s Love in the Little Things: Tales of Family Life. His editor at Servant read the review, and we ended up connecting. The result was this Rosary book. It was such a privilege to have the opportunity to write it and to share my love for this prayer with other people.

What have you learned and implemented in your own spiritual life as a result of writing this book?

What a great question! I learn something from everything that I write, and that’s one of the things I love about writing.

I actually learned quite a bit about the history of the Rosary during the writing of this book. Many of us are familiar with the stories of St. Dominic and his role in the Rosary — a book by a Dominican priest helped me to clarify and convey a lot of that history.

From a spiritual perspective, the book has been an affirmation of my own commitment to the Rosary, and a re-examination of how easy it can be to “put off prayer” until a “convenient” time. The tips I share in the book are tips I return to repeatedly myself, so it’s really a matter of one sojourner encouraging another, not the case of an expert dishing out advice.  I think it’s important to acknowledge that in our fallen condition, prayer is always a battle. We need to constantly encourage ourselves and one another.

In the book, you share encouragement for folks who may feel overwhelmed or anxious about praying the Rosary.  Can you share some of that with our readers?

I’d love to. First, we all need to remember that prayer is indeed a battle! (See the Catechism of the Catholic Church, 2725.) We will fail, but we can’t let our failures discourage us — just as we encourage our children to learn and mature from their mistakes, our Heavenly Father encourages us to do the same. We have to persevere. When we do, we will eventually see progress.

Second, I think we have to be willing to take baby steps. If you don’t currently pray the Rosary, try incorporating it into your life in small ways — a decade on the way to Mass, a decade in the shower, a decade in the car. Small habits grow, and these things can be great starting points.

Third, don’t worry about “doing it right.”  For example, if your Rosary repeatedly stalls out because you’re constantly interrupted right after the Apostle’s Creed, try jumping right into some decades. Those decades still “count.”

We’re all so busy these days!  What are some of your suggestions for finding time to pray the Rosary?

I find that I have to be brutally honest with myself — if I think I don’t have time to pray, I need to take a closer look. Is there something — anything — in my day that I can cut out so that I will have time?  TV? Computer time? Phone time? There’s usually something that can go, especially if we’re looking only for an extra fifteen or twenty minutes in a day.

Also, attaching prayer to other activities works well for me — praying while I walk or work out, praying in the car and the shower, or while doing a chore or errand. Certainly those times will not have the contemplative dimension that we desire and often associate with the Rosary — it’s supposed to be all about meditating on the mysteries, right? And it is about the mysteries … they are what make the Rosary a contemplative prayer, and they plunge us deeply into the life of Jesus. But, establishing some rhythms for prayer is the first step. Adding the mysteries, and deepening one’s prayer time, will follow.

How does the Rosary ultimately draw us closer to Christ?

In the book, I quote Pope John Paul II’s Apostolic letter, Rosarium Virginis Mariae, several times. He offered such beautiful answers to this question.  First, he pointed out something very basic about the tool we use to help us pray the Rosary: when we look at the beads, we see that they all “converge upon the Crucifix.” He went on to say: “Everything begins from him, everything leads towards him, everything, through him, in the Holy Spirit, attains to the Father.”

Even the Hail Mary itself is about Jesus — He is implicitly present in it from the beginning. (I go into more detail about this in the book, and look at the Hail Mary line by line.)

And, in meditating on the mysteries of the Rosary, what we end up doing is journeying with Jesus Christ. Because the mysteries are Scriptural references to the lives Jesus and His mother, meditation becomes a way to spend time with, to keep company with, Jesus and Mary.

And, remember, meditation, according to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, simply means using “thought, imagination, emotion, and desire” to enter more deeply into prayer (see CCC, 2708.) Don’t be intimidated by the idea of meditating, or worry that it’s beyond your spiritual grasp. If you can think about Jesus, and imagine being with Him at various times in His life, if you can ponder the attendant emotions, and desire to know Him better, then you are meditating!

The bottom line is that Mary doesn’t want our attention, and she isn’t trying to draw us closer to her –  she wants us to direct our attention to Jesus. The Rosary can help us do that.  However, praying the Rosary will draw us closer to Mary, too, because it will help us to see (and want to emulate) her as a beautifully devoted disciple. But, Mary will always lead us to her Son.

Are there any additional thoughts or comments you’d like to share with our readers?

I often remind myself that all prayer “counts” — from the quick thoughts tossed up to God to the slow, meditative Rosary on a quiet Sunday afternoon … from the depth of a sublime holy hour to the rote Hail Marys droned while doing a load of laundry … it all counts. It’s all part of our relationship with God. Just as we have different levels of interaction with our spouses — from quick, utilitarian conversations, to intimate exchanges — so will the spectrum of our communication with God play out. Prayer is about talking to the One we love, so don’t wait for the perfect time to talk. Just talk to Him. All the time.

Purchase The Rosary: Keeping Company with Jesus and Mary and help support CatholicMom.com.

Last week, we shared Chapter One of noted author Katherine Valentine’s newest inspirational novel.  Join us each Monday as we watch this incredible story unfold.

Sweet Dreams – Chapter Two

Emma stepped off to allow a man with a walker to pass and landed in a puddle of water that ran over the top of her shoes and was now working its way down to her toes. She had never felt more forlorn or scared in her life.

It’s the kind of dreary grey day when the wind seems to penetrate the very soul, Emma was thinking as she trudged downtown. The sidewalks were coated in a mixture of mud and brown slush. The few people who were out, walked hunched over, their heads tucked into their coats like a turtle in a shell.

She pushed her scarf up over her face, more to hide the tears than to keep out the wind.  Normally, she was not given to tears like many women. But lately, it took very little for her chest to tighten and her eyes to grow moist.

She had just finished her fourth job interview this week. With no computer skills and the technical savvy of a bushman, she had long ago given up any hopes that she might snag a job that allowed her to wear her own clothes. In fact, today’s job interview was as low as a woman over forty could go. But she had swallowed her pride and applied as a counter person at Shake and Eats. She had a son to care for.

A boy who was not much older than Benjamin wore a nametag that read, “Bobbie, Store Manager,” and made it very clear by his lack of attention that he was not at all interested in hiring a middle aged woman. His sights were keenly focused on the young blonde filling out an application at an adjacent booth. The girl wearing tight spandex pants and a sultry smile.

Emma seriously doubted that he had even heard her name or anything else that she had said about being reliable and knowing the importance of working as a team. After their short interview, he mumbled something about letting her know within a few days if she had the job, then hustled over to the booth, smiled broadly and apologized for keeping the blonde bombshell waiting.

As she walked along, the wind cutting across her face, she considered overriding her pride and accepting Arlene’s offer to use her spare room, at least until she could find a job. Any job. Maybe she should canvas her neighborhood and ask if anyone needed a housecleaner.  Her neighbors would probably love the idea of having ‘the fallen’ clean their house.

She was quickly running out of options and scared.

The bank had called this morning. They wanted her out by the end of the month. Where would she go?

Her search for an affordable place to live hadn’t gone much better than her job search. Landlords demanded two months rent and a security deposit in advance and an up front, non-refundable fee to run a credit check. Even if she had funds to spare, she wouldn’t have bothered. Her credit score was linked with Jerry’s.

So with no assets, a zero credit score and not having held a job in near twenty years, she was not what landlords considered a desirable tenant.

Oh, God, what would they do? She and Benjamin might soon be homeless.

A deep throated man’s voice interrupted her dark thoughts.

“You look like you could use some time out of this wind.”

A priest swathed in a bright orange stripped hand-knitted scarf, his face chaffed from the cold, was trying to pry a thin layer of ice off a set of stone steps. To his right a large sign read, “St. Gerard’s”.

“You know the church is often called a haven in the storm,” he said with a grin that lifted a set of jowls and emphasized the tiny nest of lines tucked in the corners of a pair of gentle brown eyes. She judged him to be around her age.

