Marion, PraiSing Him

2011-07-25T09:45:00.000-07:00

MIXED BLESSINGS

A while back, I expressed gratitude for our old refrigerator, which consistently groaned and complained, because it was 25+ years old. But it kept running.

Then one night, not too long ago, it took its last breath and gave up the ghost. Regretfully, we made a trip to our local appliance store and bought a new one. It's a side by side. It's smaller and has a small freezer. As far behind the times as we are, we had never owned an ice machine. Now, we are the proud owners of an ice machine. Yay!

Wait a minute. Sometimes an extra ice cube escapes and I let it lie on the floor because I have trouble bending over. I realized that I'd have to stop leaving the ice cube on the floor. I stated this opinion to my DH. Before he had a chance to agree, our cat, Abbie, spoke up. "No," she said.

Have I mentioned that we own a spoiled cat? Or she owns us -- or whatever?
Well, she threw herself down beside the next ice cube and wouldn't let us come near. Seems she thought it was hers. She watched it for a while, then tried to bite it. That didn't work, so she licked it. Now she thinks it's a done deal. If we don't provide an occasional ice cube, she goes to the refrigerator and waits for one to fall. "Meow," she says, indicating that she's ready for her ice cube fix. Perhaps, the 100+* heat is partly to blame. I have to lay blame somewhere. When winter comes, I'm sure she'll change her ways. If she doesn't, we may have to use tough love. Or something...

2011-03-06T14:29:00.000-08:00

Christmas Bride
Marion Kelley Bullock
Mainstream romance
Available from Desert Breeze Publishing
ISBN: 978-1-61252-000-1
December 2010

Two sisters look alike. Their personalities are direct opposites. Cassandra is a spoiled, needy young lady. Sue-Ellen is down-to-earth and cares about people. When Cassie jilted her fiancé, Ethan, a soldier at Fort Clark, Texas, Sue-Ellen couldn't bear for him to be treated so shabbily. She made the treacherous journey by stage coach from their elegant home to the lonely, secluded, Indian, and robber infested area of Fort Clark.
Quite an eventful journey behind her, Sue-Ellen had lost everything—clothes, money, everything she travelled with except her life. Ethan had just been sent away on a mission so she had no choice but to take a job as waitress to try to earn enough money to make her return trip. Making the trip was scary; living in Fort Clark was strenuous. Then when Ethan returned, and Cassie arrived, things got even more interesting.

Ms. Marion Kelley Bullock has written a fun, quick-paced book about a historical situation that was very interesting. Her characters were fresh, interesting, and quite unique. They were as real as personal friends could be. Reading the book was almost like living through the situation. Her secondary characters were well-developed and complimentary to each other.

I really enjoyed reading this book and recommend it to others. This is a book which can be read by anyone of any age. That's refreshing to be able to recommend it to young adults as well.

Overall rating:
Sensuality rating: Sweet

Reviewer: Brenda Talley
March 5, 2011

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2011-03-06T14:06:00.000-08:00

Local Teen Still Missing.

It's been over two months and Hailey is still missing. What can I say? Our town is still hoping, praying for her. Teams still search.

2011-01-18T13:22:00.000-08:00

LOCAL TEEN MISSING

Still missing. After all this time. Amidst speculations and stated fears. John and I ate breakfast in a downtown cafe one day last week. A reporter and photographer roamed among the diners. "Do you know the girl?" they asked us. When we admitted that we didn't, they asked if we had comments. "Yes," I said. "I believe our local police are doing their best trying to find her." Any more comments? "We're all united, praying for Hailey's safe return."

She could still return, though she disappeared December 27 or 28. Someone reported spotting her in Odessa last week. It could be true...if she really is a runaway. I choose to believe that and that she'll return.

People keep searching and praying.

2011-01-07T17:55:00.000-08:00

Local Teen Disappears
by Marion Kelley Bullock

I live in a small Texas town. About 4,000 population. Nice, safe -- the kind of town you'd feel good about living in, raising your kids. Right?

Then, right after Christmas, a 13-year-old girl disappeared. Reportedly, she told her mother's boyfriend she was going to spend the night at a friend's house. When she failed to come home the next day, her mother checked and found that she had not -- after all -- been with her friend.

Now, law enforcement officials search a wooded area near the girl's home. Residents comb another area, while helicopters search from the air. Evidence has been collected from the missing girl's home, family members have taken polygraph tests and the FBI has become involved. Classmates have held prayer vigils. School students and others are handing out fliers door to door. On them is the picture of a sweet, innocent-looking 13-year-old girl, a little girl who went missing two days after Christmas.

2010-12-17T12:18:00.000-08:00

A Surprise for Christmas

"Your Christmas Stranger is #1 on Christianbook.com," my friend emailed me, a while back. After she told me how to track the ranking of best sellers, I did just that. I looked it up, just as she'd told me. Click on "Christianbook.com, then click on ebooks, then click on Fiction, then click on Romance."

Yay. It stared me in the face -- Christmas Stranger, BEST SELLER!

I wrote Christmas Stranger last year and it was published last Christmas. I was thrilled when it jumped to the top of the list THIS Christmas. In the meantime, I'd written Christmas Bride, which Desert Breeze Publishing Inc. published Dec. 1, 2010.

Double fun for Christmas. But last year's Christmas Stranger is my surprise.

2009-12-18T07:10:00.000-08:00

THE ANIMALS IN MY NOVELS…

Everyone who knows me well is aware that I'm an animal person.. I love cats and dogs. They warm my life in so many ways. Since I feel the way I do, it would be unnatural for me to leave them out of my writing.

I don't deliberately plan to include them. I'm just writing along and here comes a dog or cat. In some cases, even a goat or—well, I don't want to give away the story of Secrets of Old Santa Fe or that of Christmas Stranger. Anyway, animals seem to insinuate themselves into my books. And I, being the warm-hearted person I am, allow them to take up residence between the pages.

One such character is Ceesco, a tiny Mexican Chihuahua, an humble resident of Santa Fe. He worms his way into the hearts of most of the human characters. I didn't make him up. There really is a Ceesco, who belongs to a friend.

Another is Brownie, Melinda's big chocolate Lab that plays a part in Christmas Stranger. She belongs to my daughter. While she's very real, her actual name is Hershey. My daughter wanted to know why I didn't keep her actual name. It's simple. The story takes place in 1882. While there were big brown Labs in existence, I don't think there were hersheys.

Reviewers who liked my books have given them high ratings. Matilda of Coffee Time Review awarded Secrets of Old Santa Fe a 4 cup review. I like to think little Ceesco had something to do with that.

2009-12-15T09:19:00.000-08:00

Jaymi of Fallen Angel Reviews gave Christmas Stranger a 5 Angel Review.

Here's an excerpt. Melinda and her friends are at the church Christmas party. Her friends are playing cupid.

Susanna frowned at her. "You ought to set your cap for some available farmer.
Melinda laughed. "Some available farmer?" What downright foolishness. "Available — my foot. All the single men are taken. Except for Abe and Howard, whom I don't want, and Zeke, whom I might as well not want."
"Abe's not so bad." Susanna whispered it, glancing again at her husband, who was now deep in conversation with some of the other men.
Melinda glared at her. "Oh, you know better than that."
Chloe and Susanna shared a look. "Howard, then. Maybe you should want Howard. We think you should go after him," Chloe said. "You seemed to get along so well together."
"That's not love, girls." Melinda rolled her eyes. 'That's friendship."
"It's a start. There's no such thing as love at first sight." Chloe's mouth was set in a so-there expression. "And anyway, you should have seen his eyes light up when he looked at you."

"You'd make a really nice couple." Susanna patted Melinda's arm.

"A nice trio, you mean." Melinda smiled at them.

2009-12-10T09:06:00.000-08:00

In spite of the fact that our house is falling apart at the seams…

I'm grateful...

Our heating and A/C unit had threatened for several years to expire. In July, when it was extremely hot, the unit went out and we were forced to have another one installed. In August (right after that) a heat wave swept across west Texas and we realized how fortunate we were to have a good-working unit.

I'm grateful…

The master bathroom flooded. I noticed it in the night when I waded in there barefoot. The hot water line to the lavatory couldn't be repaired until the next day. We didn't suffer any ill effects. Not even the cat, who can't swim. She simply avoided the area after her feet got wet.

I'm grateful…

The bathroom heater took a hike. I've been known to complain that these new electric heaters just don't heat up a bathroom like the old gas ones did. But try taking a shower with no heater at all. It wasn't pleasant, but it was quick. When the new heater comes, I'll remember not to complain. I'll appreciate whatever heat it offers.

I'm grateful…

Our refrigerator, several years old, heaves a heartfelt groan occasionally, like some huge animal giving birth. But it continues to do what we bought it for; keeps our food at 40*. We'll wait a little longer.

I'm grateful…

The microwave heats food—usually. Sometimes it needs to be given a second chance. No problem. No reason for me to go out and buy another one until this one conks out.

I'm grateful…

Sunday afternoon, we heard a loud pop and then gushing water. What we thought was thick smoke poured from the hallway along with tons of water. On investigation, we discovered that the "smoke" was steam. The water heater wouldn't stop boiling the water. The pop-off valve did what it was designed to do. It relieved the pressure. We gave thanks that our house didn't catch fire!

It is now Thursday, and a plumber is installing a new water heater. No more sponge baths in the lavatory. No more heating water in the teakettle to wash dishes. By sometime this afternoon, we hope to have HOT WATER! I'm grateful!

2009-12-08T11:32:00.000-08:00

2009-12-01T14:38:00.000-08:00

CHRISTMAS STRANGER

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Desert Breeze Publishing ISBN #:978-1-936000 Available now.
Received a 5 Angel Review from Fallen Angel Review.

Melinda Jane Frazier, postmistress, has been alone, except for her faithful canine companion Brownie, since her father passed. One blizzardy night she hears knocking at her door. After a brief internal debate, she opens the door and finds Zeke, a wandering man, and his son Timothy nearly frozen to death. She quickly offers them appropriate accommodation for the night. One night turns into many and before long Melinda feels they've become the family she's always wanted, if only she can convince nomadic Zeke to stay... Christmas Stranger by Marion Kelley Bullock is a wonderful, gentle western historical, written in a style which reminds me of Catherine Anderson. The reader is quickly transported back in time and quickly achieves a real sense of the community, time and place. I really liked Melinda; she's independent and holds down a vital job. Melinda rapidly treats Timothy as her son, even knowing that he's there temporarily and that she's opening herself up to heartbreak. Timothy's a charmer and I found myself laughing out loud when the donkey appeared (I won't spoil the surprise). Zeke is a strong, yet flawed hero. He's trying to overcome his past and work out what it is he wants from life (at times I wanted to shake some sense into him). When you need a break from the upcoming busy holiday season, set aside a couple of hours and settle in to enjoy the heart-warming Christmas Stranger. Buy the book

Reviewed by: Kara of Fallen Angel Review.

2009-11-28T12:33:00.000-08:00

Join the Desert Breeze Christmas Blog Scavenger Hunt. Visit the Desert Breeze Blog at http://desertbreezepublishing.blogspot.com where you'll find a question about a Desert Breeze author/book. Click on the link and head over there to find the answer.

2009-11-27T15:07:00.001-08:00

2009-11-22T14:00:00.000-08:00

THE SECOND TIME AROUND
part of the Tabor Heights Inspirational series

By Michelle Levigne

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Lynette Tyler is shocked to learn that her daughter's favorite teacher is none other than the man she pushed out of her life years ago when she got pregnant. Now she refuses to face her past. She resists acknowledging Daniel Morgan as Kat's father.

When Daniel discovers that Kat's mother is the college sweetheart he'd loved and lost, he pursues Lynette and is again rebuffed. Will Lynette relent and agree to tell Kat he's her father? Is there a chance for the three of them to have a future together?

This is a sweet story of love, forgiveness and dependence on God. If you get hooked on these characters, don't worry. Michelle has more Tabor Heights books in store for us. Enjoy.

2009-11-17T08:58:00.000-08:00

Maid of Murder

By Amanda Flower
An India Hayes Mystery

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

India Hayes is in the habit of protecting her brother, Mark. When he crashes Olivia Blocken's party, and tells her he has to talk to her, Olivia's controlling mother throws him out. But not before he insists Olivia meet him the next morning at his office at Martin College. When Olivia dies after being pushed into a huge, ugly fountain near Mark's office building, Mark is the obvious suspect. He loved Olivia, and doesn't want her to marry Kirk in a week.

India, who was supposed to be a bride's maid, along with another of Olivia's friends, Bree, and Olga, Olivia's kid sister, determines to unravel the crime. She investigates everyone, including Mark.

Ms. Flower's book contains, besides librarian India, her co-worker, Bobby; Dr. and Mrs. Blocken and Olga; Bree; Topaz, dress designer; India's parents, who are prone to demonstrate, but balk at posting bail; a handsome police detective with a loud laugh; four doves; and two cats that refuse to get along with each other. It's a mad whirlwind of activity and India is right smack-dab in the middle of it.

Have fun trying to figure out who the murderer actually is and why. I know I did.

Release Information: Five Star Mystery/GaleJune 2010ISBN: 9781594148644

Click here for Amanda Flower's website.

2009-11-10T13:19:00.000-08:00

I FINISHED CHRISTMAS STRANGER! Yay!

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Hooray! That's a victory cheer. Also defined as "an expression of happiness and satisfaction or relief." And if you're a writer — which I am — that's the way you feel when you finish a novel and send it on its way to your editor.

I did that a few weeks ago. I sent my Christmas novel, Christmas Stranger, to my talented editor, who then line-edited it and helped me make it more the book I meant it to be in the first place.

It's true that I finished the novel. And it's true I rejoice. But there's an element of sadness, too. I'll miss those people I created. Still, my characters live on in the book's pages and in my memory. I know them well: Melinda, Zeke, Timothy, and the others. Not the least of these is Brownie, Melinda's big Lab. And I won't even try to name all the other noisy animals.

I'm so thankful for those persons who work behind the scenes: Gail Delaney, our publisher; Jenifer Raneri, cover artist; and others. These friends do their part unseen. And I must never forget to be grateful for their help.

