If you're looking for a cozy mystery to wile away the dog days of summer, my friend Traci DePree has a new book out in the Mystery and the Minister's Wife series published by Guideposts. Traci is a gifted writer and editor, and she created the Lake Emily series with its graphically yummmy covers. Here's what she says about her newest:

Unveiling her deepest secret could save her daughter's life.

Kate Hanlon is at it again. Minister's wife, stained-glass artist, and sometimes sleuth, Kate Hanlon discovers more than she bargained for when she visits a woman whose daughter is battling leukemia. Before she knows it she's on the road uncovering clues that could be the girl's very survival.

Book #2 in Mystery and the Minister's Wife, A State of Grace picks up where Through the Fire left off as Kate and Paul Hanlon learn about life in small town Tennessee. Follow Kate as she comes to know the town and its inhabitants. Admire her persistence, intelligence, and strength of character as she slowly, but surely, begins to unlock the town's secrets.

Each novel in the MYSTERY AND THE MINISTER'S WIFE series is a page-turner, a good old-fashioned "whodunit." They're books that bring truth to light, that reveal dreams, and that show that trust in God always trumps fear and anxiety. Here's where you can check out how to get on board with this Guideposts series. http://shopguideposts.com/product.asp?0=205&1=222&3=368

You can learn more about Traci DePree and her work at www.tracidepree.com or visit her blogs at http://tracidepree.com/blog/rural-life/ and http://tracidepree.com/blog/christian-fiction/

Have a lovely weekend.

Goodbye, celery-keeper

I've had it for 25 years.

I took it with me to England and Germany on our two overseas tours. It's had a home with me in Arkansas, Minnesota, and California. It could hold many things I suppose, but its destiny was to house celery in all its celeriac glory - crunchy, green and downright wet.

But after these many years, and these many moves, I am retiring the celery keeper. I am giving it away. It still does a marvelous job of keeping celery, but the fact is, it has spent the better part of its life in the cupboard, shoved to the back next to the Bundt and omelet pans. I've hardly ever kept celery in it. The thing is big and rectangular and takes quite a bit room down there on the bottom shelf of the fridge. It has always been easier to toss the celery into the crisper with the carrots and lettuce (I got rid of the lettuce keeper last year) and wish it a crunchy halflife with the rest of the salad-makings.

So why did I keep it all these years? Why did I treat the celery keeper like a back issue of National Geographic? Why did I accord it a place in the kitchen archives — in the deep bowels of the cupboard where only the rarely-used-but-essential items are kept —the turkey roaster, the gravy separator, the springform pan, the copper Jello-mold in the shape of a fish?

I don't have a good answer other than we (I assume I speak for others like me) keep what we don't use if nothing is wrong with it. Did you catch the first part? We keep what we don't use. We don't use it but we keep it. Nothing is wrong with it. Someone else could use it. Because there's nothing wrong with it. But no, we keep it. And use it not.

It's almost like, dare I say it, we are stingy. We have something someone could use, and we're certainly not using it, but we keep it year after unused year. I've come to the realization that holding onto stuff I don't need or use is pointless. It serves no point. Someone out there would love to have my celery keeper, I'm just sure of it. I can imagine it even now. A lady is walking down the aisles of a local church thrift shop. She sees a flash of dinner-mint green. Can it be? Is that a celery keeper?! Yes! It is. And off she goes to the cash register, happy as a clam.

Now that serves a point. Well, it sure serves if nothing else.

It is time. Celery keeper, I've held on to you for far too long. You've known no celery for lo these many years. Go forth to the thrift shop and be fruitful. I mean, vegetableful. You were meant for this. I bid you adieu.

What's in your cupboard?

Touring The Glass Castle

I am always amazed by the ability of some children to remain resilient despite an outwardly miserable home-life. I am astonished by calm and compassionate adults who could be understandably agitated and unkind based on the kind of upbringing they had. I am learning that as long as a child feels loved — and that love may look like love only to him — he can thrive. I think that is the power of familial love. It has the power to award us our identity based on the affection we sense within it and that makes us feel very comfortable in its bounds, however strange they may seem to outsiders.