“Thank you, Father, but my car is parked a few blocks down. I think I’ll just keep going.”

“I have a pot of tea brewing,” he called. “And a tin of cookies baked by one of the our church’s fine ladies, although….” he did a quick checked to make sure no one was listening, then leaned down and whispered, “In all honestly, I wouldn’t advise the cookies unless you have a very reliable dental plan.”

She smiled. The priest took it as a sign of encouragement and pressed on.

“Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Father Joe Lansing,” he said, leaning the shovel against the railing and covering the distance between them with one, lengthy stride.

He removed his glove and extended a hand.     She shook his hand. His grip was firm. His eyes were kind.

“The offer is made in the spirit of friendship, and if I might say without causing offence, you look like you could use a friend.”

She had worked so hard, not to break down.  Not to show emotion in public. But something inside suddenly broken. Frustration, hurt, anger and fear burst in a torrent of tears. She crumbled under its weight and collapsed onto the stone steps in a sobbing mass of despair.

She supposed that if she was to have a total mental collapse, outside a Catholic Church was as good a place as any. Emma had been raised a Catholic, but hadn’t been to Mass in years which suddenly struck her as ironic. The Church she had abandoned was the Church which was now offering her repose.

“My dear lady,” he said. “There, there. I’m sure it’s not as bad as all of that.”

She looked up, tears streaking her face. “It’s worse. So much worse than you can ever imagine.”

“Would you like me to call someone?” he asked, helping her to her feet. “A friend or relative, perhaps?”

His genuinely concerned touched her deeply.  She shook her head and tried to compose herself. “I’m sorry, Father. I…er…there’s no one.”

He pointed towards the church doors and smiled.  “I beg to differ.”

She looked up.  “I’m afraid that He’s not much interested in my problems, either.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I figure that if He cared, He wouldn’t have allowed my life to shatter.”     There was a hard edge to that comment that surprised her.  Did she really blame God for all of this?

“Then you’ve come to the right place.”

“I have?”

“It just so happens that shattered lives are my specialty,” he said, taking her arm and steering her up the steps.

She was too weak and dazed to protest. She followed meekly.

“Be careful here. They’re might still be a piece of ice. I haven’t salted yet.” He opened the thick, wooden door and stepped back to allow her to enter. “Mind if I ask your name?”

“Emma. Emma Smith.”

“Well, Emma Smith, let us have a nice cup of tea and try not to break any caps on those cookies.  I always find that everything seems a tad better when there’s food involved. And as you can see.”  He patted to his pouch.

Emma liked this self-effacing man of God and began to find, if not a ray of hope, a ray of comfort.

He led her into the sanctuary and through a side hallway that connected the church with the rectory. They passed the church secretary, who smiled and nodded as though interruptions were commonplace.

“I turned off your teapot,” she admonished, calling after him as he buzzed by. “If you’re not careful, one of these days you’ll burn down the place.”

“Which is why the good Lord sent you to watch over me,” he countered, making the woman shake her head and smile.

Father Joe’s office was to the right off another long corridor. A bank of tall windows flanked the south wall and looked out over a dormant rose garden that encircled a statue of the Blessed Mother.

“Make yourself at home while I fix us a spot of tea as my Irish grandmother used to say. How do you take it?”

“Just plain, please.” While Father Joe went about making the tea, she studied the walls which were covered with crayoned pictures.

“Be careful. It’s hot.” He handed her a mug then motioned to a set of chairs. “Those are from my little friends down at the shelter.”

“Really?”

“You seem surprised.”

“They’re living in a homeless shelter, yet their pictures are so colorful and…happy.”

“Children live in what St. Catherine of Siena termed, ‘day tight compartments’,” he said, blowing steam off his mug. “They’re seldom plagued by our adult worries. Elm Street Soup Kitchen and Shelter is one St. Gerard’s outreach missions. It’s run by a core of very dedicated volunteers who work very hard to make certain that our guests are as comfortable as possible.”

“I’m afraid that if things don’t turn around for me soon, my son and I might soon be your newest guests.”

With those words, came a new jolt of fear. This was real. They might actually have to live in a homeless shelter. She glanced back at the wall, wishing she could be like those children and not worry about tomorrow. But she had a son. It was her business to worry.

He offered a plate of cookies with heavily blackened edges. “Please, take one if you wish, but I warned you, do so at your peril.”

She declined.

“Smart choice. Mrs. Finley hands me a new batch every Sunday after Mass,” he said, setting the platter on a side tale. “For which I add another Hail Mary to her penance.”

Emma laughed out loud. Father Joe wasn’t like any priest she had ever met before.

“So, tell me, why might you have to live at the shelter?”

She felt heat rising, reddening her checks.  She would never get over the embarrassment of her plight.

“My husband disappeared, along with a quarter million dollars from the bank he used to manage and our joint accounts.  Now, our home is being foreclosed on and I have just ten days to vacate and find a new place to live with no money.”

“I see…” He grew quiet.

“I need a miracle, Father,” she concluded, certain that none would be forthcoming.

“Not all of God’s answers involve miraculous intervention like manna dropping down from the sky, or angelic visitations,” he told her. “Many of God’s responses begin with ordinary people that He sends across our path.”

“Like you?” she asked, smiling.

“I bet you think that our meeting was a coincidence.”

“Wasn’t it?”

It was his turn to smile. “Our janitor went home sick today before he had a chance to shovel the church steps. Now, I knew if I left it undone that slush would turn to solid ice by morning, and I couldn’t risk an elderly parishioner falling and breaking a bone. So, I grabbed a shovel and while attending to the steps, I saw you.”

“So, you’re saying that God arranged our meeting?”

“Something like that.”

“Excuse me Father. I don’t mean this to sound rude, but why?”

“No offence taken. I don’t have an answer to that. Maybe He knew you needed someone neutral to talk to. Maybe He had hoped that you might find comfort here. If I might ask, what religion are you?”

She nodded. “I was raised a Catholic, but I kind of drifted off during college.”

“Maybe God decided to send one of his most charming men of the cloth to woo you back to the fold with jaw-breaking cookies and a mug of weak tea?”

He set his mug aside and grew serious. “Right now you’re consumed with fears and worries of how you’re going to fix this problem. How will you find a job? Or a place to live? Or the money for groceries. Am I correct?”

“That pretty much sums it up.”

“But what if you were to begin an outrageous experiment. The Bible says that God is a provider of those who diligently seek Him. What if you were to return to the Church and daily prayer? What if you were to ask God to bless you richly so you might bless others richly in His name?”

Emma was having a hard time processing a God that wanted her to achieve that kind of success. She had always thought that the most we could expect from God in times of trouble was a comforting word, or the hope that when we died our sorrows in this life would be over.  But a God who activity sought our highest good, then joined with us so we might enrich other lives?  That would take some readjusting. Yet this priest, this man of God was telling her that it was possible.

“It’s a bold prayer,” Father Joe admitted. “And not for the dilettante. Only those who are truly committed to seeing this experiment through should make this contract with God. But I promise you this, Emma…” His eyes grew earnest. “If you will offer up this period of suffering and trial to God for His glory, you will enter into a realm of joy so fulfilling that you’ll awaken each day filled with unexpected ‘God-incidences’.”

“What’s a ‘God-incidence?”

“That’s when God replies to our needs by sending a series of seemingly random events that helps propel us towards the answers we seek.”

“Like sending your janitor home so you would shovel the church steps and just happened to be there when I passed by so you could offer me tea and cookies?” she said, half jokingly.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to blame the Lord for the cookies, but…yes.  I believe that’s exactly the way He set things up. Think on the series of events that had to take place for me to be out front at the precise moment that you appeared, without, any of which, could have mucked up the deal.

“Our janitor could have decided to go home ‘after’ he had shoveled the walk. I could have been called away to the phone. You could have decided to park your car elsewhere.”