Desert Breeze Publishing will release the eNovel December 1.

2009-08-15T09:45:00.000-07:00

WRITING IS EXCITING

I'm excited. I'm enjoying writing Inspirational novels. I'm enjoying writing for Desert Breeze Publishing.com. And I'm enjoying being in on the wave of the future--eBooks (electronic books, in case that's new to you).

Secrets of Old Santa Fe, released July 1, has received terrific reviews. The latest of these was by Matilda, of Coffee Time Review, and here's the link to it: http://www.coffeetimeromance.com/BookReviews/secretsofoldsantafe.html

Many thanks to Matilda for your 4 cup review.

2009-07-16T16:48:00.000-07:00

Fun Inspirational Romantic ebook

ANGEL WITH A RAY GUN, By Deborah Kinnard

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Matt Greeley leads a double life as a minister and a science fiction writer. He never felt the need to tell his congregation about his 'writing' life. Which turns into a problem.

When his publisher sends AJ Mercer to replace his tried and true editor, he fears that his latest bestseller is doomed. Not only is the new agent a female, but she distrusts Christianity and all men. Which works against the new novel.

Once Matt sees the gorgeous AJ, he fears that his life will never be the same. He didn't mean to fall in love with a quirky woman like AJ, a woman who was brought up by a hippie-type, offbeat mother, who encourages her to go with the flow. But he did. And when his church members find out about her, they're sure he's up to no good.

AJ is attracted to her client, but she definitely does not want to hinder his ministry. Her faith journey is true-to-life, and Matt is no less a realistic character. Their romance contains spiritual truths, humor, tension and a whole lot of fun. Enjoy!

2009-06-27T08:26:00.000-07:00

COMING SOON: SECRETS OF OLD SANTA FE

My romantic suspense e-book tells the story of Elise Wells, art teacher from Abilene Texas, who arrives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, for her mother’s funeral and to investigate her untimely death.

After one mishap and then another she begins to fear for her life. Add to that her growing attraction to Roman Castillo, local sculptor. What secrets do he and his family harbor that pose a threat to Elise?

Look for this read in July through Desert Breeze Publishing, Inc. at http://www.desertbreezepublishing.com/.

2009-06-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

Secrets of Old Santa Fe

My romantic suspense novel will release as an e-book in July, 2009. Check it out at www.marionkelleybullock.com .

It all started back when my pal, Deb Kinnard, posted a notice on our ACFW loop about a new e-book publisher, Desert Breeze Publishing, Inc. I contacted her and liked what I heard, so I studied their guidelines and sent them a proposal. Next, they asked for my complete. And before long, they offered a contract, which I accepted after clearing it with my agent. Next came the normal line-edits.

Now a new e-book is being born! Yea! Watch for it!

2009-03-18T11:49:00.000-07:00

Attention, people who love to read!

Do you read Christian novels? Do you buy Christian novels? GRPR is conducting a research study and wants to know more about you! If you would like to participate, go to http://tiny.cc/G4IsN to take an anonymous survey about buying Christian fiction. At the end, you can enter to win a library of TEN Christian novels!

Glass Road Public Relations

2009-03-12T18:08:00.000-07:00

A PROMISE FOR SPRING
By Kim Vogel Sawyer

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Emmaline Bradford travels from England to a sheep ranch in America to honor her pledge to marry Geoffrey Garrett. But that promise was made five long years ago. In the meantime, things have changed. Her fiancé is not the same person she knew in England. She barely remembers him. She resents his inattention and his ordering her around. In short, she’s miserably unhappy in barren Kansas. She wants to go home as soon as possible.

Geoffrey is bitterly disappointed. Though he had dreamed of the day when Emmaline would join him on the sheep ranch he’s built, he makes her an offer. If she’ll stay until spring, he’ll pay her return trip to England— if she still wants to go back. Will she change her mind and recapture the love she once felt for him?

Kim Vogel Sawyer has painted such a realistic picture of the Kansas prairie, I felt I was there. She made the tension between Geoffrey and Emmaline so thick you could cut it with a knife. I wanted to sit them down and tell them how the cow ate the cabbage.

2009-02-10T16:27:00.000-08:00

BREACH OF TRUST, By DiAnn Mills,

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Paige Rogers, former CIA agent, has disappeared. Actually, she’s hiding in the lazy little town of Split Creek, Oklahoma, working as a librarian. She’s afraid for her life, believing that Daniel Keary, another agent, betrayed her entire team seven years ago.

When Keary announces his candidacy for Oklahoma’s governor, he threatens Paige. Why? She hasn’t interfered in his campaign and hadn’t intended to get involved in any of his political ambitions. And that guilts her. She shouldn’t have given up on bringing him to justice.

Now all that has changed. Keary has thrown down the gauntlet. Paige sees that she must choose between continued hiding and taking a stand. How can she allow someone so evil to take control of her state?

And there's more—so much more than just her safety involved.

Romantic Suspense at its spine-tingling best.

F

2008-12-27T10:32:00.000-08:00

Dark Pursuit, by Brandilyn Collins

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

In this page-turner, Brandilyn Collins lives up to her reputation as a seatbelt suspense novelist. She hooked me on page one and refused to turn me loose until I finished the final page. It’s that good.

Novelist Darell Brooke, age 77, is still only half mobile after his auto accident. His broken bones healed, but his ligament damage did not. To top it off, he suffers from depression and is unable to concentrate. Odds are, he won’t be able to write his one-hundredth best-seller suspense novel.

Kaitlan Sering, Darell’s pregnant granddaughter, discovers a dead woman in her bed and is horror-stricken. Two other women in her town have been murdered. She’s terrified the killer is her boyfriend, Craig Barlow, the police chief’s son who told her some of the facts surrounding those other cases, facts no one else knew. What can she do? Obviously she can’t go to the police.

She turns to her estranged grandfather, from whom she stole money for drugs years ago. He has no use for her and she shares his dislike. She has accused him of caring about nothing but his writing. But known as King of Suspense, he has lived suspense for over forty years. He’s Kaitlan’s only hope for concocting a plan to trap the killer and save her life.

Brandilyn Collins has woven a piece of black and green silk through this exciting novel of pride, forgiveness, and second chances. If you’ve read her other suspense novels, you’re bound to love this one. If you’ve never had that experience, you’d better rush out and buy a copy of Dark Pursuit now. You don’t know what you’re missing.

2008-12-02T15:01:00.000-08:00

LOVE FINDS YOU IN MIRACLE, KENTUCKY

By Andrea Boeshaar

Review by Marion Kelley Bullock

Meg Jorgenson flees from an impossible situation in Chicago. She moves in with her loving Grams in Miracle, Kentucky, and accepts a teaching position in a charter school for gifted children in nearby Stanford. She wants to turn her life around. From the beginning, she feels a sense of calm. What a contrast to the smog and city noise, the cars honking, people shouting. She yearns to clamp onto this peace and make it her own.

Vance Bayer, widower, is drawn to Meg, and she has trouble keeping her mind off him. Others who get in on the action are Kent, the P.E. teacher, Leah, Meg’s new friend, Meg’s father and his “other” family, and finally—her mother. Vance’s eight-year-old daughter, Cammy, handicapped with a spinal cord injury (SCI) after a wreck that killed her mother, plays cupid.

Will Vance accept Meg’s suggestion that he consider an experimental procedure that might give Cammy back the use of her legs?

This is a sweet romance, but not syrupy. Andrea’s characters are imperfect creatures who deal with real problems. Can these broken lives be healed? This is worth reading.

2008-11-08T15:41:00.000-08:00

OUT OF HER HANDS, by Megan DiMaria

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Remember Searching for Spice, by Megan DeMaria? Ever wonder what became of Linda Revere, her dreamy husband (she wishes) and her son and daughter? Wonder no more. In Out of Her Hands, Linda’s grown children are making their own life choices. Linda wants only the best for them and that’s what she expects. She has prayed for their future spouses for years. So it’s a shock when her son brings home the girl he declares he loves—a girl Linda would never have chosen for him—not in a million years.

Shock waves continue to slam Linda throughout the book as she deals with her challenging job, her beloved widowed father-in-law, and her splintering family life. How does she manage when she realizes it’s all out of her hands?

I enjoyed this book so much, partly because, while it’s a stand alone, just as is Searching for Spice, it continues the story of these characters with whom I’ve become acquainted. Megan doesn’t pull any punches. She tells it like it is, showing us a true-to-life family with real problems, joys and sorrows. Go out and buy it and see for yourself. You'll be glad you did!

2008-10-24T11:51:00.000-07:00

RAPSODY IN RED
By Donn Taylor

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

When Preston Barclay, introspective college history professor, and Mara Thorn, his colleague, discover a dead body on campus, they’re plunged into deep trouble. To keep from being fired or possibly even charged with murder, they must move out of their respective comfort zones. They form an unlikely alliance and manage to stay one step ahead of police, incompetent administration and the real murderer. Drawn out of himself, Press finds relief from the “musical hallucinations” that have played in his head since his beloved pianist-wife’s death.

Taylor has penned a fascinating tale of suspense, peppered with his delightful dry wit. It’s not a book I wanted to rush through. I preferred to savor the colorful characters, the pithy dialogue and the twists and turns of the story. I promise you, it was well worth the read.

2008-09-03T09:04:00.000-07:00

WHERE THE HEART LEADS

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

If you’ve read Kim's Waiting for Summer’s Return, you’re probably dying to read more about Summer, Peter Ollenburger, and his son, Thomas. Thomas, grown now, and having earned a college degree from Boston Tech, must make a momentous decision. He’s lived in Boston with Nadine Steadman, Summer’s mother-in-law, for the past six years, in order to complete his education. He’s torn between his Mennonite roots in Hillsboro, Kansas, and his love for Boston, where he’s been offered a newspaper job befitting his education. Add to that his affection for a girl in each place. Which path does God want him to choose? Which girl?

While Thomas struggles with these decisions, he’s faced with another conflict. His boss expects him to support a certain political candidate. Now he finds that this candidate’s ideals and values are opposed to his own. He wants to be where he can do the most good. But how can he write less than the truth?

2008-08-13T14:27:00.000-07:00

THE CASE OF THE BOUNCING GRANDMA
By A. K. Arenz
Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Glory Harper, stuck in a wheelchair with a broken leg, after a skateboarding accident, is bored— itching for excitement. So when she claims she sees a foot dangling from the back of a carpet, as it’s being carried into her new neighbor’s house next door, who’s to believe her?

Her sister and her daughter think she imagined it. But what about handsome Detective Rick Spencer? Is he taking her suspicions seriously, or is it simply her he’s interested in?

You’ll enjoy Glory’s antics in The Case of the Bouncing Grandma.

2008-07-06T16:37:00.000-07:00

LEAVING NOVEMBER
By Deborah Raney

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Vienne Kinney failed the bar exam— a second time. After she’d spent tens of thousands of dollars on a law degree that’s now useless. Then her mother suffered a stroke and Vienne came back home to Clayburn, Kansas, determined to make a go of the fancy coffee shop that was once her mother’s café. She must swallow her pride and try to forget that the townspeople probably view her as a failure— just like her father, who was the town drunk.

Jackson Linder is back in Clayburn, after a mysterious absence of nine months. He must make his art gallery a success. How many people know his secret? He’s working hard and keeping busy shooting prayers up to God— the God whom he leans on.

Vienne and Jackson, two new business owners, form a tenuous friendship. When she finds out about Jackson’s past, she vows to have nothing to do with him. If she dares to let herself fall for a man with the same addiction that killed her father, she fears it will end up like it did for her mom.

Leaving November explores the curse of addiction, the healing balm of forgiveness, and the faith in God that makes it possible to succeed one day at a time.

A beautiful story, I could never do it justice in a review. As have other Deb Raney books, it touched my heart in a special way. Vienne and Jackson, and even Pete, will live on in my memory because Deb made them real.

2008-06-09T13:49:00.000-07:00

Andrea's doing a summer blog tour and Megan is giving away a free copy of SFS. Andrea Who? Megan Who? What is SFS? Curious? Check out http://writeword4women.blogspot.com/?

Have fun!

Marion

2008-05-15T15:24:00.000-07:00

THE SPINSTER AND THE DOCTOR, by Frances Devine.

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Elaine Daly, a resident of Cactus Corner for the last five years, has dedicated her life to caring for orphaned children. She has given up all thoughts of a husband and family. Then handsome Dr. Dan Murray comes to town, calls her Lainey, and turns her life topsy turvy.

Dr. Dan has determined not to let his past mess up the chance of a fresh start here in Arizona Territory. But it seems trouble follows him wherever he goes. He can’t escape, no matter how hard he tries.

Elaine doesn’t know what to believe. Is there any truth to the rumors circulating about the doctor? What about the…uh…entertainers at the saloon?

You’ll enjoy this 1890s romance as well as the other three novellas in THE SPINSTER BRIDES OF CACTUS CORNER:

THE SPINSTER AND THE COWBOY, by Lena Nelson Dooley,
THE SPINSTER AND THE LAWYER, by Jeri Odell, and
THE SPINSTER AND THE TYCOON, by Vickie McDonough.

Can four women, branded spinsters, due to their advanced ages of over-thirty, find real happiness? Can they find love?

2008-04-01T17:49:00.000-07:00

SEARCHING FOR SPICE, By Megan DiMaria

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Linda Revere is blessed with a good, dependable husband and two children whom she dearly loves. Jerry Revere is a down-to-earth community college science teacher who provides for his family’s needs. But after nearly twenty-five years of marriage, Linda Revere is bored. She yearns for something more.

She wants the sizzle back in her marriage. She wants passion. She wants romance. And Jerry, dear that he is, doesn’t even know the meaning of the word. What’s she to do? Why, come up with a plan, of course.

But plans don’t always work as expected, because life gets in the way. In the midst of frustrations on the job, helping friends, and handling crises in her home, Linda struggles to spice up her marriage— make it the stuff of her dreams. And in the process, she asks for God’s help. Is her faith sufficient to handle her problems or is it just a Sunday thing?

I loved the way Megan interwove her own special blend of dry wit and charm throughout this fresh, romantic tale. I exulted over the heroine’s determination to revitalize her marriage. I cheered for her as she faced and overcame trials and temptations in her quest.
And I enjoyed her sweetness and even her snarky moments, as she came through her problems and found peace in Jesus.

