This announcement just ran in Publishers Weekly:
“Amy Fitzgerald at Lerner/Carolrhoda has bought Ginger Garrett’s middle-grade novel Name Tags and Other Terrible Ideas (Most of Them Mine). When sixth grader Lizbeth finds her plans to get rid of her father’s new girlfriend and make friends at her new school derailed, an art project prompts her to think outside the box. Publication is slated for fall 2020; Melissa Jeglinski at the Knight Agency brokered the deal for world rights.”
I am a woman obsessed with pearls.
Delicate and hypnotic, I love to watch the way each one catches the light, reflecting a soft, ethereal glow.
Here are the top three reasons why everyone should be obsessed with pearls.
First, they symbolize the secrets of the heart: hidden wisdom, the discovery of heaven-on-earth, and tears of joy.
Second, you can often find pearls in thrift stores, like I do. It’s a little tricky to tell a real pearl from a fake one, but once you master the secrets (which you can learn anywhere online) it gets easier. I pay as
Snowdrift is a Great Pyrenees mix that my wonderful vet helped us save from the dreaded disease parvo. Snowy stared down death at a young age, so she has a stoic personality. We adopted Watson the black and tan bloodhound mix, and it would be incorrect to say he has a personality. No, he IS personality. A very loud personality that includes yodeling in the early hours of the morning.
But I love this photo because at some point every afternoon, Watson naps. And when he does, Snowy watches over him. She can’t resist the pull of her Pyrenees DNA
“Christmas is really for children, isn’t it?” The casual remark made by a friend wounded me deeply. I had recently miscarried and was told I would never be able to carry a child to term. All month I had struggled to survive emotionally, bombarded hourly with toy advertisements and commercials featuring adorable kids sneaking downstairs in their pajamas. If Christmas was for children, what could it offer me? I had no children, and never would, it seemed.
I wasn’t the only one silently suffering in the season of good cheer. My Bible study leader had recently lost her son to
Several years ago, my parents sold their home in Texas to be closer to their grandchildren. The first Christmas with the family together was glorious; we ate, played, and shopped nearly every day. One afternoon, I picked up my five-year-old daughter Elise after a fun day with Grandpa and Grandma.
I noticed she was looking out the minivan window, a sad expression on her face. “What is it, hon?” I asked.
“It’s Grandpa and Grandma. I just feel really sorry for them,” she whispered.
Elise sighed. “I was just wondering, aren’t they ever going to have kids
The most glorious mothering-moments always seem to go terribly wrong for me.
My fifth grade daughter invited a friend, Grace, for a sleepover. Grace’s father is a church leader, a detail which will be important later, and one which my daughter will refer back to in therapy years from now.
My daughter (nicknamed Lolo) and Grace were happily cavorting when their time was rudely interrupted by my teenage son returning home with a few of his friends. Elementary school girls love to antagonize teenage guys, and teenage guys will frequently escalate the return-fire, in order to put an
I was going to an important meeting, so when I merged onto the highway, I pulled to the far left lane. Some people drive; I zoom. This is the reason my friends have kindly suggested that I never put the Christian fishie on my car. (And I know the proper term is Ichthys, but fishie is much more fun to say and we are all in dire need of much more fun.)
Too late to exit, I realized that up ahead ALL lanes of traffic were stopped. As I inched forward over the next half-hour, I saw that
The last blog post I wrote was about my pledge to meet every wound with love. And then, as often happens, it seems I was due to be tested on this principle. Did I really mean that post? Would I really greet my wounds as a chance to let Love make my life more beautiful?
If they are my wounds, yes.
I did not foresee that my son would be in a flour fight (yes, baking products turned into projectiles) and that someone would throw a hard ball at his face, shattering his nose.
That was certainly a