Emma was slowly catching the wisdom behind Father Joe’s theory.

“I guess my question is, ‘what comes next’?”

“Ah…that’s the exciting thing about turning your life over to God. You never know when He’ll pull a rabbit out of His hat.”

“But how will I recognize His leading?”

“By just being open. God speaks to us throughout each and every day. Through chance meetings, like this. Through books, newspaper articles, movies. I once had a woman tell me that when she needed retirement funds for her husband that God sent her the idea for a book that sold enough copies to answer her needs. God’s ways are infinite.

“So, Emma Smith. How about handing your troubles over to the Lord, instead of carrying them around by yourself? You never know where He might take you. Besides, you have nothing to loose and everything to gain.”

Join us next Monday for the next chapter of Sweet Dreams by Katherine Valentine.

Sweet Dreams – Chapter One

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Katherine Valentine’s widely read novels explore God’s response to our prayers in times of need. They include:  A Miracle for St. Cecilia’s; A Gathering of Angels; Grace Will Lead Me Home; On a Wing and a Prayer; The County Fair and The Haunted Rectory. All can be found in major bookstores and on-line.

Sweet Dreams – Chapter One

When the Lord has given you the bread of
suffering and the water of distress,
He who is your teacher will hide no longer,
And you will see your teacher with your own eyes
Your ears will hear these words behind you,
‘This is the way, Keep to it.’ Isaiah 30: 20-21

January, 1981

A sudden winter storm had dumped two feet of snow along the North Carolina mountain range that encircled the fashionable sub-division known as Shiloh Point. Emma turned the volume up on the television wedged in the corner by the fridge, fighting back a rising sense of fear.  Jerry should have been home hours ago.

The newscaster was reporting several accidents, from one end of the county to another. He stated that police and emergency crews were stretched to their limits and were advising people stay off the roads.

A kitchen timer went off. She threw on a pair of oven mitts and removed the last of fours cakes from the oven just as the screen flooded with pictures of a major accident on the interstate. A tractor-trailer had overturned, causing a massive pile-up. The photos were chilling. She moved closer to scan the screen, searching for a black Mercedes.

No, no…she mustn’t let her imagination go there. Jerry was probably one of those stuck in the long line of traffic caused by the accident.

She cast an anxious eye out the kitchen window. The wind was driving a steady wall of snow across an already frozen landscape. With the road conditions growing more treacherous by the hour, there was no telling when he might make it home.

Anxiety slowly morphed into anger.

He had promised to call when he landed, but being Jerry, of course, he wouldn’t have wanted to waste time, trying to find a phone even though he knew how she worried when the weather got bad. If he had called, she would have told him to stay put. Ride out the storm. There were dozens of hotels just outside the airport.

She turned her attention onto the icing for the Bailey’s Irish Crème cake. She had promised four cakes for the Friends of the Library cake sale and at the moment was grateful for the distraction. Baking always helped to calm her.

Suddenly the family room exploded in a round of raucous cheers. A mixing spoon flew out of her hand and rattled across the tile floor.

Their seventeen year old son, Benjamin and his friends were waiting out the storm, playing Super Nintendo. A thunderous victory dance followed along with shouts of ‘hi-five’.

“Hold it down, will you guys?” she shouted above the din, just as the phone rang. She ran her hands over her apron and picked up the receiver, hoping that it was Jerry.

“Smith’s residence.”

“Emma, thank God you’re home.” It was Jerry’s secretary, Patricia. “Is Jerry there?”

“No. In fact, I was hoping he’d call,” she said, taking down a box of confectioner’s sugar. “He’s probably caught on the Interstate. Have you seen the news reports? Traffic is backed up for miles. I hope he makes it home before dark. That’s when things really get slick with the ice.”

She opened the box and began to pour into a measuring cup.

“When he left on vacation last week, he told me that he would back this morning.  I thought he might have gotten home before the storm hit.”

“Vacation?”  Her hand jerked. Powdered sugar dusted the counter.

“He and Benjamin were taking a skiing trip.”

“Skiing trip?” She set the box on the counter. “Benjamin is here with me. You must have gotten things confused. Jerry is at a banking convention. Something to do with his department.”

It took her several beats, before she realized that Patricia had grown very quiet.

“Pat? Are you still there?”

“Emma, I don’t know how to tell you this… There is no convention.”

“No convention? I don’t understand.”

“Neither do we.”

Emma walked the phone into the dining room, out of the earshot of the boys.

Lowering her voice, she asked, “If he’s not at a convention then where is he?”

There were some raised voices on the other side of the phone. Patricia asked them to quiet down.

“Oh, Em, that’s exactly the question the executives here at bank want to know. That and the whereabouts of the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that’s missing.”

For the next eight weeks, Emma lived two separate lives. In the one she shared with her son there was the calm, efficient, in-charge parental figure that insisted it was all a huge misunderstanding and that his father would soon return to explain everything.

In the other, she fought against a rising tide of panic and growing shame as first detectives and then the FBI arrived to ransack their home for any clues as to Jerry’s whereabouts, and to pelt her with questions, trying to disprove her insistence that she knew nothing.

But as hard as it was on her, she knew it was doubly hard on Benjamin. News had leaked out at school. Teachers eyed him differently. Friends began to make excuses about hanging out after school. Emma’s heart ached for the once confident young man who had now grown guarded, distance. If only she could turn things around, make them right. She vacillated between intense rage at feeling so impotent to help her son save face and red, hot anger over what Jerry had done.

Not only had he stolen a huge sum of money from his employer, he had left them alone, without resources. Both their checking and savings accounts had been emptied.

And just as important, he had left without warning. No explanation. He had just disappeared. Jerry had always made a very comfortable income, then why suddenly had he decided to steal? It didn’t make sense, until the bills started arriving.

Jerry had always taken care of their finances. And to be honest, it was something Emma was only too willing to let him oversee. When it came to facts and figures, she was hopeless. Seldom was her checkbook balanced. Besides, Jerry was the president of a bank. He knew all about those sort of things. It seemed logical to let him take care of it.

In fact, now that she looked back over the years, she realized that she had never paid any attention to matters of money or the stack of bills that arrived every month. Looking back, however, she realized that she should have.

Creditors began calling all hours of the night and day, demanding payments on overdue accounts. She requested past records, proof of what they said was owed. They were happy to oblige.

With a mixture of shock and rage, she read through the long lists of expenditures. Suddenly, she understood how they had afforded the expensive new cars; trips to the Islands; and the endless supply of gifts that Jerry had lavished on their son, including the new Mustang convertible that had arrived the week before Christmas.

When the smoke cleared, the amount of debt was staggering. Jerry owned a total of six hundred thousand dollars in credit cards, plus the mortgage on their home. That was another eight hundred thousand. And car payments for all three vehicles.

Finally, she understood Jerry’s sudden disappearance. Faced with a mountain of debt and no way to possibly pay it off, he had decided to simply leave. His way of coping with the financial crisis that he had created.

Hatred rose, canceling out any affection that she had ever felt for the husband with whom she had shared nearly two decades of marriage. Not only was he a thief, he was also a coward, leaving her to straighten out his mess.

Since their home had been mortgaged through Jerry’s former place of employment, and bank officials were none too moved by her repeated pleas for an extension on the foreclosure procedures. She had thirty days to vacate.

Then when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, a repro company appeared in the middle of the night and demanded the keys to their cars.

“If your husband calls, you let us know immediately,” said the heavily tattooed man with a gold front tooth and a gun strapped to his belt as he handed her his business card. He was not happy to discover that Jerry’s Mercedes was missing.

“If you hold back information, you’ll be abetting a car thief, and in case you don’t know, that’s a felony.”

Suddenly, she didn’t care if he were totting a gun. She was tired of being threatened when she had done nothing wrong. By the bank. The credit card companies. Even the unities had threatened to turn off the electricity if she didn’t come up with the five hundred dollars owed in back payments.