What a fun read!

2008-03-22T18:58:00.000-07:00

COURTING EMMA, by Sharlene MacLaren

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

It’s 1893 in Little Hickman, Kentucky. Twenty-eight-year-old Emma Browning runs a boarding house full of hooligans—six, to be exact. She’s tough and stubborn. She doesn’t want help from anybody, least of all Preacher Jon Atkins. He sells his house, donates the proceeds for building a church, and moves into the boardinghouse. Emma fears he’ll try to hammer the gospel into her and her boarders. She wants nothing to do with God. She hangs on to a lifetime of bitterness toward her father, the town drunk.

Emma has begun receiving letters from a mysterious someone who knows about her and seems to know secrets about her father’s past. At the same time, she’s flattered and a bit discomfited to receive the attentions of both Jon and Billy Wonder, a suave traveling salesman. She tries to keep her mind off the handsome preacher. Jon finds Emma lovely and fascinating. But he wants to obey the still, small voice of God. He sets out to reach the unreachables. And right alongside that desire is his desperate wanting to court Emma.
Will Emma ever forgive her father? Will she find God’s perfect plan for her life?

Ms. MacLaren’s novel is sweet, but not syrupy. Real honest-to-goodness characters with genuine emotions people its pages. They live and breathe in my mind. I feel as if I might walk down Main Street and encounter some of them. Humor, romance, and mystery team with Christ’s love to make this reading experience one you won’t want to miss.

2008-03-11T12:35:00.000-07:00

MY HEART REMEMBERS

By Kim Vogel Sawyer

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

It’s 1886. Three Irish immigrant siblings are orphaned when their parents die in a tenement fire. Destitute and with no family in New York, they are placed in an orphanage. Eight-year-old Maelle Gallagher determines to keep her younger brother and baby sister with her, but the orphanage decides differently.

The children are placed on an orphan train and sent to Missouri to be adopted. Each child is placed with a different family, but Maelle vows to bring them together again— someday. Seventeen years later, Maelle is still searching. But her hopes and her memories have grown dim. She wonders if she’ll ever find Mattie and Molly.

Kim’s rich and tender story is based on a time in history when orphan trains really did carry homeless children from New York to new beginnings. Maelle’s experiences— some good, some bad— are interwoven with those of her brother and sister. As I read their stories, I felt their anguish, imagined their turmoil, and gloried in their triumphs. I believe you will, too.

2008-02-25T19:00:00.000-08:00

A PASSION MOST PURE
By Julie Lessman

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

ROMANCE, HUMOR, DESIRE, CONFLICT... THIS BOOK HAS IT ALL!

From Boston to Ireland and back, Faith O’Connor’s boisterous family lives and loves, with unconcealed passion and colorful drama. Faith O’Connor falls madly in love with Collin McGuire, an Irish rogue of whom her Boston parents heartily disapprove. But he’s secretly courting her younger sister. When her parents discover this, they attempt to put an end to the romance. And when Collin turns his affection to Faith, more complications arise. But Faith, intent on what God wants for her, refuses to let her passions rule. Her parents’ romance adds depth to this historical. Faith sees their love in action, and wants that kind of love for herself. She won’t settle for less.

The O’Connors are caught up in the turmoil of World War I as it rages across Europe in 1916. Faith’s father, her brother, and Collin leave home to fight for freedom.

And right in the midst of this passionate portrayal of a boisterous Irish family, one of Ms. Lessman’s characters presents the gospel message, clear and plain.

I was captivated by A Passion Most Pure. I cared about the real, flesh and blood characters and I was kept guessing until the end. Wow! You can’t top that.

2008-02-22T17:46:00.000-08:00

A TALE OF TWO KITTIES

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Two cats live at my house. Sometimes this is good. Other times it feels like I’m in a combat zone. If I’m not careful, I get rammed by these two frantic felines racing through our small house. Anything that gets in their way is in mortal danger.

We didn’t start out to have two cats. We’ve always been a one-cat family. When our thirteen-year-old black and white Precious died from a heart attack, I was devastated. I called my daughter, the one who has multiple cats—I refuse to say how many—and she offered me one of her babies. I wasn’t ready to get another cat just yet, I said, bravely. But I sobbed that evening and the next, and maybe the next, because there was no cat sitting beside me in my recliner or lying beside me in my bed. No cat sat in my lap when I wrote at my computer. Say what you will, but I insist there’s something about the purring of my cat that inspires me.

Once again, my daughter mentioned that we could have one of her cats. Maybe I’d like to have sweet little Abbie, one of my favorites, she tempted. I said I might. That must have seemed like a yes, because she started working it out post haste. She could bring Abbie to us. At least, she’d meet us halfway. She lives about three hundred miles away. It seemed ridiculous to drive one-hundred-fifty miles when there were no doubt dozens of deserving cats right here in our own town. But that’s just what we did.

Abbie settled in nicely and we became a family. Then our twenty-two-year-old grandson, William, who had finished college and held a job in Lubbock, relocated to our little town. He became a prison correctional officer, while he and a friend started building a computer business. It seemed logical that he move in with us and save toward buying a house.

It seemed just as logical that his big cat, Bandit, move in, too. At least, we thought so. But Abbie disagreed. She laid her ears back, hissed, and spat every time Bandit got near her. For weeks, they skirted around each other. Abbie was afraid, because Bandit was invading her territory, William said.

One day, we noticed Abbie washing Bandit’s face, and the next thing we knew, he reciprocated. Without our realizing it, they had gradually become used to each other. They’d discovered there was room for both of them.

They still skirmish, chase each other and occasionally growl or hiss. But all in all, they’ve become pals. If they’re separated, they cry.

It struck me that humans are much the same. We need friends. But friendships take time to build. They don’t always spring full-blown into our lives. Sometimes they develop slowly—a smile here, a kind word there. Until, gradually, a warm, companionable closeness becomes an integral part of our lives. And we wonder how we ever lived without it.

2008-02-21T10:47:00.001-08:00

My crit partner, Megan DiMaria tagged me for this game. I'm reading Julie Lessman's A Passion Most Pure. I'll be posting a review of it soon. I turned to Page 123, found the fifth sentence and posted the next three sentences: "It's simply a heart thing, Briana. All you have to do is acknowledge you're a sinner and that Jesus is your Savior. Then simply ask him to come into your heart and be Lord of your life."
Wow! What a message, right in the middle of Julie's passionate portrayal of a boisterous Irish family.

2008-02-06T09:41:00.000-08:00

BLESSINGS, by Kim Vogel Sawyer

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Trina Muller works in her mother’s cafe in Sommerfeld. Outwardly cheerful, she harbors a secret desire to attend college and become a veterinarian. She dreams of taking over Doctor Groening’s practice when he retires. But her parents would never approve her career. Trina can’t believe God would give her the gift of healing sick and injured animals without allowing her to use it.

Graham Ortmann loves Trina, but he’s indignant when she shares her plans to attend college. She should be content to be a wife and mother. How could he marry a woman who won’t follow the dictates of the Old Order Mennonite fellowship?

After Trina begins her studies, a young veterinarian buys Dr. Groening’s practice and Trina begins to doubt her calling. Other troubles pile up and Trina fears she’ll never be able to achieve her dream.

Not only will Trina Muller win your heart, but you'll also be able to reconnect with the other friends we met in Beginnings and Bygones. Kim’s third book in the Sommerfeld trilogy is well worth the read.

2008-01-04T08:41:00.000-08:00

A NEW YEAR – A NEW LEAF!

By Marion Kelley Bullock

I feel a little like our antique Sessions mantle clock that sits atop our piano. It runs valiantly for a while, keeping us aware of passing time. Then one day I look up and see that it’s stopped. Still, as my husband points out, it continues to be correct twice a day. Of course, that’s not good enough for a clock. In order to be a contributing factor in our home, it needs to display the correct time all the time.

Sometimes, I feel run down. I’ve lost my fizz and sparkle. My writing has lost its pizzazz. Those 1500 words I wrote aren’t nearly as clever as I’d hoped. My novel rewrite has not found a home. All my characters, be they people, cats, dogs, or pigs, are running about madly in my crowded mind. They demand to do their own thing. I grab my whip to tame them into submission, to change them into the charming characters I’d planned for them to be. But they’re elusive; they escape me and go their own way, laughing, meowing, barking, oinking to their hearts’ content.

“I must have order in my office,” I say. “I demand that each character crawl back into the file from whence he came. Immediately!”

After the clamor of their obedient retreat, silence reigns, and with it a kind of peace. I know where they are. I can call them back as I need them. Now, back to my writing. Let’s try another 1500 words. But this time, let them sing…

2007-12-29T17:16:00.000-08:00

BELOVED CASTAWAY
By Kathleen Y’Barbo

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Isabelle Gayarre is determined to reach abolitionists in England. To that end, she risks her freedom and her life on this voyage aboard the Jude. Josiah Carter, captain of the vessel, is fleeing from his father and from God.

During the ill-fated voyage on a treacherous sea, Isabelle and Josiah battle storms, fire, and deceptions. Reluctantly, they fall in love, but their romance is ill-starred. For Isabelle is a runaway slave and can never be his. Unless God produces a miracle to save them, their lives and love are doomed.

The fascinating historical setting combines with colorful, complex characters to entrance and entertain.

2007-12-08T18:27:00.000-08:00

WILDFLOWERS, By Robin Jones Gunn

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

It’s a dream come true for Genevieve Ahren, when she buys Glenbrooke’s Wildflower Café. But it’s a struggle. Her husband, Steven, an international airline pilot, is away from home more often than not, leaving her to make all the important decisions. Decisions concerning her, their daughters, and her business. A silent hurt and anger settle over her. She has spent her life dreaming of an illusive happiness floating just outside her grasp. The same happiness she believed would flood her life when she, an idealistic nineteen-year-old, had married Steven and moved to the United States. Nothing has gone the way she imagined it would.

Genevieve remembers how it was when she first met Steven, the handsome, blue-eyed American. She used her well-practiced English to tell him what it was like to grow up in Zurich. He gave her her first kiss and with it his kingdom. His life. Even memories of their love’s first awakening fail to warm her spirit. All the doors to her heart are shut and the shades pulled down tight. As Genevieve gradually discovers friends she didn’t know she had and learns how to forgive, light begins streaming in through that door she thought she had locked and bolted years ago. And she realizes she’s fallen in love!

Still waters run deep, they say. Genevieve is portrayed with a deceptively calm façade. I imagine sticking her with a pin and barely seeing her flinch. She’s hiding inside her skin, being the perfect wife, mother, businesswoman. But without feeling. Seeing her come alive thrills my soul.

2007-11-20T12:55:00.000-08:00

THANKSGIVING
By Marion Kelley Bullock

God is so good. He has blessed me beyond all measure. He graciously gives me each new day, in which to work and play and worship Him. To the end of each day, he adds the nighttime, in which I can rest and renew myself.

God is so good. He gives me family and friends and opportunities to enjoy them. For this, I praise His Holy Name.

He gives me hope and joy and the blessed assurance that He is mine. Nothing can separate me from His love and His salvation.

I’m so blest. I live in a country where I can worship without fear of reprisal. I have enough food to eat, and clothes to wear, and a car to drive.

He gives me the privilege and responsibility to share with those less fortunate than I. He prods me to pray for dear ones who are walking through the valley of the shadow of death. And He gives me prayer partners to lighten that load.

I’m so blest! My God is good!

2007-11-13T06:55:00.000-08:00

BEGINNINGS, By Kim Vogel Sawyer

Review by Marion Kelley Bullock

Beth Quinn relocated to Sommerfeld, Kansas with her mother, Marie, but she doesn’t fit in with these Old Order Mennonites. Marie has married Henry Braun and settled down. But Beth’s business zeal and her way of dressing don’t suit Sommerfeld’s ideas of propriety for women. She feels out of place.

Henry’s nephew, Andrew Braun, works for Beth in her stained glass studio. He wants to be more than an employee, but Beth doesn’t feel she can give up her independence. She’s not sure she can trust Andrew with her life and her heart. Then Sean McCauley enters her life. Sean, whose father owns a construction company specializing in building church buildings, offers Beth a fantastic business opportunity. Is his interest purely business, or is it also personal?

As Beth, a new Christian, searches for a place to belong, will she rush headlong into plans she designs for her future or will she take time to seek God’s guidance? You’re sure to enjoy this second book in the Sommerfeld trilogy. If you read Bygones, you already know Kim’s true-to-life characters. Now you can re-connect with them.

2007-10-10T19:13:00.000-07:00

GOOD OLE’ WEST TEXAS

By Marion Kelley Bullock

I just read my critique partner’s blog comments about summer being over, shrouding the patio furniture, and storing the fountain in the basement. She mentioned not being able to sit in the back yard and sip iced tea or drink morning coffee while listening to birdsong.

But that’s Colorado. West Texas weather has changed only to the point that it’s not too hot to enjoy the outdoors. Some days, we still drink tea in our backyard under the spreading pecan tree. Other times, we take our morning coffee out to the patio and listen to the doves coo. Our patio furniture, being of the webbed, folding kind, doesn't need to be shrouded. If it disappears during one of our famous windstorms, we can probably find it down the block in a neighbor’s yard. Or not. We have no fountain, which is a good thing, since we have no basement to store it in.

My hubby and I picnicked at the lake today. After we ate, we stared out across the vast expanse of water, storing up the tranquility for other days when the weather is not so pleasant. Because our skies are not always blue and serene. Our trees are not always ruffled by a light breeze. Our weather is not always mild.

But right now it is. We are truly blessed to be able to enjoy being outside. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?

2007-10-03T09:38:00.000-07:00

DiAnn Mills’ A TEXAS LEGACY CHRISTMAS
Review by Marion Kelley Bullock

Zack Kahler is ready to leave New York and return to his hometown, Kahlerville, Texas, where he has bought the local newspaper. He slips on the ice and six-year-old twin waifs swoop down and help him up. In the process, they relieve him of his wallet. He goes to the orphanage where they live, to leave money for their care, and ends up adopting them.