Jeannette Walls' poignant memoir, The Glass Castle, explores this theme the way only a memoir can — through the lens of reality. The writing is crisp, unpretentious, and honest. Reading the pages was like living her stange childhood with her, and loving her crazy parents right alongside her even though they failed her and her siblings in about every way they could. An alcoholic father and a bipolar mother form the basis for the Walls' odd family dynamics, and in the mix,are their four ordinary children who just need to grow up. Every now and then there'd be a tiny glimmer of greatness in one or both of the parents, and you'd almost want to cheer. And then the greatness would disappear, popping in again a few chapters down the road, but only scantily. It was easy to see this is how the author lived her childhood — hoping in between disasters. Perhaps that is how she and others like her survive a dysfunctional family: they possess an extraordinary amount of hope.

This must also be why the book never seems depressing. Ever. Though you want to cry and shout and wring the parents' necks sometimes, Jeannette never lets you pity her. Hope kept her afloat. Hope keeps her still.

This was a terrific read. You forget you are reading a memoir, the writing is that engaging. It may not be an easy read if you've traveled a difficult road to adulthood, but perhaps it might open your eyes to slivers of hope in your own life. Jeannette's dad once gave her the planet Venus for Christmas when his irresponsible lifestyle left him penniless at the holidays. For a moment there I forgot how mad I was that he was forever neglecting his children. That was an amazing Christmas present. I am sure Jeannette can't ever look at the night sky without thinkng of that Christmas, among many, when they had no money. Quite a gift.

Highly recommended, folks. Have a great weekend.

War and remembrance

A few years back, when I was editor of a small-town newspaper, my staff and I were preparing for the issue that coincided with Veterans Day. We agreed we wanted a front-page interview with a WWII vet. We wanted a feature story with a personal account to run alongside a sidebar noting the time and place of the annual ceremony taking place in the city park.

It was a production decision that made sense. From an editorial standpoint it was a nicely put-together front page.

But whenever I'm given cause to remember that particular moment in my community journalism career, I recall the interview with a man who farmed most of his adult life, who was soft-spoken and Mid-West mild-mannered. And who had suvived the Bataan Death March. I can still remember how he quietly told us that on the march, if you stopped to catch your breath, they shot you. If you stopped to scrounge a drink of water, they shot you. If you stopped to help a wounded comrade, they shot you. He spoke in measured tones of his time in a Japanese prison, of his doubts of seeing home again, of the friends he saw die before his eyes.

And there we were as he talked in the last lingering moments of a Minnesota autumn, surrounded by harvested corn fields and open sky, leagues away from the Pacific, the Philipines, and the smell of death. You could almost talk yourself into thinking such a thing could never have happened. But it did. We all know it did. His was an amazing story of fortitude, courage and resiliency.

I remember thinking everyone should hear this man's story. It didn't seem right that only a handful of subscribers would read it. I still feel that way.

Earlier this month, around the Fourth of July to be exact, I learned there is a concerted push for the YouTube generation to help record the stories of the brave men and women who make up what many call the greatest generation. It's a wonderful idea. And anyone can be a part of it. It's called the Veterans History Project and it's open to anyone. It encompasses not only WWII but all the major conflicts and wars of the last 100 years. If you can run a video camera or record a voice or type up an interview, you can help preserve the oral histories of events that shaped our nation in many ways. Wouldn't it be great if the young, creative minds who flood You Tube with videos of their cat singing Christmas carols or their uncle doing magic tricks or their bungee-jumping vacation in Maui took the time to record the personal accounts of WWII veterans? Statistics tell us 1,000 WWII vets pass away every day, and when they die, they take their stories with them. The YouTube crowd is perfectly gifted to make sure the stories don't die with them. Stories like these should not be forgotten.

Check the website for yourself. Consider interviewing a neighbor or a family member who you know has a story to tell. Then help them tell it. Make the effort.

What have you got to lose?

Well, actually, a lot.

How to ask big questions

When my husband was active duty in the Air Force, he had a creative commander who decided not to call the weekly staff meeting the weekly staff meeting. Instead, he called it The How Goes It.