She walked right up to him and shouted in his face, not caring if the neighbors heard. Who were they anyway? Not one of them had offered a kind word. Instead, they hid behind curtains and snubbed her when they met on the street.

“If I knew where my husband was, I would have told the police. The car was in his name, not mine. I have nothing to do with its disappearance, so if you show up here again, I will have your arrested.” She was breathing fire. God, it felt good.

“Oh…if you should come across him, ask where he’s stashed the money from our joint accounts.”

With that, she walked up porch steps and slammed the door.

She tried to live without a car for nearly a week which meant that she was reliant on friends, many of whom were suddenly not available, or simply refused to answer her calls.

In desperation, she finally cashed in one of Benjamin’s college bonds and purchased a rusting, smoke spewing, gas guzzler that made sounds like a death rattle whenever she came to a stoplight. Benjamin blatantly refused to be seen in it and made Emma drop him off several blocks from school.

In the midst of this chaos, she felt duty bound to honor a commitment to bake a dozen pies for the local hospital’s fundraiser. Arlene’s husband, Dr. Ira Field was on staff there.

Fortunately, Emma had a pantry full of baking supplies because she certainly didn’t have any extra cash around to replace them.

“Where have you been?”  Arlene asked, eying the strange, rusting car parked by the curb as she positioned a large cart borrowed from the hospital cafeteria near the back fender. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for weeks,”

“In hiding,” Emma said, struggling to open the trunk. It finally gave way with a ear splitting screech.

“Does that have anything to do with Jerry’s disappearance?” Arlene never minced words.

Emma rolled her eyes and handed over a cake. “You heard.”

“It’s a small town. It feeds on gossip.” Arlene carefully positioned the cake on the first tier, then turned back for the next. “I’ve called you a half a dozen times. I thought you might want to talk, drink some wine, get sloshed, but all I got was the answering machine.”

“I’ve been out looking for work. Jerry cashed out all of our accounts.”

“That bum! May he rot in hell,” Arlene said with the vehemence of a true friend then she grew serious. “How’s the job search going?”

“It’s basically demoralizing. I was just turned down at the Piggly Wiggly. Apparently, I am not qualified to bag groceries.”

Arlene laughed and gave her a hug. “Don’t give up. You’ll find something. Meanwhile, I’ll keep an eye out. And if you run short of cash, I have my grandmother’s inheritance.  It’s just sitting there.”

Emma thanked her, although she knew in her heart that she’d rather die than take charity. Call it pride, or stubbornness, but Emma was embarrassed enough over the mess that Jerry had put them in. She was not about to further that embarrassment, by being a burden to the only friend who hadn’t run for the hills.

That was one of the hardest things about her situation. The deep hurt of having people that she had known for years (…even their kids had played together since toddlers) now treat her as a leper.  What were they afraid of? That their name might be sullied by association?   It filled her with a deep, gut wrenching sadness.

They finished loading the cart.

“How about parking this boat, then coming in and helping me setup? It might help to get your mind off things for a while.”

“Might as well,” Emma said, slamming the trunk. “Thanks. You’re a true friend.”

Arlene threw an arm around Emma’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Don’t worry, Em. We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

Join us next Monday for the next chapter of Sweet Dreams by Katherine Valentine.

Copyright 2009 Katherine Valentine

Katherine Valentine’s widely read novels explore God’s response to our prayers in times of need. They include:  A Miracle for St. Cecilia’s; A Gathering of Angels; Grace Will Lead Me Home; On a Wing and a Prayer; The County Fair and The Haunted Rectory. All can be found in major bookstores and on-line.

Many of you join me in my great admiration for the work of this wonderful Catholic novelist.  Katherine Valentine’s widely read novels explore God’s response to our prayers in times of need. They include:  A Miracle for St. Cecilia’s; A Gathering of Angels; Grace Will Lead Me Home; On A Wing and A Prayer; The Country Fair and The Haunted Rectory. All can be found in major bookstores and on-line.

Be sure to join us on Monday morning, October 19 at 10 am Pacific time to begin reading Chapter 1 of Sweet Dreams here on the website.  New chapters will be added weekly as we enjoy this delicious new novel together!  Please tell your book loving friends and join me in thanking Katherine Valentine for this wonderful new addition to the literature she has created.

Sacred Hearts: A Novel

I am pleased to share my conversation with Ms. Dunant and to highly recommend Sacred Hearts: A Novel to those seeking an interesting fiction read with roots in Catholic history and theology.

Please briefly introduce yourself and your family to our readers.

I am a 58 year old woman, a novelist and one time radio presenter for the BBC with two children, both girls, now 18 and 21.  We live in London, but have a small apartment in Florence where I go when I am researching or writing. Though recently my daughters have found it is the perfect place to go without me and with their friends! I always wanted them to grow to learn Italian and love the city so I suppose I should have realized that would do that more powerfully without me! Letting go is maybe one of the hardest bits of being a mother ….

What provided the inspiration for you to write Sacred Hearts: A Novel?

I had become very interested in Renaissance history as a result of researching and writing my novel, The Birth of Venus about young girl painter growing up in Florence in 15th century. That book took me briefly into a convent and it was then I learned that over the next century, as dowry inflation grew, and families were not able to marry all their daughters, an ever increasing number of young women were PUT into convents to be married to Christ. Historians estimate that almost half of all well born women ended up as nuns. An extraordinary statistic!   Of course not all of them entered the cloisters with a vocation.  The more I learned about this,  the more I knew that there was a wonderful novel waiting to be written about both the convents and the women – old and young – inside them.

Can you share a bit of insight on your own faith background and how the writing of this book impacted upon you spiritually?

I was born and raised a Catholic in London and though I stopped practicing as a young adult, I became very interested in both history and art, in which the Catholic Church played such a huge role.  Five hundred years ago, of course Catholicism was not simply a religion, but a whole cultural and political edifice. The role of women in society was profoundly different and as I started to research Sacred Hearts I became fascinated by how some women, sometimes of noble birth but sometimes quite humble, set out to find a way to God through ecstasy and vision.   I studied a number of their experiences and was enthralled by their power and commitment and how in their own way they transcended the deep social constraints of the time to become notable, often admired and influential figures. Of course not all of them found it easy. Some women in convents were deeply unhappy, while others managed to find a way to God through other means, such as music or healing or writing.  Sacred Hearts: A Novel, is about all of them and I have attempted to describe and explore their journeys honestly and give them as much power as my writer’s pen can muster.

The book, along with being tremendously captivating, is also almost encyclopedic in detail.  What type of research went into learning about the lives of 16th century cloistered nuns?  What were some of the most interesting details you learned in the research process?

While I think I always expected to find a contrast between those women who pursued spirituality and those women who genuinely fought against being enclosed against their will, I don’t think I had any idea what creatively and dramatically rich places convent were.  How many young women and children there were inside (novices entered at the age of menstruation at 13 or 14) or how, before the Counter Reformation, how relatively open some of these places could be: how their families were constant visitors, how there were concerts and even plays performed (often written by the nuns themselves) and most of all how deeply important music was. Convents were often famed for their choirs and choir mistresses were arranging and singing some of the greatest spiritual music ever composed by composers such as Palestrina and Rore. There were even women nun composers. My research brought me into contact with an early music group in Britain which as a result of our collaboration went on to record all of the music which is featured in the book. For those who love the work of Hildergarde  of Bingham, please give a listen to “Sacred Hearts Secret  Music” (You can hear examples of it along with the story of nuns music online either at my web site, SarahDunant.com or the group’s website, MusicSecreta.com.)  The sound of these women’s voices, recorded in a 16th century English church (I was there when they did it and it sent chills down my spine) in the very same arrangements that those  16th century nuns would have used is an eerie and wonderful experience.

I’m curious to know if you have had any response or feedback from religious sisters who might have read the book and what they thought of it?