So Zack, along with Curly and his sister, Charley, arrive in Kahlerville by rail. They settle in the local boarding house, where Zack stays busy taking over the newspaper and keeping the twins out of trouble. Zack renews his friendship with Chloe Weaver, who works at the boarding house. Back in their school days, when she often had no food, Zack brought her a sandwich for lunch every day. This she remembers, as well as her feelings for him. She has loved him ever since.

The children are endearing and they interact with Zack and Chloe, as well as others, including Mrs. Scott, schoolteacher, and Simeon, the cook. The owner of the boarding house plies Chloe with unwanted attention, and she begins to wonder if romance with him is all she can expect. But she hopes for the love of her heart.

A Christmas miracle is what they all need. And that’s what this story is all about.

2007-09-12T06:19:00.000-07:00

Sharon Dunn’s DEATH OF A GARAGE SALE NEWBIE

Review by Marion Kelley Bullock

Ginger the baby boomer, Kindra the college student, Suzanne the pregnant mother of three, and Mary Margret the real estate agent share a passion for garage sales. They form the Bargain Hunters Network and clip coupons, attend clearance sales, and practice economy in their hometown of Three Horses, Montana.

But when one of their number disappears and then is found dead, the other women ignore the sales and determine to solve the crime. They retrace their friend’s steps and begin to suspect her murder was related to an unusual garage sale find the morning of her death. Then they discover a frightening twenty-year-old secret that threatens their very lives. And hardened criminals aren’t about to let their guilty secret be exposed.

You’ll laugh at the antics of some of Dunn’s finely drawn characters, even as you wait with bated breath for each new clue. And if you’re like me, you’ll cheer the three friends on as they expose the criminals. If you're looking for entertainment, look no more. It's here in these pages.

2007-09-03T09:08:00.000-07:00

When The Nile Runs Red, by DiAnn Mills

I'm dying to read DiAnn Mills' When The Nile Runs Red. It promises to be her best novel yet. Read the following interview and see for yourself that this is a must read!

DiAnn Mills
Q & A
When the Nile Runs Red

What inspired you to write this novel?

I had previously written a nonfiction book about the Lost Boys of Sudan – Lost Boy No More. From that research, I wrote the novel When the Lion Roars, but the story would not let me go.

Through numerous interviews and extensive reading, I grew to love and admire the courageous Sudanese people and was burdened by their incredible needs. I had to bring them back in When the Nile Runs Red.

Why Sudan?

This country went through nearly two decades of civil war strife. In 1983, the northern government launched a holy war against the south. This grew out of the views of the Islamic north against the mostly Christian black African south. The war had three aspects: religion, politics, and oil. The atrocities committed against the southern people are too many to list, but the war was fought in the south through genocide.

How did you conduct your research?

I grabbed my backpack and sun screen and traveled to Juba, Sudan, the southern capital. There I stayed at a Christian compound and met with southern Sudanese from all walks of life: refugees, political leaders, and church leaders. I talked to as many people as I could, snapped pictures, and listened to what was being said.

Regarding your trip to Sudan, what touched you the most?

The incredible faith. I could look into a Sudanese’s eyes and see the pain of persecution and the hope of Jesus. Here, we say we love Jesus while we live in our huge homes, drive our fancy cars, are well-fed, are not hunted down for our faith, or are concerned about medical care. The Sudanese understand that all they have and need is Jesus.

Can you give us a brief description of your characters?

Paul Farid was once a Muslim who actively persecuted the southern people, but now he’s a Christian who flies dangerous missions into war-torn areas to deliver food and medical supplies.

Dr. Larson Kerr Farid risks her life to bring healing to the Sudanese. Just like her husband Paul, her life is often in danger. But there is a problem between her and Paul with no easy solution.

Colonel Ben Alier has been fighting and leading the southern army of Sudan for nearly two decades. Often referred to as a warlord, Ben fights his own demons.

The three are friends, an unlikely friendship forged by their love for Sudan.

How do you build your plots?

Always out of character with two simple words: what-if? John Gardner said to create the best possible characters and allow the worst possible things to happen to them. That says it all. It’s easy to coat our darlings with easy trials and struggles, but the hard stuff, the struggles that define the character are what has to happen. I’m a huge fan of Donald Maass and wouldn’t consider writing a paragraph without using techniques found in his books Writing the Breakout Novel and Writing the Breakout Novel Workbook.

What are you goals for this novel?

To increase awareness about the situation in Sudan and to share my passion for the Sudanese people through a compelling story.

The proceeds for this novel go back to aid the Sudanese.

What do you hope the readers will gain?

To lose themselves in the novel. That’s every writer’s goal. But I also want the reader to sense a call to action and support the Sudanese cause.

What is your next project?

I’m currently writing a romantic suspense series with a working series title of “Behind the Sunglasses”.

How can readers learn more about what you are doing?

Check out my website at http://www.diannmills.com/. I have sections about Sudan, and for readers, and writers. Those signing up for my newsletter get to download a chapter of an upcoming release.

Aside from your passion for writing, what else are you doing?

Speaking to groups about the situation in Sudan.

Teaching at writer’s conferences.

Conducting Fiction Mentoring Clinics. These are small groups who work closely together for three work-filled days to develop their craft.

See DiAnn's exciting Video at http://www.diannmills.com/sudan/WTNRRPromoClip.html.

2007-08-28T08:53:00.000-07:00

Maureen Lang’s THE OAK LEAVES

Reviewed by Marion Kelley Bullock

Maureen Lang’s The Oak Leaves is a dynamic tale, told with warmth and honesty. Talie Ingram has a loving husband, a year-old child and another on the way. She finds the journal of Cosima Escott, her great-great-great grandmother and begins reading it for pure entertainment. Entertainment soon turns to horror, as she discovers family secrets that shake her world. Secrets that have the potential to impact her beloved son, Ben, as well as her unborn child.

As Lang weaves the dual story lines throughout the book, I’m held spellbound, wondering what will happen next and how each heroine will cope. Lang makes me feel a mother’s emotions as she shares intimate glimpses into the mental anguish experienced by the parents of a child others see as “different.”

It’s Cosima’s determination and faith that inspire Talie to reconcile her son’s diagnosis of Fragile X Syndrome (a disability Lang’s own son suffers from) with her belief that God is merciful.

This book is a beautiful example, in two generations, of the power of love and the knowledge that every person is precious in God’s sight.

2007-08-21T06:24:00.000-07:00

TUESDAY’S CHILD IS FULL OF GRACE

By Marion Kelley Bullock

I grew up hearing the poem, Monday’s Child. If I remember correctly, Monday’s child is fair of face and Tuesday’s child is full of grace.

I may just forget that my mother said I was born on a Wednesday. I never liked that part of the poem. Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Imagine! I’m surprised anyone would ever admit to being born on a Wednesday. I certainly won’t.

If I’d realized the onus of such a distinction, I think I’d have held off being born until the next day. Well, they say hindsight is better than foresight. So I can’t attach too much blame.

Having begun my blog again last Tuesday, after a short hiatus, I find I need some accountability. Therefore, to the best of my ability, I pledge to myself, and to you, that I’ll blog each and every Tuesday, come rain or come shine. I’m sure you’ll find my output meaningful and exciting, about poems such as the aforementioned one, or cats, or my family, or someone else’s family.

I’ll rename myself Tuesday’s child and attribute to myself the line, “full of grace.”
There have been times I was graceful, but they’re few and far between. They don’t take place when I’m walking through the house. I have bruises to prove I bump into walls. “Oh, I was concentrating on the new novel I’m writing. I just didn’t see that doorframe,” I excuse myself. Another time, I fell out of bed. But it was because the doorbell rang early and my feet were tucked in. I jumped out, but my feet stayed in the bed. Only the right side of my face and my right thigh suffered bruises.

Another time, just as I was about to sit down in my office chair, my husband pulled it out to sit in it. Look—no chair!

Oops! I wasn’t supposed to tell that. Gotta go!

2007-08-14T14:42:00.000-07:00

PRECIOUS WAS A CAT

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Precious died a while back and we were devastated. Only an animal-lover would truly understand. She had lived in our home—or we had lived in hers—since she was three years old.

She came to us as a stray, glaring at us from the relative safety of our alley—before we put up our tall wooden fence. William wanted her.

I wasn’t giving in. “She’s bound to belong to someone. She looks well-fed.”

Her big yellow eyes stared hypnotically, and William was hooked. He begged. “Please, can’t we adopt her?” His brown eyes beseeched us to take her in.

I was stubborn, still saddened by the death of our beloved seventeen-year-old, Leroy Cat. “I don’t want a long-haired cat.” The one in the alley was definitely longhaired, a Maine Coon Cat, we discovered. She was black, with a white chest, cheeks and feet.

“An animal that chooses you is the best kind,” our vet said.

What can I say? I was a soft touch for a certain twelve-year-old boy. It didn’t take me long to capitulate. “We’ll have to be sure she doesn’t belong to someone else, though.” On a loose piece of elastic, I sewed a cloth tag with our telephone number and the request to let us know if this cat already had a home.

Two weeks passed, and the cat continued to hound us. During that time, a little girl who lived down the street insisted that the cat lived on the next block and her name was Precious. William and a friend followed up each lead. No one called to claim her.

Precious seized every opportunity to sneak into our house. She rubbed up against us, promising her complete devotion, if only we’d take her in. Gradually, we got used to the idea that she didn’t have a home.

One day, our next-door neighbor, out working in her yard, saw us with her. “I don’t think she belongs to anyone,” she said. “She was real skinny when I started feeding her, couple of months back. I think somebody moved off and left her.”

“Really?” I could see William’s eyes light up.

“I wish you’d adopt her. She really needs a family.” She went back to her weeding.

“Can we, please?” He asked me. “I think she likes us.” She raised her chin and he scratched under it.

“I think we like her, too—a little bit.” I looked at her round yellow eyes and her pretty black and white coat. And I realized we had grown to love her.

“Yes, I think she needs us and we need her, too.”

She really was Precious.

2007-04-26T14:38:00.000-07:00

BYGONES, By Kim Vogel Sawyer

A Book Review, by Marion Kelley Bullock

BYGONES, by Kim Vogel Sawyer, tells the story of Marie Koeppler, who left her Old Order Mennonite family and faith, in Sommerfeld, Kansas, to marry Jep Quinn. When he dies, before their daughter, Beth, is born, Marie struggles to survive and raise her child in the outside world—alone.
Now, twenty years later, her ex-beau, Henry Braun, arrives with news that Beth inherits Marie’s aunt’s house and café back home, if she’ll live in Sommerfeld for three months.

Reluctantly, Beth and Marie return there, unwelcome and distrusted by most of the community. Will they be able to stay long enough to fulfill the requirements and claim Beth’s inheritance? Will Henry Braun have to give Marie up again or will the two of them be able to let bygones be bygones?

Kim is a talented storyteller. In BYGONES, she tells a powerful story of forgiveness and love. As usual, her characters step right off the page and insist on living in my mind, even after I finish reading the book.

This is one you won’t want to miss.

2007-03-08T19:10:00.000-08:00

When Characters become Friends

By DiAnn Mills

A mixture of emotions swept over me last week when my third and final book in the Texas Legacy Series stepped into the marketplace. I’ve grown to love these characters – everything about them. I love their stubborn moments, their victories, their defeats, the way they love, and even the way they hate. They fight for what they believe in, and God is always right. For the past two years, I’ve wakened to the sound of their voices ringing in my head and to their problems. I watched the women slip into their dresses and bonnets, and the men tug on their boots. Actually, the women sometimes wiggled into a pair of boots and pants too. I rode the gentle mares and the wild broncos and held my breath. I lifted my Winchester, tensed my body for the kickback and sent bullets flying into targets, some of which were human. I celebrated with them, and I cried with them. I cheered when they triumphed and wanted to shake them when they made poor decisions.

In short, my characters have become my friends, and it’s hard to let them go. Unfortunately, I experience this grieving period every time I finish a book or series. I feel abandoned and lost, since too often I’m thinking about them just after I say my prayers and before I drift off to sleep. Dare I say that I worry about my characters? Hope they are not quarreling with their spouses or their children? That life hasn’t given them another dose of bitter herbs?

This bizarre and sometimes eccentric habit of mine is not much different from the habits of many of my other writer friends. How else can a writer create a character unless he/she first understands their motivation? And while these characters are on a journey called life, I realize the many reasons why I enjoy them.

I also realize their problems and issues. The storms of life that beat against our doors today have been happening since time began.

I consider Leather and Lace. Casey O’Hare didn’t start out life wanting to be an outlaw. Quite the contrary, she had hopes and dreams like every little girl until life slapped her in the face, and she chose to survive in the only way she knew. Many women today have made poor choices when faced with the dredges of life. We all have. I wrote that book for those women.

Jenny in Lanterns and Lace desperately wanted someone to love her. Is that such a bad thing, since we were created with a deep desire to be loved? The problem is, where do we go for love? Jenny thought unconditional love was a myth until the great Lover showed her differently.

Bonnie abhorred the disease that ravaged her beloved husband and left her a widow in Lightning and Lace. But she is determined, and alcohol is not the answer. Substance abuse is not native to today’s world. Wherever there is pain and suffering, people will look for a way to manage their sorrow.

Oh my, I do hope my darlings will be fine. They will be back next fall in a Christmas Legacy book, and then that is truly the end.

So today, I’m creating new friends. Already I know they won’t behave in every instance, but I wouldn’t want it any other way. I’m on my way to a new adventure. And, by the way, this is a contemporary.

2007-02-05T17:41:00.000-08:00

REVIEW OF DEB RANEY'S REMEMBER TO FORGET

By Marion Kelley Bullock

When circumstances set Maggie Anderson up to leave her abusive boyfriend, she takes the plunge. In her mad dash across country, she spins lie after lie, anxious to wipe out her former life. Even her name is a lie. Her journey ends in Clayburn, Kansas, at a homey inn named Wren's Nest. The owners, Wren and Jake, accept her as she is and she's eaten up with guilt. If she tells them her real story, she fears they'll hate her.

Trevor Ashlock feels drawn to Maggie. Her fresh-faced innocence reminds him of Amy, his beloved wife, who was killed two years ago in a car accident. He and Maggie are thrown together as they both help to remodel the inn. He wants to know her better, but she insists she'll be gone soon.