A grammatical nightmare of a sentence, I know, but I like the image this conjures. Yes, it was still a staff meeting and yes, staff members still had to brief the commander (military members always brief, never explain or tell) on the week's events. But How Goes It seemed to imply you could add what It meant to you personally. If all the commander wanted to know was the status of this and that, he could have called it What Goes It instead (which I know grammatically sounds far worse). But "how" invites interpretation, reflection, consideration. Like this:

Commander: How goes the widget line, captain?
Captain: It goes very well, sir!

Compare that with this:
Commander: What goes the widget line, captain?
Captain: We've counted 500, sir.

You would never know if that was good or bad. "How" invites the use of an adjective. Adjectives color our world with meaning. "What" asks only for a list or a number or an identifier. Meaning is always deeper than definition. I mean, you can define chocolate (i.e. what is chocolate? a brown confection made from cocoa beans) Or you can give chocolate meaning by asking how. "How is chocolate?" doesn't sound like a nicely worded sentence, but I like it better. I can give meaning to chocolate better when I begin with the awkward "how" than the stiff "what."

I'm thinking I need to ask myself more"how" questions. The last few months I have felt like I am at a crossroads of sorts. Usually when I have to decide which road to take, I ask myself what will happen if I go this way, what will happen if I go that way? Maybe I should be asking how questions. Like how will I be remembered if I go this way? How will I change? How will I grow? How much will I learn? How little? How will this fulfill my purpose? How will it hinder it? How will it honor my Creator? How did I get to this place of decision? How will I look at the next crossroads if I choose this way? If I choose that? How much will it cost me? How much am I willing to pay?

I was a reporter at a newspaper years ago. I know the importance of "what" questions. I know all the W questions are supposed to come first, and then the H question. But perhaps during times of self-reflection, it's okay to begin with H. If what I am looking for is meaning rather than information, then maybe it's not only okay to start with H, but the smarter choice. It doesn't take me long to ask myself what in the world I am doing. But it sure seems like a deeper queston to ask myself how I am doing it.

'Know what I mean?

Oops. Make that, "How what I mean?"

How far would you go?

Imagine a medicine that cures you of your worst vice.

One dose and you’re free. How much would a person pay for such a cure? How far would they go? Would they lie for it? Steal for it? Kill for it?

My writer friend Athol Dickson has a great new book out that explores this notion. I'm in an online writers group with Athol, and let me tell you, this Christy-Award winning author is a deep thinker who will challenge you all the while entertaining you. His posts on this loop are always insightful, clever and witty. I can't wait to read his new book.

Here's the story line: Riley Keep, former man of God, former missionary, has been a beggar on the streets for years, desperate to forget the past. His wife, daughter, work, and faith were all lost in the aftermath of one far-flung act of wickedness. Believing some things cannot be forgiven in this life, lately Riley has begun to think of giving up the ghost. Then he hears the rumors.

Miracles are happening in Maine.

An old woman fleeing a horrific monster, a lonely wife and mother tempted by forbidden desire, an impoverished lobsterman lured by tainted wealth, a young girl weighing life and death decisions, a small town cop with a murder on his hands . . . these are just a few of the citizens of Dublin, Maine, a picture postcard village slowly suffocating underneath an avalanche of hungry people searching for a miracle. But only Riley Keep will find what he desires. And only then will Riley learn if it will save him, or if it’s true what people say . . . .

Sometimes The Cure is worse than the disease.

I'm liking it already. You gotta feel for the guy. We've all been in that place, even if it lasted for only a moment, of wanting to just check out. Give up. Give in. The promise of a way to numb the anguish looks pretty good when you're in that place. Who doesn't want a cure when it feels like you are dying inside.

Here's some advance praise for The Cure from Publishers Weekly:

“Rich with local dialect and scenery…. Dickson's approach is thought-provoking, and his prose beautifully evokes the taciturn spirit of the Mainers who people this novel….full of interesting ideas and well-developed characters.”

Very cool review. The PW crowd is very, shall we say, discriminating. They don't toss out compliments lightly.

You can learn more about my friend Athol and his impressive "little gray cells" by visiting his blog at http://whatatholwrote.blogspot.com/.

See y'all on Friday, from Atlanta . . .