Oh yes, interestingly, I have had responses from a number of former nuns in America and Australia. They all say how fascinating it is to look back 500 years. And how, though many things have changed, some of the atmosphere and emotional dynamic within the convents they lived in were in many ways recognizable. Also I have a friend who is becoming a nun in an American convent as I write this. I have sent her a finished copy of the book (she was very helpful talking to me about it during my research).  I haven’t yet heard from her but I daresay she has her mind on other things as she is just preparing to take her vows!

Please share about your writing process and what it takes mentally and emotionally to so fully immerse yourself in a story like this.  Is there any pain in having to “let go” of the characters at the end of the creative process?

This novel was the hardest I have ever written. At first I found it almost painful to enter the inner life of the characters because so many of them had been given no choice as to the lives they must lead. But of course a good historical novelist must leave behind her 21st century sensibility and try to enter the minds of her characters as they would have lived then. And once I did that they – all of them – become intensely alive for me, from the howling young novice who comes in determined not to stay, through the devout and spiritually novice mistress to the smart and politically  adept abbess.

Now I am on the road talking about the novel and the characters are no longer quite so intensely my own. They are now out there in the world finding a relationship with others. At one level I am delighted and at another a little sad because I had become very close to the incarcerated, as we all were together through all manner of dramas. But for there to be another book, you must let go of the one you have written, or at least let it find its own level. I am not quite ready to do that yet, but in time I hope I will be.

Without giving any “spoilers”, what future do you imagine for Serafina and for Zuana?

I never know what happens after I write the words The End. Yet people always ask me. I suppose I should take it as a compliment because it shows how involved they have become with the characters I have created. The real answer is that their future is for you the reader to imagine. They are your characters too – you now know a great deal about them, in some ways as much as I do and can imagine their future as well as I can (and certainly you have as much right to that imagining).

What I would say is that by the end of the novel both of them have been profoundly changed by their experiences and will have been made humbler by the process. In my own life it is the hard times as much as the good ones that have shaped me. I would like to hope it is the same for them.

Thank you for writing such a compelling story!  Are there any additional thoughts or comments you would like to share with our readers?

No – but I would love to hear from you all. As I say the book now “belongs” to anyone who reads it, and your thoughts would be fascinating for me. You can find me through my website (www.SarahDunant.com) and I try as far as possible to reply to specific thoughts and questions.

Purchase Sacred Hearts: A Novel and support CatholicMom.com.

Finding Faith in a Godless World: A Catholic Path to God,

Lessons From the Master: Living Like Jesus

I hope you’ll also enjoy watching the video below – it gives a great overview of Alex’s first book and shows how it has impacted upon readers.

Please briefly introduce yourself and your family to our readers.

I have been married for 14 years to my beautiful wife, Allison. We live in Lynbrook, New York with our two children Alex and Maggie. I have taught at Kellenberg Memoial High School in Uniondale, New York for 13 years. I serve as the Religion Department Chairman and an assistant chaplain. I also produce music CDs for Kellenberg. We distribute these CDs to our students, their families and faculty free of charge. We have just finished our 15th CD. Our Catholic school has over 2600 students. Before I came to Kellenberg, I owned a delicatessen for 12 years. I have also performed in an Irish band for over 27 years called The Irish Mist ( www.theirishmist.net).

Please offer an overview of the book for anyone who has not yet read it.

My book Finding Faith in a Godless World: A Catholic Path to God is based on the many discussions that I have had with my students in and out of the classroom. I always tell my students that the presence of God is evident in the Catholic Church. Whether it be the Eucharist, the Resurrection, the saints, Mary, etc, we can easily find God if we can take off the blinders that prevent us from seeing Him.

What prompted you to write this book and what message do you hope to share with it?

There is so much resistance in our world to a relationship with Jesus Christ. Our culture does not endorse a faith filled life. Many of my students find the allure of materialism tempting. I spend many of my days using the headlines from Hollywood illustrating the dangers of this lifestyle.  Young people today must realize that they should not have to apologize pursuing a relationship with Jesus Christ.  It is the source of true happiness.

What type of research and preparation went into the writing of Finding Faith in a Godless World?

I sat down and made a list of the things in my life that have shown me that God exists. My approach is very staright forward and practical. I would rather forego abstract theology and give people simple ways to approach their search for God. I have shared my experiences and the experiences of my students as we have journeyed towards faith. I use some of the cornerstones of our faith and philosophy in my book.

It has been stated that your book is a wonderful resource for young people examining the role of faith in their lives.  How has your book been received by youth and other faith seekers?

My students and people of all ages have told me that my book has served as an excellent reflective tool for examining the most important question that we will ever ask ourselves: Does God exist?

How do you nurture your own relationship with Christ in today’s busy world?  What suggestions can you offer to readers looking to increase the role of faith and spirituality in their own lives? My students would tell you that I spend most of my time speaking about the importance of our relationships. Every relationship is interconnected. We can not love “Our Father” in heaven without loving our earthly dad. The key to every relationship is love. Love demands that we shed the veil of selfishness. Once we remove this we can see God much more clearly.

I also tell my students to reject the unhealthy aspects of our culture. I urge them embrace a faith filled world. Even when faith is lacking, go to church and pray. We can not discover Him if we stand on the sidelines.

Do you have any additional writing projects in the works?

My second book was recently released. It is called Lessons From the Master: Living Like Jesus (Saint Pauls/Alba). I also recorded the first ever audiobook on Finding Faith In A Godless World from Saint Pauls/Alba.

I am pleased to share the following Book Spotlight interview with Chris Benguhe, author of

Overcoming Life’s 7 Common Tragedies: Opportunities for Discovering God.

Q:  Please introduce yourself and your family to our readers.

A:  I grew up in the cozy confines of Phoenix, Ariz, where I was an alter boy, and I believed in my faith.  I went from attending a Jesuit prep school to being up to my scruples in the glamor and greed of Tinseltown, and at the ripe young age of 41, I have been kicked out of more places than most people ever get into – as a reporter for the National Enquirer, and then People Magazine.

It all started when I was a pre-med student in college and a piece of paper literally blew in my face for a writing contest. I entered on a whim, and I won. The next thing I knew I was sitting in an interview with a cagy British editor interviewing for a junior reporter’s position with the scandal sheet – the Enquirer.  My first story was to chase Farrah Fawcett around to catch her cheating on her husband. I was one of the first reporters on the scene of the grizzly Nicole Simpson murder, I covered every one of Tom Cruises “perfect” marriages and I knew Brittney Spears was crazy before anyone else.

Q: Please provide a brief overview of your inspiring book, Overcoming Life’s 7 Common Tragedies, for our readers.

A: The worst of times are windows to the best. Tragedies and tough times lead us to others – to love and to be loved – and to a greater understanding of our faith and our beliefs.

Overcoming Life’s 7 Common Tragedies: Opportunities for Discovering God offers a practical everyday faithful philosophy on how to apply the “positive potential” of problems to the seven most common catastrophic life situations through revealing personal reflections plus compelling anecdotes of everyday people who found joy through enduring life’s greatest tragedies.

Most of the people I featured in my first three books went through extremely difficult times in their lives and were made better by their experiences. In fact, those tough times were some of the best things that ever happened to them because the struggles brought them closer to loved ones and made them stronger in their faith and their beliefs. It made them say, no matter what, I’m going to stick up for what I believe. As soon as they realized and accepted those difficulties as opportunities to love and be loved, their whole life changed.

That philosophy inspired me to write this book which shows people prevailing in difficult situations and being better for them, though they may not have realized it at the time.

But I also included plenty of my own personal revelations about my own struggles with gambling, poverty, relationships gone bad and the like. This was the first time I bared my soul like that. It was tough at first, but quite liberating and cathartic once I finished. I think privacy is overrated.