Deb Raney blends love, faith, and redemption into this heartwarming story of a young woman's struggles for survival. This is a tender story of second chances. It's a must read!

2007-02-01T12:13:00.001-08:00

REVIEW OF MARGARET DALEY'S SO DARK THE NIGHT

By Marion Kelley Bullock

When Emma St. John arrived at her family’s lake cabin to meet her beloved brother, she met tragedy and lost her eyesight and her memory. Police believed she’d witnessed her beloved brother’s murder before she plunged through the dark woods and dashed out in front of a car.

Reverend Colin Fitzpatrick, the driver of the car, is haunted by his first glimpse of Emma’s lovely face before his car hit her. She was fleeing someone—or something. He feels she’s his responsibility. But keeping her out of the hands of the killers will require more than he can provide. It will provide divine intervention.

Suspense builds as Colin and Emma stay one step ahead of the murderers. If you enjoy a fast-paced novel, you’ll want this one. It’s hard to put down!

2006-12-14T14:40:00.000-08:00

LYING IN THE BACK SEAT IS NO SMALL FEET—UH, FEAT!

By Marion Kelley Bullock

“Lying down in the back seat of this car is no small feet—uh, feat,” I said, trying to get my ailing foot propped on pillows in a suitably elevated position, as per the doctor’s instructions. My husband laughed a bit at my intended pun, to encourage me.

After all, I had just had surgery under general anesthetic to straighten the second toe on my right foot and remove its ingrown toenail. Following a short stay in the recovery room, I was reinforced by two pills the nurse handed me to take with a cup of soda. And a wheelchair to take me to the car. Ready to sleep the two hours of our drive home. That is, if I could get in the car. It took a while. And the task had to be repeated both times we stopped at restrooms. This gave me plenty of experience learning to walk on my right heel, doing a balancing act with my friend’s walker that I borrowed for the first two days.

I’m not allowed to drive, to play the piano or organ, or put any weight on the toe. When I shower, I must not get my right foot wet! I challenge you to try that. I’m required to wear a surgical shoe for six to eight weeks and to elevate the right foot as much of the time as possible. “How much?” I asked. “Oh, you can’t do it too much,” the surgeon said.

Difficult as this was at first, I quickly learned to sleep with my foot elevated on two pillows, sit propped on the couch to write, and finally, to prop my right foot on the shredder under my computer desk while I type.

You might say I’m almost back to normal. Except for the limp, due to the difference in the height of my surgical shoe and whatever shoe I happen to be wearing on my left foot. And the white bandage that sticks out like a sore thumb. Uh, I mean toe.

After my one-week check-up, I attended my Sunday school class Christmas party, where the topic du jour was my toe and my classmate’s broken ankle, which was ensconsed in a surgical boot. Our friends murmured enviously about all the help Fern and I were getting from our husbands.

All but one classmate. Peggy had been busily waiting on her husband before and since his recent surgery. She listened to all the comments and then she stood and pointed to Fern’s and my surgical footwear. “Soon as Bob gets well,” she said, “I’m gonna get me one of those!”

2006-11-14T15:05:00.000-08:00

Feral Hogs of Texas

By Marion Kelley Bullock

I’ve been hearing news reports lately that have me as skittish as some of Brandilyn Collins’ spine-tingling novels. The terrifying topic is feral hogs in Texas. Now, I knew there were such beasties. But I thought they were off in some never-never land, some remote place where I’d likely never set foot. But right here in Texas? No way!

A popular network newscaster appeared on a news show two nights ago, airing a segment about these predators and how they were invading almost every county in Texas. I grew panicky.

“Precious, did you hear what he said?” I could hardly get my breath.

My black and white Maine Coon cat opened one eye and regarded me solemnly. Evidently, she hadn’t been listening to the report. Either that, or she thought she was a match for the animals in question. I must enlighten her.

“Honey, they’re much, much bigger than you. 120 or 130 pounds to your 20 pounds.”

She closed her eye and sighed. She just wasn’t taking me seriously.

“Precious, this is urgent. You must take notice. Perhaps you should stay in the house all the time…”

“Neow-w-w.” Her word for negatory.

“Well,” I said. “If you insist on going outside occasionally, you must be extra cautious.”

“Heow-w-w?”

“Just keep your eyes open for any short-legged pig-like animal with a long snout and tusks…”

She sighed again. Her eyes were half-closed. I think she meant to say, “what if I see one?”

“Run like crazy and climb a tree.” And that’s just what I’d do.

2006-10-06T08:52:00.000-07:00

BLOG TOUR… MARY DEMUTH

By Marion Kelley Bullock

It’s my turn to have the privilege of hosting Mary DeMuth. I’ve got to tell you: she writes with depth and style.

Not one to do things normally, I first read Wishing on Dandelions, Mary’s second novel. It read perfectly as a stand alone and I came away from it blessed. But I wanted more. I wanted to know Maranatha as a young girl, so I bought Watching the Tree Limbs and consumed it. I was doubly blessed.

Who cares if her writing is literary or commercial. It’s riveting! I know these stories were not easy or quick to write. They bear the marks of long, agonizing birth pangs. Poignant, gripping, painful passages intersperse with those of comedic relief.

Maranatha, Zane, Camilla, the two Charlies, Georgianne, Denim, and General are characters who will linger in my thoughts in the weeks and years to come.

You owe it to yourself to buy these books. You’re in for a treat.

Ah, here’s Mary, now. I’ll let you hear from her.

Mary, these books deal with difficult subject matter: childhood sexual abuse and its residual affects. How did they emerge?

My passion is to write about redemption through the avenue of story. I started the first book, Watching the Tree Limbs, in a flurry. In my mind I saw the streets of Burl and a girl who didn’t know where she came from. Because my personal story involves different instances of sexual abuse, I wanted to write a story that showed the reader how God could intersect an abuse-victim’s life and make a difference.

So, are you Maranatha?

In some ways yes, some no. Like Maranatha, I felt like God had transformed my life in such a radical way (like her name change from Mara—bitter—to Maranatha—Come Lord Jesus). Like Maranatha, I endured sexual abuse, but I was much younger when it happened. Like Maranatha, I wondered if I had been marked, that every sexual predator could “tell” I was a ready victim. I wrestled through relationships in my teens with Maranatha’s twin feelings of revulsion and attraction. But, she is not me in many other ways. She is more independent. She has no parents. She lives in an entirely different culture. She is less ambitious. She has the privilege of many wiser people to mentor her through life.

What made you decide to write a love story?

The book didn’t start out in my mind as a love story, but it evolved into it as I continued writing. Characters have that uncanny way of taking your prose and running in all sorts of directions with it. Charlie just kept being faithful. In a sense, I fell in love with him!

What made you choose East Texas as the setting for both novels?

The South fascinates me. I grew up in the Northwest. When my last child was born, my husband was transferred to East Texas to start a department in a hospital. Because I was a stay-at-home mom and home schooling, I didn’t have much else to do there except to observe small town southern culture. Because I didn’t grow up in that culture, my senses were heightened and I eventually began to really appreciate the differences.

Childhood sexual abuse is not talked about very often, and seldom covered in novels. What made you decide to write about it?

For that very reason. The more victims are quiet, the less healing they will receive. The more we talk about it, bringing heinous acts to the light, the better able we are to know we are not alone. I wrote this book so other abuse victims would feel validated and heard. And to offer hope.

Why do you end your books with hope?

Because hope is essential to Jesus’ Gospel. Even when things are bleak, there is always hope—if not in this life, then in the next. I’m not interested, however, in presenting hope in a superfluous way. I don’t want to tie up every story thread neatly. The truth is, life is tragic and difficult and bewildering, but God intersects that life and brings hope.

Have you always wanted to write?

Yes. Since my second grade teacher told my mother that she thought I was a creative writer, I’ve wanted to write. I kept a diary since the sixth grade. Though I was an English major, I didn’t start writing seriously until my first daughter was born. I wrote for ten years in obscurity before my writing career took a turn for the better.

Who are your literary heroes?

I love Harper Lee. I only wish she’d written more. Leif Enger, who wrote Peace Like a River, greatly inspired me to write visually and artistically. I love Sue Monk Kidd’s Secret Life of Bees, how you could almost taste her characters. I’m fascinated and intimidated by J.R.R. Tolkein—how he managed to create an entire world with several languages is way beyond my literary prowess.

What do you want your reader to take away from Wishing on Dandelions?

That redemption of a broken life takes time. We’re all on a journey of healing. Sometimes it’s slow going, but if we can endure through the dark times, God will bring us to new places of growth. I want the images and characters to stay with a reader for a long time.

Check out Mary's blog.

Thank you so much, Mary. I’ve enjoyed our visit. And if I don't see you sooner, I'll see you next September at our next American Christian Fiction Writers Conference www.acfw.com

2006-08-30T12:49:00.000-07:00

BOOKS, BOOKS, AND MORE BOOKS!

Be sure to take an extra bag for all the books you can't resist buying at the www.AmericanChristianFictionWriters.com conference September 21 - 24th.

Here's one I just finished reading. You won't want to miss it. It's super special. Compare it to Beverly Lewis' heartwarm books about the Amish people.

When the Heart Cries

By Cindy Woodsmall

Seventeen-year-old Hannah Lapp longs to break free from the confining traditions of her Old Order Amish community. Not yet baptized, she hasn’t joined the faith, but she’s still bound by her father’s strict adherence to the rules. Hannah is torn between her family and the freedom of the outside world. And even more, she wants to marry outside her faith. She wants to marry Mennonite, Paul Waddell.
Paul proposes to her, before he leaves for his final year of college. Though she knows this will forever affect her relationship with her family, she’s filled with joy. Then tragedy strikes and Hannah knows nothing will ever be the same. She finds herself shut off from the very ones who should offer support. Her family, her community, and even Paul.
As I read Cindy’s touching book, my heart cried out at the injustice Hannah met. As she discovered life isn’t fair, I ached for her. When her heart was torn out by the roots, I grieved with her. I rejoiced at her bravery through the trials she faced. And I’m filled with impatience to find out what will happen next. Hurry up and write the sequel, Cindy!

2006-07-31T09:47:00.000-07:00

HEY, Y’ALL, IT’S THAT TIME AGAIN!

By Marion Kelley Bullock

ACFW (American Christian Fiction Writers) conference, September 20th – 24th, 2006.
This year, it’s at the Dallas-Addison Marriott Quorum by the Galleria.

What a glorious, fantastic, mind-boggling week (Thursday – Sunday), when fiction writers from around the world get together to learn, fellowship, meet agents and publishers, and shop our novels.

I attended in 2003, in Houston, and tried to get acquainted. In 2004, in Denver, I met my online critique buddies, attended workshops, and worked on finding an agent. By 2005, in Nashville, I had just acquired an agent. I pitched four novels and received invitations to submit two proposals.

Back home, I got to work, re-writing and submitting the requested novels to my agent. I also wrote two mystery proposals. and began a sequel to one of my novels.

Woo Hoo! That keeps me busy! And I love it.

I am called to write. If my novels are published, it will be God's will and in His own timing.

“My heart is stirred by a noble theme;

as I address my verses to the King;

my tongue is the pen of a ready writer” (Psalm 45:1).

2006-06-05T07:44:00.000-07:00

I'M FORTY-NINE AGAIN

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Tomorrow's my birthday, and I'm forty-nine—again. I really don't mind aging as long as I don't have to admit it.

My grandson, William, started asking my age when he was about seven. Certainly, if I were the secure, positive person I claim to be, this would not have concerned me. On the other hand, given my sensibilities, I couldn't help temporizing. I usually just changed the subject, hoping the question would go away.

William has lived with me and my husband most of his life, and though he knows we're his grandparents, he thinks of us as parents, just as we consider him our own child. I suppose that, at least by the time he turned seven, he had realized that most moms are younger than I. Oh, well, it was bound to happen sooner or later.

When he got a little older, he asked again, when I picked him up after work. “Mimi, how old are you?”

“Thirty-nine,” I said, giving him the kind of grin I bestow on him when I say, “No, of course I don't love you more than I love the cat.” You see, I wanted him to know I was stretching the truth. I just didn't want him to know how far.

He assumed a thoughtful look. “I thought grown-up started at forty-nine,” he said.

“Okay, already,” I said. “So, I'm forty-nine.” I kept the grin pasted on my face. What’s another ten years, right?
“My,” he said, “you're just a teen-ager, aren't you?” That was his current attempt at humor.

He didn't really expect an answer, nor did he believe me. Which was just as well. I wanted him to know I was prevaricating. My thesaurus says that's the same as lying, but I disagree. In this case, I was good-naturedly letting him know that I would not—at that time—divulge my age to him.

I hadn't always been that way, but let's face it; I hadn't always been that age. When our daughters were growing up, I was young by anyone's standards—except theirs. They rolled their eyes when anyone said we looked like sisters. Then when our son became a teen-ager, I was old again, even though our daughters had by then re-discovered my agelessness and wisdom.

It didn't bother me to write my age on the numerous forms I filled out. I didn't worry that friends would dig and discover it. They—after all—are in the same birthday boat, more or less. It was just this one small child, to whom I'm parent and grandparent, who had me quivering with apprehension about the next ten—or so—years. When would he stop telling me I'm beautiful and smart and that he loves me more than anything? When would he begin to realize that he is much smarter than his old grandmother? In short, when would he decide I'm dumb?

Who knew? Maybe I'd have five more years of beauty and wisdom left in me. Or maybe I'd get lucky. Perhaps he'd bypass the I'm-smarter-than-Mom Syndrome. After all, I'm not really his mom. I'm his grandmother. And everyone knows some kids maintain especially close relationships with their grandparents. So maybe he'd keep on wearing blinders and I'd remain loveable—like his well-worn teddy bear—as long as I hold together. It couldn't happen to a more appreciative person.

In March, just before he turned eight, William asked me, “Is there a number somewhere inside of you that changes when you have a birthday?”

I assured him that there is no such arrangement.

“Then how do we know we're older?” he asked.