Q: I’m interested in hearing more about your transition from being a secular journalist to a Catholic author and columnist.  How has your faith life impacted upon your professional career?

A: I bounced back and forth in the business and wound up finally as a senior editor for the Tabloids. But you feel so isolated in Hollywood – and in the culture of Tinseltown – it is much more desperate and soulless of a town and a lifestyle than you have ever seen in movies or on TV.  I really started questioning my identity and wondering if this was what life was all about. It really is all about self-centered self satiation out there.

Then the Columbine shootings happened in the spring of 1999, and it changed my life. I saw journalists from across America converge on this tiny Colorado town of Littleton, trying to out-sensationalize each other, and I was one of them!  I really believe that was a turning point in American journalism. Before, he said, there was an unwritten rule that journalists would be more respectful and less harassing of “ordinary people.” Not anymore. You make excuses that the people you’re writing about are celebrities. They got what they bargained for. But we would get right up in the faces of these parents who lost their children at Columbine and try to get them to cry, or hate or blame the shooters’ parents. It was ugly and heartbreaking. And it flew in the face of my faith and my upbringing. Plus the fact that the overtly sensational coverage was what I called “tragicide” and it was terrifying Americans into being afraid to send their kids to school even though the rate of violence of schools has been consistently dropping in the U.S.

I knew I couldn’t go on making money off the misery of others. So I walked into my boss and told him very respectfully that I just couldn’t do this anymore. He said, “You mean the story?” I told him, “No — the job!”

After about a month wandering on the beach and growing out my beard – the money and the margaritas started to run out.  I realized I had to get on with my life, doing something that I believed in – something that could make a difference.

I went back over my files of unpublished stories from my reporter days. Many of them were about ordinary people who overcame tough times. They were inspiring, but not sensational enough to make it into the tabloids. So I put them into a book and pitched it to Penguin – they gave me my first book deal. It was called “Triumphs of the Heart,” and President G. W. Bush the introduction for it, which was very appreciated. Then I wrote a sequel to that and a third book about heroes and the principles they live by called “Beyond Courage: The 9 Principles of Heroism”.

Q: Given today’s economic and political climates, your book is extremely timely.  What motivated you to write on this topic?

A: People are hurting. But could the worst of times be windows to the best? Yes, absolutely. But in order to realize that we need to get out from under the influence of the religion of success in America that tells us that if things don’t go our way, that we are worthless failures who shouldn’t even bother to keep trying.

What if we realized that our happiness is buried deep within the experiences of our ordeals themselves? What if obstacles are actually the intended route to our ultimate happiness? What if God purposely made us fallible and vulnerable?

Actually life’s struggles and failures are what lead us to others, to God and to finding purpose and meaning in our confusing world.

Tragedies will always happen and problems will always be a part of our lives — especially now!  More and more people are waking up to find themselves out of work, out of money and out of ideas for how they will stay afloat when everywhere they look ships are sinking.

But maybe in our increasingly demanding, confusing and failing economic environment, where a mainstream culture of success preaches it’s all about the bottom line, the innate value of work, social responsibility and human dignity has become muddled, if not completely lost, and maybe that’s exactly what led to our demise.

In other words, ironically, trying too hard to succeed has led to our failure. And maybe doing the opposite will actually lead to our success?

But what if true happiness is buried deep within the experiences of our ordeals themselves? What if we discovered that the shortest route to success wasn’t really about success at all, but instead about realizing our value and net worth is not only a relative RESULT of economic viability or human marketability but instead is an innate asset that can enable and create ethical and profitable behaviors that will lead to long-term and stable success?

Maybe it’s not about whether the glass is half full or half empty, it’s about the value of the glass- the glass of your life is always valuable.

Q: Please give a brief overview of your “Steps to Serenity”.

STEP 1 – Avoid the TRAGEDY SPIRAL
STEP 2 — REALITY CHECK
STEP 3 — Be LOVED
STEP 4– Be LOVING
STEP 5–LOVE yourself!
STEP 6 – Do the Leg Work
STEP 7 – Keep the Faith

(See Chapter 3 for more info)

Q: What are some of the common themes in the book that can help readers in their quest to overcome some of life’s challenging situations?

A: What’s the point of our lives?  It’s not to be perfect or to be a “success” or to “maximize” our potential.  All that misses the point of why we were created – to love and be loved!

As I said above I think the real point to take home from the book is that the worst of times are windows to the best because they lead us to realizing that purpose, they lead us to reaching out to others, to God and to finding purpose and meaning in our confusing world. We should love ourselves because we are part of God’s creation – part of his plan.

Q: Can you share a story or two from your own personal experiences or those stories you’ve shared in the book that will provide some inspiration for our readers.

A. There really are so many, but one in particular really stands out to me because it was the original impetus for the book – an equestrian champion named Lance who was left paralyzed and unable to speak after a swimming accident. Well it is an extraordinarily miraculous story that’s too long to tell here, but long story short after almost two decades of amazing love and devotion from his father, father and son developed the most incredible bond. And 17 years after the accident Lance woke up in his hospital bed after a routine surgery, turned his head for the first time in that long and spoke for the first time since the accident. First words out of his mouth were “I love you dad.”

But even more amazing was the father’s response whenever I asked him how he endured such a tragedy and kept the faith through such a long-lasting ordeal. His answer: “The way I saw it was that I got to love my son more than most fathers ever get a chance to.”

It was a totally different perspective on life when things go wrong.  And it changed my life.

Q: What do you hope readers will take away from having enjoyed your book?  What type of feedback have you received from those who have read it and implemented some of your precepts in their lives?

A: I hope that readers can see the same insights and life changing lessons that I was able to while writing the book – that’s the reason why I wrote it. I gave up a very lucrative career writing material that I thought added very little to the human consciousness for a career that was much harder to make a living at so that I could make a difference. These stories will make a difference in your life for sure. And every time I receive a letter from someone somewhere in the world who tells me that, it tells me that I made the right choice.

Q: Are there any additional thoughts or comments you’d like to share with our readers.

Right now America, and the world, are facing some of the toughest times in a long time. But we are obsessed with a religion of success. Do we realize that within that struggle are some of the greatest opportunities to reach out to others, to respect humanity, to realize what is important, to understand the difference between what we need and what we want, and finally to grow stronger in our faith and relationship with God.

Inspiring people and those who need to be inspired are all around each one of us everyday, in every way and every place we go. Whether I am on a plane or in a pub or a coffee shop – I can’t help reaching out and saying hello, asking how their day went and really wanting to know and to listen to their answer.  I have met people who have changed my life, and those whose lives I have changed saved doing just that. I hope this book inspires a whole lot of others to do the same.

Ultimately all of life’s struggles, and all of our imperfections, are a chance for us to reach out to others to love and to be loved. That is where we find our true purpose, our real value, and our greatest joy and triumphs.

Purchase Overcoming Life’s 7 Common Tragedies: Opportunities for Discovering God and help support CatholicMom.com.

Bleeder: A Mystery by John Desjarlais – When classics professor Reed Stubblefield is disabled in a school shooting, he retreats to a rural Illinois cabin to recover and to write a book on Aristotle in peace. Oddly, in the chill of early March, the campgrounds and motels of tiny River Falls are filled with the ill and infirm — all seeking the healing touch of the town’s new parish priest, reputed to be a stigmatic. Skeptical about religion since his wife’s death from leukemia, Reed is nevertheless drawn into a friendship with the cleric, Rev. Ray Boudreau, an amiable Aquinas scholar with a fine library — who collapses and bleeds to death on Good Friday in front of horrified parishioners. A miracle? Or bloody murder? Once Reed becomes the prime ‘person of interest’ in the mysterious death, he seeks the truth with the help of an attractive local reporter and Aristotle’s logic before he is arrested or killed — because not everyone in town wants this mystery solved…

Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar?Jewish Roots of Christian Worship by Meredith Gould – A desire and demand to know more about the Jewish legacy of Christian identity is growing among laity. A desire to foster interfaith understanding and dialogue is growing among officials of local churches.  Meredith Gould’s newest book meets these demands by providing information and delivering biblically and historically-based insights about Judaism’s legacy as it’s revealed in Christian rites, rituals, and traditions. She introduces Christians to Judaism’s influence on the structure of liturgical worship; church sanctuary design and decoration; and the meaning and structure of baptism, Eucharist, and confirmation.  Why Is There a Menorah on the Altar? provides readers a deeper understanding of Judaism, one that will enrich their Christianity and deepen appreciation for their enduring Jewish legacy. Each chapter includes questions for reflection and discussion, plus practical exercises to illuminate key concepts. Questions and exercises can be used by groups as well as individuals.

Stretch Marks: A Novel by Kimberly Stuart – An earth-conscious, yoga-practicing twenty-something is forced to face her estranged relationship with her mother in this comic yet poignant novel about moms and daughters.  Mia Rathbun is an overworked and underpaid Chicago social worker who belongs to PETA and recycles the tops of pizza boxes. Her boyfriend, Lars, is a free-spirited freelance writer (read: mooch) who disdains the conventions of marriage but is happy to build a life with Mia. That is until Mia becomes pregnant. Left on her own, Mia just begins to accustom herself to the looming prospect of single parenthood when her mother, Babs, shows up to “help.” The two have an estranged relationship but are forced to acknowledge their connection as Mia’s belly grows and she has few other options. The story is told with Stuart’s characteristic irreverent and authentic humour with healthy doses of poignancy and grace.

Saint Clare of Assisi: A Light for the World by Marianne Lorraine Trouve, FSP – This noblewoman was so moved by St. Francis of Assisi’s preaching that she gave up all of her worldly goods and devoted her life to Jesus. St. Clare eventually became the foundress of an order of nuns called the Poor Clares.

Fun with Saints – Double the fun of the fantastic coloring and activity books you already love from Pauline Books and Media, Fun with Saints includes 64 coloring and activity pages featuring favorite saints and blesseds. Perfect for children ages 6-8.

Bleeder. I’m looking forward to reading this novel and sharing it with you, but wanted to share this overview so you can get busy reading now!

Catholic mystery BLEEDER explores higher mysteries

Novelist John Desjarlais has “the usual suspects” in his contemporary small-town mystery Bleeder: an amateur sleuth, a cunning villain, baffled police and colorful locals.

But in considering the mysterious death of a stigmatic priest – a priest bearing the wounds of the crucified Christ – Desjarlais explores ‘higher mysteries.’

“Mysteries, close as they are to the barest human motives and fears, and because they deal so openly with death, have a built-in opportunity to explore life’s higher mysteries,” Desjarlais says, “especially the mystery of undeserved suffering.”

In Bleeder, classics professor Reed Stubblefield, wounded in a school shooting, retreats to a cabin in rural Illinois to recover and to write a book on Aristotle in peace. But the town of River Falls is filled with the ill and infirm — all seeking the healing touch of the town’s new parish priest, reputed to be a stigmatic.

Skeptical about religion since his wife’s death from leukemia, Reed is nevertheless drawn into a friendship with the cleric, Rev. Ray Boudreau, an amiable Aquinas scholar who collapses and bleeds to death on Good Friday in front of horrified parishioners. A miracle? Or bloody murder?

Once Reed becomes the prime ‘person of interest’ in the mysterious death, he seeks the truth with the help of an attractive local reporter and Aristotle’s logic. But not everyone in River Falls wants this mystery solved.

A former producer with Wisconsin Public Radio, Desjarlais teaches journalism and English at Kishwaukee College in Malta, Ill. His work has appeared in a variety of magazines.

A member of The Catholic Writers Guild and Mystery Writers of America, he is listed in Who’s Who in Entertainment and Who’s Who Among America’s Teachers.

Desjarlais’ medieval thriller, Relics, was re-released by Thomas Nelson Publishers in May this year. His earlier historical, The Throne of Tara (Crossway Books), was a Christianity Today Readers Choice award nominee.

Bleeder: A Mystery (Sophia Institute Press, ISBN: 978-1-933184-56-2, Paperback, 272 pages, $14.95), issued August 15, 2009, is available at www.sophiainstitute.com and Amazon.com as well as bookstores everywhere.

For more information, reviews, photos and links related to the book’s content, as well as interaction with the author, visit www.johndesjarlais.com.

I am pleased to share the following interview with Ellen Tomaszewski, author of

My Blindy Girl – A Mother’s Journey Through Achromatopsia.

Please briefly introduce yourself and your family to our readers.

I’m an author, owner of a small publishing company, and mother of four grown daughters. My husband and I have been married thirty-four years now and spent 20 years as a presenting team for Catholic Engaged Encounter. I schooled children at home for ten years (mostly Katy) so I didn’t start writing full time until five years ago. I feel called to write, and find it one of the most exciting, and interesting activities I can do. I love the whole process. I get enmeshed in the story, the words, the structure, the story arch, and even when it’s frustrating or difficult, I enjoy writing.  I’ve spent 21 years as a spiritual director with the Spiritual Exercises in Everyday Life.

Please give an overview of My Blindy Girl – A Mother’s Journey Through Achromatopsia for those readers who are not familiar with the book.

My Blindy Girl – A Mother’s Journey Through Achromatopsia is the story of an ordinary mother who, with God’s help, learned how to do extraordinary things to help her visually impaired child and the rest of her family. When Katy was born, her eyes jiggled, bounced, crossed, and squinted. Doctors confirmed she was visually impaired and color blind. Worse, her IQ tests at half that of normal babies. Though devastated at first, her mother grew determined to find the cause and possibly cure. Set in the desert steppe of the Columbia River Valley in Washington State, My Blindy Girl braids a child’s challenges, her mom’s determination, and God’s grace into hope. It is a heart-warming, life-changing book, one you’ll not forget.

When was your daughter Katy diagnosed with Achromatopsia and how did her condition impact upon your family?

Though I searched since her birth for a diagnosis, we didn’t know the name of Katy’s condition or her prognosis for the future until she was almost ten years old. As with most families with a disabled child, everyone was impacted by Katy’s condition. To adjust, we changed so many little things that we had taken for granted before: how we spoke about things (didn’t want to point out things she couldn’t see), how we responded to negative comments, even how we watched television (oh, how great it would have been to have a large-screen TV then). My other daughters were often seeing-eye sisters, and home school was tailored to Katy’s needs with hands-on activities and low-light rooms. Evening became the time of choice for playing outside and we read a lot of large print books. Mostly, my faith in God changed. I had to rely on God more for my energy, my determination, and the belief that God was with us, guiding us, leading us through. I had to trust that whatever happened, God could use that for good.

How did your Catholic faith help you through the difficulties associated with raising a daughter with site impairment issues?

First I had to learn to let go of my expectations about my child. I had to trust that God knew what God was doing when Katy was born visually impaired. That was hard for me. I took a lot for granted up to that point. I loved feeling in control. When we realized Katy had issues, I was forced to rethink. I had to live more fully the Gospel truths that before were just words. Through prayer and my involvement  in Ignatian Spirituality, I learned how to discern God’s will. That was vital as I tried to discover what God wanted us as a family to go. It was my hope that I wouldn’t short-change our first three daughters and my husband for the sake of the child who needed so much time and attention. Prayer helped me keep that balance.

The sacraments helped too, especially the Eucharist. Jesus coming in flesh and blood (the incarnation) reminded me that God cares so much about me, he came to earth. I could look at Jesus and understand more how to suffer. I learned to appreciate more fully what St. Paul said about suffering:  “To suffer in God’s way means changing for the better and leaves no regrets. To suffer as the world knows suffering brings death.” My faith taught me how to separate God’s way of suffering from the world’s way, and how, when I focused on God, my suffering could change me and our family for the better.