I gave him a scientific explanation, but I don't necessarily subscribe to it. I don't have to let my hair turn grey, or wear granny glasses, or lose my enthusiasm for life. And when I look in the mirror—without my glasses—my near-sightedness protects me from worry over the tell-tale wrinkles that are obvious to everyone else.

The truth is: I intend to cling to my non-aging convictions with a tenacity born of desperation—as long as I live. Tomorrow's my birthday and I'm forty-nine—again. Aging really doesn't bother me—as long as I don't admit it.

2006-05-31T13:45:00.000-07:00

PROCRASTINATING

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Yes, this is writing related. I promise. I have known for some time that I'm vertically challenged. The other morning, I had to face the sad fact that I'm also cooking challenged. I don't mean because I can't reach anything in my kitchen. I mean that my mind is so fogged up with my characters plotting behind my back, before I even get a chance to sit down at the keyboard, that I can't think straight.

I wanted to try this new recipe for Orange-Cinnamon French Toast. I melted the butter and added honey and cinnamon. Then I added two eggs and whipped them. I spread the mix in a square Pyrex and placed four slices of toast in it. They looked dry, so I turned them over.

As I placed the dish in the oven to bake, I noticed the one-half cup of orange juice still sitting on the counter. It should have been added to the mix, so it would actually be Orange-Cinnamon. Uh-oh. Another glance at the recipe and I realized I was supposed to dip the bread in the egg and orange juice and place in the prepared pan. When I told my dh of my lapse, he said, "Now we won't know whether we like that recipe or not." He kindly ate the toast, slathered with maple syrup.

This is where the procrastinating comes in. The word is defined as postponing what one should be doing. As I write these words, I’m aware that an incomplete novel lies in a file on my computer, waiting patiently while I delay needlessly. So I sit up straighter, raise my chin, and determine to stop dilly-dallying. I’ve got to get to work. Now.

“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might...” Ecclesiastes 9:10.

2006-05-05T08:43:00.000-07:00

SLEEPING ON A SLIDE

By Marion Kelley Bullock

“You have acid reflux,” the doctor said.

Okay, I can live with that. I’m adaptable. I can swallow the little Nexium tablets. I can be careful to eat the right foods (when I find out what they are) and leave off those that might cause problems. I don’t live to eat, after all. I eat to live.

“You need to raise the head of your bed up 4 to 6 inches,” he continued. “Preferably 6.”

Sounds extreme, but hey, it’s an adventure. We can do this!

My husband sawed 2 X 4s to the appropriate length and stacked them one atop the other, 6 inches tall.

The bed looked comic, as if it had taken on a life of its own, like it was in charge of the situation. But we were determined not to let it buffalo us.

Bedtime came and we settled down, me on my side and John on his.

“Feels odd,” he said. “But I guess we can get used to it.”

“Sure. It’s not so bad.”

He had sawed the boards but we couldn’t to save our lives saw any logs. We were too busy holding onto the headboard. Each time I turned loose, I slid down a couple more inches.

Still, I felt sure it was only a matter of time before we got the hang of it. After all, the cat seemed to be staying in the same place in the bed’s center. No slipping for her. A closer look, though, revealed her claws fastened firmly in the sheet. I felt a momentary flash of envy of this small creature that could perch in a tree or on a steep incline.

By that time, I’d slipped down 6 more inches. I’m just 5 feet tall, but John is 6 feet. It wouldn’t take him long to hit the foot of the bed at this rate. I figured that even if we did go to sleep, we’d end up crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed by morning. And how was that supposed to help my reflux?

“I’m sliding off the bed,” I said finally.

“Me, too,” he admitted.

It didn’t take us long after that to move into the guest room. We’d wait until tomorrow to lower the bed.

The next day, John took out one of the 2 X 4s and we settled on 4 inches. It still feels odd. But it’s manageable.

What if we hadn’t even tried to raise the head of our bed as high as the doctor suggested? We’d never know if it would work or not.

It’s the same way with all our struggles. We must reach for the highest in our efforts if we hope to achieve all that God has for us in life.

2006-04-20T18:35:00.000-07:00

FEAR

By Marion Kelley Bullock

The most memorable thing about the first house I lived in was The Monster, a huge oak telephone with big metal eyes, hanging on the wall in Mother and Daddy’s bedroom. Barbara's and my bedroom, too. The only other bedroom was the Guest Room.

One day, our mother, stricken with appendicitis, begged us to call the doctor or a neighbor. At four and five, we should have been able to accept the challenge, though we had never been allowed to use the huge monstrosity. But we were frozen in terror. Our tongues clung to the roofs of our mouths and our eyes must have been wide pools of fear.

Finally, our mother managed to call a neighbor, who took her to the hospital and kept us until our aunt came to care for us. Looking back, I feel guilt, just thinking about our failure. And yet the failure was not all ours. We were not encouraged to take any initiative. Shyness hung about us like a thick grey fog, robbing us of feelings of accomplishment.

When fear grips us as adults, threatening to strip us of our effectiveness, God expects us to shake free and grab hold of His power. After all, "I can do everything through him who gives me strength" Philippians 4:13.

2006-03-29T19:48:00.000-08:00

SPRING IS SPRUNG

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Spring is sprung,
The grass is riz,
I wonder where
The birdies is.

No. (I wave away the congratulations) That’s not original with me. If I knew who penned it, I’d ask for permission to use it, because it’s my sentiment exactly. Our grass has riz to an outrageous height, along with a new crop of weeds that failed to die when my husband laboriously sprinkled pre-emergence weed killer and fertilizer on it. He also watered it, because raindrops don’t keep falling on our heads here in West Texas.

Actually, I think the fertilizer must have eclipsed the weed killer, because our weeds are thriving. There are also bluebonnets dotted throughout the yard. I hate for them to get mowed down, but can you imagine maneuvering a lawn mower around each beautiful little plant? I realize you could use clippers, but my husband isn’t crazy about that idea.

As far as the birdies. Our cat knows where each one of them is, perched high in the pecan tree and on the wood fence. We keep her fat and sassy, and hang a bell around her neck, so she poses little danger to our winged friends. In gratitude they sing for us. I never grow tired of the doves’ cooing in our back yard.

God knows where every little bird is, too, and cares for them. How much more does He care for us.

So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Matthew 10:31.

2006-03-07T09:31:00.000-08:00

Book Review of Son of Perdition
By Louise M. Gouge

This well-crafted novel is Louise Gouge’s crowning touch to her Ahab’s Legacy series. Louise possesses a knack for weaving historical elements into her story in a natural, entertaining way. Her zeal for the abolitionist movement and issues concerning slavery are inspiring. In this third novel of the series, Timothy Jacobs grows up determined to be as different as night and day from his infamous father, Captain Ahab. He changes his name and aims for perfection. But his arrogance shows through. And when he is terribly wounded during a Civil War sea battle, his wrath toward God threatens to turn him into a replica of the father he swore not to emulate. Will he learn to forgive, so that he can seek the forgiveness and love of his heavenly Father? Will he be able to accept the love of Jemima, his childhood sweetheart? Or will he be forever mired in his overwhelming bitterness?

If you enjoy history, romance, and adventure, read Son of Perdition.

2006-02-17T07:30:00.000-08:00

FOOL FOR A DAY

By Marion Kelley Bullock

I probably should have stayed home that night, but I didn’t.

Instead, I sat there on the second row of my church’s chapel, listening as women from our mission organization presented the week of prayer program. One told about the struggles of a missionary in Nigeria. Another related the experiences of a missionary family in India. Then a woman led us in singing “We’ve a Story to Tell.”
Another report was made, this time about missionaries who work in Guatemala.

Again, the woman who had led the singing stood before us. “I especially like the song, “Take My Life, Lead Me, Lord,” she said. “We’ve sung it every morning this week.” The pianist gave an introduction.

I knew the song as well as I know my name. I plunged into it with the wild abandon which characterizes many of my undertakings. “Take my life...” My husband nudged me in the ribs, getting my attention and stopping my singing at the same time—fortunately.

I leaned over to him, naïve as yet as to the cause of his attention.

“I think it’s supposed to be a solo,” he whispered.

I inched myself back into position, at the same time managing to slink down farther into the pew. I grimaced slightly, wondering why I hadn’t stayed at home where idiots belong. I wished I might be able to nibble a wafer and grow small, like Alice—small enough to climb into my husband’s pocket and ride home in complete anonymity, unsubjected to the stares and ridicule of my peers.

Alas, it was not to be. Squeezing my eyes shut and squinching myself up into as tight a ball as I could, I was unable to change my stature by so much as one jot. I willed my frozen face back to its normal color and managed to walk woodenly out when the program concluded.

“Were you trying to give the soloist some help?” my husband teased me later.

“How could I possibly have known it was a solo? She hadn’t directed the congregational music with her hand, so I had no clue when she just stood there and started to sing the song she announced. Naturally, I thought we were all supposed to sing.”

“Naturally,” my husband agreed.

“Oh, did you think so, too?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you didn’t sing. And neither did anybody else.” I was incensed.

“I was being cautious,” he explained, a sheepish grin on his face. “I wasn’t positively sure what we were supposed to do, so I waited to see. I suppose everybody else felt the same way.”

“Everybody but me.”

“Yeah.”

“So I, the bumbling dummy, just jumped right in without testing the water.”

“You could say that.”

“I thought I’d wither up and die,” I said. “I thought, 'what must all these people think of me.'”

“You wanta know?”

“Sure.”

“They thought ‘there but for the grace of God, go I.’ You didn’t wither up and die, so forget it and go on living.”

And that’s what I did.

2006-01-30T18:17:00.000-08:00

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

By Marion Kelley Bullock

No, I don't really believe in love at first sight, but it has a neat ring to it. Actually, I believe love grows and grows and grows until it's full-blown and unbelievably beautiful. At least, that's what happened to me. When I first met Johnny, we knew we were interested in each other. We just didn't know how far that interest would carry us.

Well, it's carried us fifty-three years--today. And we're more in love now than ever. But that's not to say the road has always been smooth. There've been rocks along the way. We've stumbled and grumbled, but God has held us together.

My heart still leaps when he walks into a room. I feel a delicious thrill when he holds my hand or kisses me. He's my lover, my friend, my soul-mate, the father of my children. We want the best for each other.

I Corinthians 13:4-7 expresses it this way: "Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things." Amen.

2006-01-16T17:28:00.000-08:00

PROBLEMS WITH PETS

By Marion Kelley Bullock

When my ACFW Loop started this thread, I automatically thought of my own beautiful Maine Coon cat. She has long hair, which she sheds with wild abandon. She often makes her demands in the shrillest of meows. True, she sometimes causes problems, but she makes up for them with her loyalty. I love my pet.

Laurie Alice, a fellow writer, said, "I love pets. They should be stroked and fed and groomed as much as possible...
And taken out."

She and other loopers go on to discuss rooting out "very," "just," "also," and other overused words. Aha! So that's what they were talking about, not my feline companion? You mean, I should comb through my novel and weed out the bad, awful, unnecessary words that hide amongst my beautiful sentences? I understand the need, but I love some of those words. How can I bear to part with them? It leaves a gaping hole in my heart--and in my manuscript. Still, if I must, I must. I make a list, and start deleting. When I've whittled my manuscript in half, again and again, I realize I don't have a novel anymore. What I've got now is a short story--a very short story.

I cry over my lost words, and eat some chocolate, which helps immeasurably.

Then I hunt my beloved pet, my cat, with all her peculiarities. I snuggle down beside her and listen to her purr. She soothes me and I resolve to keep her, stroking her and feeding her and grooming her as much as possible. And since she's the perfect pet, I won't have to take her out.

2006-01-02T19:44:00.000-08:00

NEW YEAR EPIPHANY:

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Someday, when I’m perfect,
I’ll start to work on other folk,
Who seem to shirk their duties
And don’t fit in, quite,
With what I think they ought to do.

Till then, I plan to concentrate
On how imperfectly I rate,
And maybe one day
God will say, “Well done,”
As I walk through that pearly gate.

2005-12-12T09:09:00.000-08:00

WHY HAVE CHRISTMAS?*

By Marion Kelley Bullock

I opened the door at Helen’s insistent knock. I didn’t try to hide my tears. It wouldn’t have done any good. My puffy, red eyes would have given me away.

“Want some coffee?”

“I’ll get it,” Helen offered. She walked on through to the kitchen and came back with a hot cup of coffee for each of us.

“Want to talk about it?” This next door neighbor had come to my aid many times in the past months. She sat down beside me now on the couch.

“No . . . yes . . . oh, I don’t know. It’s just so lonely. ‘Specially now with Christmas coming. I don’t see how I can get through it.”

“I know it’s hard, Emily. I wish we could have you over Christmas, but since we’re leaving tomorrow to have Christmas with the kids. . .”

“I know. It wouldn’t work anyway. It would just remind me of the times we had together, you and Bob and Clem and I. I don’t think I could take it.”

“You know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think you oughtta get rid of Clem’s things. Just pack ‘em away somewhere so you don’t see ‘em everywhere you look. Like those.” She pointed at the room, eyeing the Indian wedding pitcher we bought on our honeymoon. And there was Clem’s old guitar leaning against the fireplace where he always left it.

“I don’t see how I could change things,” I said. “It just wouldn’t seem right.”

“Well, you think about it, Emily. And about Christmas, try to forget it. Get yourself a good book or watch TV. It’ll only last twenty-four hours. After that, maybe you’ll decide to put away all those things that keep you torn up.”

“Maybe . . .

“Gotta go now. Lots of packing to do.”

“I know.”

“Hey, take it easy, OK?” Helen gave me a quick peck on the cheek and was gone.

I quickly closed the door against the clamor of the neighborhood children. Their racket still bothered me. I looked out my lace-covered window.

Noisy children! Hadn’t they any respect for their elders anymore? And the snow. Yesterday, it was pure white perfection. And now look at it!

Two boys across the road yelled and rolled a big ball of snow about, making it larger and larger. “Now!” one shouted, and they heaved the big ball onto an even larger one. A snowman, I supposed.
A little girl, probably their sister, carefully rolled a smaller ball. I guessed it would be the snowman’s head. One of the boys scooped up a wad of loose snow and pelted the little girl with it. Before I could feel sorry for her, she managed to retaliate. More bloodcurdling screams and snowballs followed. It made me sick at my stomach.