What prompted you to write the memoir and how has that process helped you personally?

I wrote the memoir because I wanted to celebrate what God has done for me and my family, to let people discover, as they read the story, that what St. Paul wrote to the Romans:”For we know that all things work together for good, for those who love the Lord.” Life is so much more interesting and complex than just our own issues and experiences, and when we open our eyes, we begin to see more of how God can use whatever happens for good. It’s miraculous and wonderful and when we pay attention, it changes us. I wanted to share that awe in the wonder of God’s power.

How does Katy feel about My Blindy Girl – A Mother’s Journey Through Achromatopsia?

Katy is a very open, transparent young woman. She read the book, of course, and gave me permission to tell the story (as did the rest of my family) before it was published. I think it helped her to understand her faith and her life, reading about her first ten years from her mother’s point of view. Most of us don’t get that opportunity – and she does see it as such.

What do you know now that you wish you would have known when you began this parenting journey?

I wish I had known how to relax and trust in God more, back when I was feeling stressed and anxious about things. I wish I could have understood that God was right there with me, supporting and protecting me. But on the other hand, as I worked through all that, I did learn. God has been good, and I know by experience, that prayer is the most important thing a person can do for any situation. It doesn’t change God, of course, it changes us so we are ready to cooperate more fully with God.

Are there any additional comments you would like to share with our readers?

School and our culture tries to convince us that self-esteem is important. For example, if we’re not good at handwriting, then we can rejoice in our soccer abilities. But in reality, our faith tells us that self-worth is what we must foster. And it has nothing to do with our abilities. We gain self-worth from God. We are worthwhile because God loves us. Period. Children with disabilities recognize that more readily than most. My daughter understood this very early. But when she was defined by what she could (or couldn’t) do, she grew depressed and even suicidal. She just didn’t measure up. We can do our children a great service by teaching them that God loves them no matter what, that all self-worth comes from God, not from any ability we have. If we learn that, disabilities become opportunities, and we learn the truth of St. Paul’s words, “For those who love the Lord, all things work together for good.”

The old adage says, “when I see it I’ll believe it.” But Ignatius of Loyola observed that vision often dictates perception. He said, “When I believe it, I’ll see it.” And this can be extended to: “Love looks for what is loveable and finds it.” Because of my daughter, I have learned to see life in a new way, to discover hidden depths of my Catholic faith and live them more fully. I was forced to look for what is lovable and find it in a disability, in difficulty, in imperfection. And I had the great opportunity to pass that on to the next generation. It has been a great gift for us all.

Purchase My Blindy Girl – A Mother’s Journey Through Achromatopsia and support CatholicMom.com.

God Made Hugs (Ready, Set, Read! Beginning Readers)

Purchase God Made Hugs (Ready, Set, Read! Beginning Readers) by Sally Anne Conan and support CatholicMom.com.

Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust
by Immaculée Ilibagiza

Boldness, hope, determination, hard work, wittiness and trust in God all woven together in Left to Tell, a chronicle of a young woman’s survival during the 1994 Rwandan holocaust. The book left me with so much to tell … so much about how the beginnings make a big difference forever, how God moves to save and to do seemingly impossible things in response to childlike faith and embrace of his love, how far hatred would go unless quenched by love …

Immaculée Ilibagiza’s approach to telling her story was so simple yet so intense. I knew she made it through the genocide because it is the only way she could have told her story. Nonetheless, with the severity of the situation, I got really scared that cruel death might embrace her. The contradiction of opposites present through the book was intriguing but startling.

From a pleasant and secured life, she moved into a life of oddities that challenged virtually everything she was raised to value. She saw friendships enveloped by hatred and hatred enveloped by friendships.



As I experienced love conquering hatred, I hated to get to the last page so I read the last few pages over three days. Those became three days of sober reflection, of questions about how I am living, loving and forgiving, of my steadfastness in praying and hoping, of reassessing my dependence on God and the depth of my faith especially when my environment speaks negativity and hopelessness.

Encouraged by Immaculee’s proximity to God in the most remote places and in very difficult circumstances, I am more sensitive to God’s abiding presence as well as to his open arms of love. The words that nothing is impossible for those who believe have a different meaning to me and I am poised to knock, knowing that the door will be open for me. Left to Tell shows that the keys to the heart that loves and forgives are not lost to hatred and vengeance. Pain hurts badly, but love cures benevolently.

As I work on creating Paradise for my children, personalizing and praying the word of God has become an important element. It is not about reading the word of God, it is about knowing it, feeling it and believing it. Immaculee believed God’s word that she would not die, she prayed it, reminded God of his promise and lived to tell of God’s faithfulness to his word – the word of God offering forgiveness to those who forgive others, waits to be believed, prayed and experienced as we seek peace in the world.

Mrs. Okunzua holds a doctorate degree in education and is a leadership coach in a Fortune 10 corporation. She and her family are members of St. Elizabeth Ann Seton parish in Bakersfield.

Immaculée Ilibagiza will be appearing at St. Patrick’s Parish in Merced, California on February 27, 2010.  Visit the St. Patrick’s website for ticket information and additional details.

Reprinted from Central California Catholic Life by permission

The Meal Box contains 54 cards, each one featuring a creative question guaranteed to spark fun family conversation during family meals. The questions, such as If you could have the voice of any famous person, whose voice would you have?, are sure to engage everyone in the family. The reverse side of each card features a quick “Food for Family Thought” tip from family expert Tom McGrath. The tip makes it easy, and downright fun, for families to apply the question and answers to their lives of faith.

Today, Bret and Tom will be joining us throughout the day to prompt conversation, field your questions about family meals time and share their perspectives on how our families can grow in faith.  Please chime in throughout the day in the comments area below or email your question to Lisa@CatholicMom.com.

Along with some great conversation here at the blog, we’re offering you two ways to win your own copy of The Meal Box.  First, Loyloa Press is generously offering one free copy of The Meal Box to a lucky winner.  To enter, drop an email to Halm@loyolapress.com with your name and the words “CatholicMom.com Blog Tour”.  I am going to match Loyola Press’s generous offer and give away a second copy of The Meal Box to one of our commenters.  Simply leave a comment here at the blog with a reply to Bret and Tom’s question or a question of your own for the authors on Tuesday, June 23, 2009 and your name will be entered into a random drawing to win The Meal Box.

Even if you’re not one of our two random winners, you are in luck because from now until June 30th, Loyola Press is offering 30% of The Meal Box, selling it to our readers for only $6.97.  Just enter the promotional code MomMeal at checkout.

So let’s get started with the conversation!  Here are Bret and Tom’s opening remarks – be sure to watch the comments, answer their introductory question and chime in throughout the day with your questions for these two great experts!

Good morning!

I’m Bret Nicholaus, and I have to confess that I have an unusual passion: I just LOVE asking questions that help family members and friends learn fun and fascinating things about each other. I’ve been writing question books for the last 16 years, so this “interest” is nothing new. What IS new to me is the opportunity to interact with all of you via CatholicMom.com. I can’t wait to get started and see where the questions—and ensuing conversations—lead.

Joining me will be Tom McGrath, who has written several books on family spirituality. Recently, Tom and I co-created The Meal Box: Fun Questions and Family Faith Tips to Get Mealtime Conversations Cookin’. Tom and I both believe that mealtime affords one of the best opportunities to help families grow in their love for one another and in their faith—and a helpful way to do that is to begin with a FUN question!

So let’s get started with a question from The Meal Box. Send in your answers—your HONEST answers—and we’ll get the conversation going! Together, we’ll have fun learning about one another and discovering ways to serve up a little faith at mealtime!

If you could open the back door to your home and step out into the PERFECT backyard, what would that yard be like for you?

Update: Our first Meal Box Winner, randomly selected from among yesterday’s comments, is Karen (#46).  I will announce the email winner soon.