I moved away from the window. How could I let them get to me this way? They were probably perfectly normal children, and here I was acting like an old biddy.

If having all Clem’s things around was going to make me old and cranky, I’d better pack them away. But not right now. I’d do it later. I concentrated on polishing Clem’s golf medals until they gleamed. Then I dusted the cluttered bric-a-brac on the fireplace shelves. It was something to do.

Maybe Helen was right. Maybe I should forget all about Christmas this year. I couldn’t imagine Christmas without Clem. With no family, why should I have Christmas?

Years ago, when I found out I couldn’t have children, I’d cried. At first, Clem had been patient. But his patience had finally worn thin.

“We don’t have a right to feel sorry for ourselves just because we can’t have children,” he said. “Lots of people don’t have what we have.”

He was right. He was all I ever needed. But now he was gone. If there had been children, I might be sitting here waiting for them to come home for Christmas, or going to have Christmas with them, instead of resenting the neighbor children because of their happiness.

Oh, me. Could children really have eased this ache of loneliness? I curled up in the padded rocker by the fireplace and pulled my knitted shawl closer about me. Blue, the old cat, snoozed contentedly on the hearth. We used to sit this way together, Clem and I, with Old Blue always somewhere close by.

About now, Clem would have been out hunting a little tree. He always waited until Christmas Eve.

“Just a small one,” he’d say. “Let’s save the big ones for someone who needs them.”

“Why, we don’t need one at all, Clem Hargrove,” I retorted, mostly from habit.

“Now, honey,” Clem always answered. “We’re a whole family, just you and me. Of course, we’ll have a tree and all the trimmings.”

Now the tears did spill over. Here I was crying again. Since Clem died, some things just weren’t the same. No question about it, nothing was the same this Christmas. I wiped my eyes and face on my lace handkerchief.

“Stop it,” I told myself. I adjusted the logs in the fireplace and sat down again. Old Blue grumbled discontentedly at being disturbed from his nap.

“Lazy cat,” I told him, scratching him gently between his ears. Clem hadn’t cared much for cats, or so he said. I laughed out loud, just thinking about it. Wonder how many cats we’d have if he’d really liked them. There were three in all, just plain cats. The calico cat had appeared suddenly. Then one day, she had her two kittens under the barn. One was bluish grey and one yellow. Calico, Goldie, and Old Blue. At first, Clem called them barn cats, but somehow their lazy catnaps had gravitated first to the back porch, then the kitchen, and finally the hearth.

One day, Calico had just disappeared. Years later, Goldie was run over on the highway. Now only Old Blue remained—Old Blue and memories.

“I’ve got to stop this.” Feeling sorry for myself wouldn’t solve anything. But Christmas Eve was always our big day, really bigger than Christmas itself. The getting ready . . .

Perhaps next to messing Clem, I missed the smells of Christmas. Clem loved pre-Christmas baking. Like a small boy, he’d always sit tipped back in his old cane chair, sniffing the fragrant air while I baked his special Christmas cookies. He had always helped me pick out pecans ahead of time.

Maybe tomorrow I’d ignore Christmas. But not today. I hurried to the kitchen and looked in the cupboard. There were the pecans. Nothing wrong with stirring up some special Christmas Eve cookies—mincemeat, Clem’s favorite.

I tied on my brown apron, picked the meat from the pecans, gathered the other ingredients, and stirred up the dough. Then I piled fat lumps on the cookie sheets and placed them in the preheated oven.

At first, I thought I had imagined the light tap on the door. Then I heard it again, a little louder.

I rubbed my hands on my apron and answered the door. A ragged boy stood rooted to the porch like some small, frightened animal. I felt that he might turn and bolt.

“Hello.” I smiled to reassure him.

“Hi,” he answered, relaxing a little and showing a wide gap in an otherwise toothy grin. His eyes still looked too large for his small, pinched face. No cap covered his shaggy hair, and his ears were red with cold.

I opened the door wider. “Come in where it’s warm.”

The boy stood firm, gulped, and blurted out, “Would ya like to buy a Christmas tree for a quarter?”

I had been so concerned about the boy in his patched and faded outgrown jeans and coat, I hadn’t noticed the scrawny tree clutched in his hands.

I noticed it now, and if possible, it looked even more scraggly than its owner.

I couldn’t stand the thought of having a tree this year. And this dismal specimen did nothing to enhance the idea. But the small boy—and only twenty-five cents.

“All right,” I said. “You bring it in while I get the money.”

As I handed him the quarter and took the tree, I noticed his eager eyes, his freckled nose sniffing the fragrant air.

“The cookies!” I ran to the kitchen. Mercifully, they were unburned. The boy watched from the kitchen doorway as I drew them from the oven.

I smiled at him. “You look like the kind of boy who likes mincemeat cookies.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Take off your coat, then, while I get you some milk. You do like milk?”

“Yes’m.”

I watched the boy gulp the sweet milk and bite into a chewy cookie. His eyes gleamed with delight. Like Clem’s. I offered him more cookies. It was a joy to watch him eat. Finally, he licked the last crumb off his fingers, and I came down to earth.

“Goodness, I hope your mother isn’t worrying about you being gone so long!”

“No’m, she’s not home.”

“Oh.” I hated to be nosy, but I had to know. “Will she be home soon?"

“No’m, she’s at work.”

“Where?”

“At the factory.”

“My, it’s two, three hours till she gets off work then. Maybe you’d like to help me decorate that tree you sold me. Hm?”

“Yes’m.”

I took the boy with me to what we’d always called the Fibber Magee closet. The Christmas decorations were in the box on top of the quilt scrap box. I lifted off the box of snapshots and handed the Christmas box to the boy. Then I fished out the red and green tree stand from its corner.

We placed the tree in front of the lace-covered window, as usual. I turned it this way and that, finally settling on letting it bend slightly backward instead of sideways or to the front. Great gaps of bare spaces stared out like so many eyes, but the boy didn’t seem to notice. He busily helped tie on all the old bells and balls and tinsel ornaments. Then he wound the red and green ropes around and around the tree.

I reached into the box for the tinsel star. It had been the crowning touch to all those years of tree trimming. Clem and I had a special ritual for the star. I lifted it from the box carefully, polished it, and handed it to Clem.
“You put it up,” I always said. Our trees had always stood up proudly under its shining glow.

“Gee, it’s great!”

“Here,” I said. “You may as well put the star on top.”

Unwilling to watch this mockery of the past, I looked away at the dying embers of the fire and at Old Blue, too old and lazy to notice a stranger’s presence. Suddenly the silence hit me. I looked around at the boy. His eyes, fixed on the topmost limb, held awe. I looked where he was looking.

I know my mouth dropped open. The tree looked absolutely regal. And the tinsel star—I felt it held a promise especially for me, like that real star so long ago. A promise of peace.

The boy broke the stillness first. “It’s time I got to go,” he said.

I handed him his wraps. “I’m glad you came. Thanks for helping with the tree.”

“Yeah,” he said. And I saw the star again reflected in both his bright eyes.

The boy shuffled his feet, once again shy. “Hope you have a real swell Christmas!” He flashed a wide smile and was gone.

“I have,” I said. “I already have.”

*published several years ago in Home Life.

2005-12-06T18:50:00.000-08:00

TEXAS WEATHER

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Texas weather is a see-saw situation. One day it's 89*, the next, it's 40. Tonight, the temperature is predicted to drop to around 14*. And we may have snow! Once upon a time, we'd turn on the radio early, when snow fell, listening, hoping the announcer would declare a "snow day." That was when we still had children at home. You didn't have to be young to long for a snow day. And when I worked for the school system, I was as eager for a day off as were the children.

It was not a chance to sleep in. No, no! We were already up, checking to see if it was a snow day. It was a time to celebrate, to drink hot chocolate and eat cinnamon toast. Then we put on layer after layer of warm clothes, caps, scarves, and gloves, and out we'd go.

Our children and their friends made snow angels on our front lawn. A group of us, children and parents alike, rolled big balls of snow to stack one on top of another to form beautiful Frosty snowmen. "What can we use for a nose?" someone asked. "Eyes?" We gathered a carrot for a nose, sticks for arms, prunes or big buttons for eyes, caps, mufflers, and everything we could think of to make our creation the best.

In the meantime, we collected pans full of the cleanest snow we could find and when we'd had all the outdoor play we could stand, we made snow ice cream. A few of the neighborhood children ate their first snow ice cream at our house. Um-m-m, good.

Actually, we shoveled walks, too. But somehow that memory melted away, like the snowmen themselves. Isn't shoveling a little snow worth it, to have so much fun?

2005-11-26T13:24:00.000-08:00

BOOK REVIEW: LANDON SNOW AND THE AUCTOR'S RIDDLE

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Landon Snow, along with his parents and two sisters, travels to his grandparents’ home to celebrate his 11th birthday. That night, Landon explores a mysterious passage from his grandfather’s study to the local library. He meets talking books and finds The Auctor’s Riddle. He wonders: is life just an accident of nature? After Landon plunges into The Book of Meanings, he leaps from one adventure to another, meeting colorful, fascinating, and sometimes frightening, characters. How will he solve the riddle?
In an intriguing fantasy of happenings, comparable to Lemony Snicket or Alice in Wonderland, R. K. Mortenson combines theology with wit and wisdom to pen a clever story. He doesn’t talk down to younger readers, but rather, lifts them up to the level of his writing. In effect, he’s saying, “I know you’re intelligent enough to read and understand this.” And the imaginative reader will.
As the back of the book warns: “Don’t fall in. (This book may swallow.)" So heed the warning. Read it with care—and have fun!

2005-11-08T08:00:00.000-08:00

SNAKES GIVE ME THE SHAKES!

By Marion Kelley Bullock

"Pop!"

One sharp report, but not loud. Still, it sounded ominous, like a gunshot! It came from outside my front door.

My husband, John, and I rushed outside and saw a police car parked across the street. A policeman advanced toward the house two houses down from us, on our side of the street. Gun back in his holster, he brandished a big stick. "Billy club," John said, later. What in the world had our neighbors done?

We watched as he stopped at a patch of grass and struck down with his stick. He then slashed it down on the other side of the sidewalk. Back and forth, back and forth. It was a fight to the death, and the policeman won.

"Bull snake," he told us and our neighbors. "He sure was aggressive."

We've had snake scares all over our neighborhood. A rattlesnake was killed recently at the end of our street, just two houses away, and another one on the next street over. A friend at the edge of town couldn't get his glass front door to open over the mat one morning. He reached down to move the mat. It was a rattlesnake, sluggish from the early morning cool temperature. When it woke up, it fought for all it was worth.

At my Sunday school class party last Thursday evening, we told rattlesnake tales. That night, I fully expected to step on one when I got out of bed. One of my friends confessed to turning on a flashlight before she'd walk across the room in the dark.

Yes, I get the shakes when I think of snakes. I live in West Texas.

"When I am afraid, I will trust in you" (Psalm 56:3)NIV.

2005-11-04T17:32:00.000-08:00

FISHING WITH FLIES

by Marion Kelley Bullock

I'm one of those persons who tries to avoid deep controversial subjects such as whether or not restaurants should allow patrons to enter without wearing shirt and shoes, and whether cats should be allowed to run free or be restrained on leashes. So you can imagine my consternation when someone steers the conversation around to corporal punishment. There's the part of me that believes in moral justice. Then there's the other part of me that automatically sticks up for the underdog. I cry at the very thought of suffering.

On the other hand, I am extremely discriminatory against the species known as Musca domestica, i.e. the common housefly. I cringe when one enters the house. I moan when I see one land on any inside surface. In short, I'm practically psychotic about them. My hatred runs deep, having been inbred by a long line of flyswatter wielding mothers and grandmothers who believed that flylessness was next to godliness.
You could never accuse me of liking flies, but you'll have to admit, they are the underdog of all underdogs. As you can probably see, it could present a problem to hate flies and, at the same time, be a champion of the underdog. For this reason, I almost never let any inside my house. That goes for the travel trailer, too, since it's our home away from home.

The other day, though, we were camped at a delightful spot beside a trout stream. My husband was going in and out of our trailer, organizing his gear, and he held the screendoor open slightly longer than was absolutely necessary. Inevitably, a fly entered the trailer. I pointed this out to John, being careful not to attach any blame. "You let in a fly!" I said. "Oops, here come some more!" I quickly closed the screen after him.

When he came back in, he started in on me. "Back in the good old days," he began, with a smug grin on his face, "people didn't even have screens on their windows."

"So?" Sometimes I can't spot the relevance. I'd be willing to bet that people didn't have travel trailers back then, either.

"So, they didn't worry about a few flies taking up house space."

"Hmmm...." I forebore to point out that there's more space in a house. That would only prompt him to mention that I'm just as paranoid when we're not traveling.

He followed me as I went into the kitchen area to set out our lunch. Six flies munched at the table. I could see it was going to be one of those days. We armed ourselves with flyswatters and got ready for the slaughter.

"Help, help!" I heard the frightened little voices crying piteously.

"Hear that?" I asked, swerving and missing the culprit I had aimed at.

"Hear what?" He effortlessly hit the one I missed.

"Oh, nothing." I tried to sound nonchalant.

"Don't tell me you're hearing them talking again!" My
husband accuses me of not only having a split personality, but of being highly imaginative. He says my mind plays little tricks on me. Actually, I'm several months younger than he is.

I nodded sheepishly and tried to hit the one whose sticky little feet climbed steadily up the bay window. I missed, however, because he screamed just as I swatted.

"You're not very quick on the draw," my husband pointed out, hitting the window walker, kerplunk.

"Yucch!" That fly's fatal accident left the window more streaked than before.

"I'll swat, you clean," my husband directed. He hit another and another.

Their little voices rang in my ears. I put down my swatter, got out paper towels and disinfectant and cleaned the messy window.

Whap! He hit one as it begged for mercy.

"Five down and only one to go," he announced.

I decided I'd better help, or we'd never get any lunch. I picked up my swatter and there on the end of it reposed an exhausted fly. He was so depleted, his tongue was literally hanging out. I couldn't believe my luck. Even I could hit a half dead fly before he could flee. But no. He began to plead with me in the hoarsest little voice you ever heard.

"Please save me. Just carry me to the door and deposit me outside. I'll be forever grateful."

I did what he asked. I opened the screendoor wide and set him gently on the doorstep.

"Oh, no!" yelled my husband. "Here we go again." He glared at me.

I looked around to see him battling a new battalion of flies.

"I told you to let me swat," he growled. "Now, get out of here and let me take care of them."

So much for corporal punishment versus the underdog. I took the easy way out. I crawled into my loft bunk and hid my head under my pillow.
Naptime!

This article appeared in Mature Years

2005-09-19T17:59:00.000-07:00

IT'S ALL GOOD!

by Marion Kelley Bullock

I just returned from the ACFW conference in Nashville. It was awesome. Renewing friendships, making new friends, laughing, crying, making memories that last a lifetime. That's what it's all about.

But there's so much more. There's the chance to learn, the opportunity to improve your writing as well as the encouragement to think of our journey as just that, not simply a struggle to get published. Of course, that's what we all want - to be published. But it's got to be God's will and in His divine time.

I particularly enjoyed Deb Raney's intermediate class. Being the poorest note-taker in the universe, I appreciated the concise handouts more than I can say. With her help, how could I help but improve my craft.

I benefitted from Kris Billerbeck's "Writing your passion," from Colleen's class and the info she shared with me personally. Karen Ball's keynote messages wrapped up our experience with a tub-full (make that a hot tub-full) of laughter and wisdom.

Kim Sawyer's testimony touched my heart, as did the precious note written by her daughter, Kristian, telling why Kim deserved a prize.

Brandilyn frightened me, with her froggy face and Bloody Bart. She caused me a terrifying nightmare. Friday, in the middle of the night, I awoke feeling the dead weight of a hand across me. My first thought was that it was my husband's. No, I wasn't at home. Perhaps it was my roommate's hand. But wait! She was in the other bed. I panicked. There was no way I could force a scream through my rigid throat. I pulled my left hand from under the cover, reached out and grabbed the ice-cold appendage that trapped me. It felt alien, lifeless, unattached . . . Bloody Bart! Maybe I did scream. I'll never know. My roommate wore earplugs. But something woke me and I felt the hand come back to life. My breathing slowed and I pulled the cover back over my cold arm.

As Karen Ball said, "It's all good."

2005-09-13T19:29:00.000-07:00

ACFW CONFERENCE, HERE I COME!

By Marion Kelley Bullock

We leave tomorrow afternoon to go to Abilene, because my flight out of Dallas is early Thursday morning. And I have to be there ninety minutes ahead.

The conference is about all I can think of. That and wondering if I've packed enough clothes, makeup, meds, snacks, etc. I pared things down till I could get everything in my small twenty-inch Protocol bag. Everything except the things I stuffed in my rolling tapestry bag that I'll carry my essentials in at the conference. That's tight packing, folks.

I'm almost ready. I'm thankful I can attend the conference, see my crit partner, Megan, and others I talk to on the loop. We'll miss Angie, our other crit partner. But each of us, in our own way, is reaching out for God's will in our lives. We'll pitch to publishers, because ultimately we want to be published. But most of all, we want what God wants for us.
"'For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.'" Jeremiah 29:11-13 NIV.

2005-09-03T13:08:00.000-07:00

MY KID CAME HOME

By Marion Kelley Bullock

It was just for a couple days. He trekked from the metroplex, where he has gone to hunt a job after college. The other night we ate T-bones (we were really celebrating!), big baked potatoes with all the toppings, salad with his fave buttermilk ranch dressing, cantaloupe, and chocolate meringue pie a la mode. The next day, he went to Sweetwater to finish cleaning his apartment and close out his bank account. In the evening, he returned, to work with his granddad on a newer resume and for lemon-pepper chicken and rice, and the rest of the chocolate pie.

God blessed John and me with children. Most of the time, they bring us joy. We feel no regret at the money spent rearing them, educating them, getting them ready to go out into the world. Because we love them.

Occasionally, a son or daughter turns away from what the parents taught, going off in a direction they wouldn’t choose. But the child can never escape the parents love. Love is eternal. It can be likened to God’s love.

From everlasting to everlasting the Lord’s love is with those who fear him and his righteousness with his children’s children. Psalm 103:17 NIV

2005-08-19T18:09:00.000-07:00

PICNICS

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Years ago, when our two daughters were little, we worked with a pastor who loved to go to the lake every Saturday (well, nearly every Saturday during the season.) And staff members were expected to go along. The first of these little jaunts was planned with great aplomb. I received my instructions. Bring fried chicken, potato salad, and chocolate chip cookies (all homemade). And don't bring the children! I hunted until I found a sitter who was free for the whole day, because we had no idea when we would return.

I enjoyed fishing, swimming, eating. But it hurt to see our pastor's three children (only a few years older than ours) taking part in the merriment, when ours must be left behind.

This quickly grew old. The day we usually relaxed and enjoyed activities with our family had been usurped. How depressing to head for the lake, already tired from preparations, come home sun-burned and worn-out, and try to interact with two small children who had been left out of the fun and who missed mommy and daddy all day.

When those days ended, I promised my husband that no one was ever again going to dictate what food I took on a picnic. Actually, no one has ever tried.

Yesterday, my love and I decided on the spur of the moment to go on a picnic. It was evening, late enough to avoid the hottest part of the day. Because our state park, while it boasts carefully planted and cared-for trees, has none large enough to boast about.

We took meats, bread, deviled eggs, chips, apples and chocolate candy bars. No gourmet meal, to be sure. My motto at times like these is "we eat to live," not "we live to eat."

We spread our tablecloth on a picnic table and set out our picnic basket and food.
Bowing our heads, we thanked God for our food and all the ways He's blessed us. We prayed for our children and grandchildren, scattered here and there. As we ate we gazed at the blue-green lake shimmering in the setting sun. Talk was relaxed, desultory. We strolled out to big rocks jutting out over the lake and watched the moon come up and brighten the darkening sky.

Now that's a holiday, even if it's just for one evening.

2005-08-13T13:32:00.000-07:00

LOVE IS . . .

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Sometimes I start feeling sorry for myself. I feel like chanting the old tune I remember from childhood:
“Nobody loves me, everbody hates me,
Goin’ out in the garden and eat ‘erms.
Great big fat ones, great big slick ones,
Great big fuzzy, ‘uzzy erms."

I’ve never sunk quite low enough in my depression that I’ve actually gone out and dug up worms. But I’ve come close, and if I’d thought for one second it would help matters, I would have. Maybe they wouldn’t taste too bad fried.

It does hurt when people—friends, family members—turn against us. When it’s happened to me, I’ve struggled, actually made myself sick, agonizing over the broken relationship. I’ve lain awake nights, begging God to take away the damage that doesn’t seem to be fixable. “What can I do, Lord?” or “What can I say?” doesn’t always yield an answer. Sometimes we simply have to stand by our beliefs and honor the Lord our God above all things.

But even then—or maybe especially then, we must remember love. In 1 Corinthians 13:13, we read, “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” (NIV).

Worry over things we cannot control is foolish. It has no power to change any situation and only harms those of us who yield to it.

Love, however, does have power. We’re told in Matthew 5:44, 46, “Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you . . . If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that?” (NIV).

So when we feel so low, so un-loved that we don’t think we can bear to live, we must turn our eyes to Jesus, “the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Hebrews 12:2 (NIV).

He, who is perfect, endured persecution. So what makes us, imperfect creatures that we are, think we deserve better?

2005-08-06T15:02:00.000-07:00

BLACK AND BLUE

By Marion Kelley Bullock

No, I’m not talking about bruises. My husband doesn’t beat me. But today he let me down in a more subtle way.

“How would you like to go to Big Spring and eat at Al’s Barbeque?” He stood behind my computer chair and tempted me. I bit. I usually do. I’m a glutton for quitting my work to go out to lunch or whatever excitement he conjures up.

I hurried to my closet and changed into a pair of pants and my two-shades-of-green and black Hawaiian big shirt. I thought it would look much better than my everyday shorts and tee. I grabbed my makeup kit and we hurried to the car.

After I donned my two-minute-makeup (eyeliner, cover stick, and lipstick), we talked a while and then I settled back to relax. I moved the makeup kit off my lap onto the floor. As I looked down at my lap, I screeched.

“What’s wrong?” My husband swerved, narrowly missing an oncoming car.

“My pants are navy!”

“So?”

Obviously, he failed to see the relevance. I hurried to tell him where he’d gone wrong. “You didn’t stop me from wearing navy pants with a green and black shirt. You know I’m practically colorblind!”

“I didn’t notice.” He said it with a straight face. “Besides, you look fine.”
I thought about going back home to change, but we were nearly there and my taste buds won out. “Let’s just eat instead of dropping by Wal-Mart as we usually do. Okay?”

He agreed.

Hmmmm. Did I detect a smug look on his face? Did he purposely refrain from telling me I’d made another color blunder, so I’d resist yet another shopping spree? It didn’t bear thinking about.

At Al’s, the lights were dim, the food was delicious, and I didn’t see anyone I knew.

Home again, I took off the mismatched clothes, labeled my pants “navy” inside the waistband. My Sharpie writes big and bold.

Next time I’ll know.

2005-07-30T17:39:00.000-07:00

CHILDHOOD PETS

By Marion Kelley Bullock

POOR CAT
Barbara, my sister, and I loved our cat. It never came inside, because our parents didn’t believe in animals coming inside. But we enjoyed playing with it outside on those occasions when we could catch it. I remember the picture of my smugly smiling little sister grasping our current cat in a life-defying stranglehold. In her arms, it dangled helplessly, gasping for breath. I don’t know how long the cat lived after that. But one thing I know. It didn’t die from lack of affection.
DOGS
Poochie was another story. We loved her (or was it him?) with all our hearts. I guess she was the first real pet we could remember having, in our early years, besides the strangled cat, which I tried to forget.
Thurlow, who worked as house help for our mother, gave us Poochie. She was from a litter that Thurlow’s family’s mama dog had whelped. She was wonderful. As well as I can remember, she was sort of spotted, tan, brown, black, and white . . . maybe.
We were so used to her. She was always there for us. We lived out in the country, about a mile from Coleman. When we played outside, Mother probably thought Poochie would keep us from getting snake bit.
I really thought she’d be part of our family forever. But one day Thurlow told us that her family’s dog had been run over and killed. Poochie looked just like her and was also the only pup in the litter that they could locate. The upshot of it was that Thurlow’s family wanted her back, Indian givers that they were.
I can barely remember Poochie, but I remember my grief over her. Even today, I can’t imagine giving a pet to two little girls and then, later, asking for its return.
After Poochie, there was Bobby. We may not have had him very long before he was run over by a car and killed. I think he was white with black spots and looked like a collie.
THE LITTLE RABBITS
Two telephone men crossed our front yard and knocked at the door. My little sister and I clung to our mother’s skirts as she talked to them. Then we saw their offering. Two tiny wild rabbits nestled in one of the men’s big hands.
“Could your little girls have them?” he asked.
They had dug them up when they were replacing
a telephone pole “up the rode yonder.”
Barbara and I waited with bated breath. When Mother agreed, we held the little creatures in our hands, hugged up against us, so they wouldn’t get away. Later, Mother or Daddy helped us outfit a box for them and we gave them our undivided attention, offering them water, grass, and any other tidbits we were given for them. Anything to make them comfortable and happy.
They must have been miserable. Instead of thriving, with the care we lavished on them, they moped, refusing to eat. Finally, we were forced to accept that turning them loose was the only solution. I’m not sure how this was accomplished, but I visualize our daddy telling us that wild creatures don’t thrive if they’re caged and deprived of their natural habitat. I see him taking us out into the field and letting us turn them loose.

"God made the wild animals according to their kinds . . . and all the creatures that move along the ground according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good." Genesis 1:25 NIV

2005-07-27T13:00:00.000-07:00

MEMORIES

By Marion Kelley Bullock

Memories are elusive. Sometimes they hide right around the corner and refuse to appear. At other times, they simply pop up, unannounced, surprising us with their clarity.
In writing this, I recalled some things almost verbatim, but others were shrouded with a fine mist. At times such as that, I had to go by instinct, saying “I think this is the way it is.” You see, no two persons remember everything the same way. This is what I remember.
BABY SISTER
I don’t know when I first realized it wasn’t just me anymore. But I do remember helping take care of someone smaller than I. This actually began when I was fourteen months of age, because that’s when my little sister was born. I suppose, since I was underfoot anyway, Mother appealed to me to help with my new Baby Sister. “Bring me a diaper,” she probably said, and I soon began to get the hang of it. “Baby It-ta wet,” I chirped, when I touched a soggy cloth diaper. “Baby It-ta want nim-bot,” I appealed, when she cried for her bottle. I was given what my parents termed a ninny-bottle when I was hungry, so I had to make sure my little sister fared as well. I addressed any number of needs. In fact, I took my job so seriously that Barbara didn’t ask for anything. She simply pointed and I told Mother what she wanted.
Years later, Mother confided that they had feared Barbara might never learn to talk, because she didn’t have to. I did all her talking for her.
It could have been claimed that I kept my sister from learning to talk, by second-guessing her every time she opened her little mouth. But think of it this way. I had experience. I was more than a year ahead of her, so I merely wanted to pave the way.
I protected my sister on any number of occasions. I’m sure I did, even though I don’t remember specifics. That’s what older siblings are for.
When I was very small, even before I had a little sister, Mother left me sitting in the kitchen floor, one day, chomping on dry cornflakes. They were in my little orchid potty, which I was allowed to carry around with me, since it was no longer used for its original purpose. When she returned to the kitchen, I was actually chewing pieces of a green glass ash tray, which I had broken into my potty. I was rushed to the hospital, in case any of the glass was ingested, and I never repeated that blunder. Neither did my sister. I watched her like a hawk and kept her from such foolishness.

God is in the business of protecting His children. Parents, brothers and sisters, and friends can only do so much. It's God to whom we turn for the ultimate protection.
"God is our refuge and strength,
an ever-present help in trouble." Psalm 46:1 NIV