Facing Loss and Embracing New Possibilities

Loss.  It’s a word we don’t want to hear, let alone experience.  Yet we all experience it.  We all know loss, not just of it.  Some of us have known it on a first name basis for too many years.  If we’re lucky, some of us know it only as an acquaintance for brief periods throughout life.

When I say “loss,” what comes to mind?  Losing a loved one to death?  Divorce or a tough breakup?  Loss of a job, a friendship, a dream?  Or maybe just all the socks that lost their mates in the laundry?  Sorry, I had to throw a random joke in.  This is a tough subject matter.

Chances are, if you’re lived long enough like me, you know loss intimately enough to define it, to know the emptiness it leaves in its wake, to know healing is hard, to know that moving forward after a great loss can seem insurmountable in the moment of grieving.

I was in a Bible study once where the question was asked: What do you think the saddest word in the English language is?

My answer?  Hopelessness.

Whoever wrote that study agreed with me.  Now maybe you have another word, but I’d suspect that hopelessness would be in your top ten most depressing words.  Hopelessness and loss are often intertwined like a tight braid, held in place by an elastic of grief, anger, sadness, and denial.

Then where is acceptance, which can lead to hope?

My earliest memories of loss aren’t deep: a goldfish being flushed down the toilet, our outdoor pet bunny escaping and running away, attending wakes and funerals of people I didn’t really know.

For me, the loss of my innocence at an early age, something precious ripped from me, was the type of loss that affected me the most at the time.  When I was eight years old, two boys in my neighborhood, barely older than me, sexually molested me.  They had access to pornography.  It wasn’t sex, but it was bad enough.  I knew enough to know that “stuff down there” could cause pregnancy and AIDS, which had just come out as the latest big disease scare.  For months, I thought I was going to die of AIDS and prayed several times a day to God: “Please don’t let me have AIDS.”  Luckily, I told my parents what happened, and they went to the police.  I stayed away from those boys, but it never went to court.  No one was held accountable.  Maybe worse than thinking I had AIDS was that it seemed like everyone at school knew my secret.  Those boys told other kids.  I remember feeling dirty and violated for years after the incident as I walked the halls, sometimes being asked, “Were you raped?”  As a child, I couldn’t pinpoint terms like “dirty” and “violated” to describe the uncomfortable feeling of a slimy snake creeping inside me when people stared and asked rude questions, but I know now that was what I was feeling.

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But I survived because of the kids who were my friends and because of my family.  I had parents who loved me.  I had a few good friends who stuck by my side, and as the years passed, the news of it died.  Understanding more about “stuff down there,” I knew I wouldn’t die of AIDS.  I stayed away from those boys as much as possible.

My next experience with a huge loss came when I was 15 and lost both of my grandmas within two weeks of each other.  My dad’s mom had been battling cancer for over a year, and she lived in Kentucky, so I rarely saw her and wasn’t that close to her.  While my dad and brother attended her funeral, my mom and I stayed home to be with her mom, who was in the hospital.  We received the news no one wants to hear–the cancer had metastasized to her lungs (from a sarcoma on her leg the previous year), and there was nothing to be done.  Even chemo would only give her a small chance.  She was already 81 years old and didn’t want to go through that.  Despite being given two to six months, she passed a mere two weeks later.  She was at our house, so she died surrounded by family and didn’t suffer for long.

I had always known my life with my dear grandma.  We visited her every Sunday after church.  She had that warm voice that greeted us and those rosy cheeks and that beautiful smile.  She always had candy in her purse and cookies on top of her fridge.  She had her quirks from living through the Great Depression of watering down her shampoo, of saving a hundred plastic bags, and of using the smallest amount of batter left to make a quarter-sized pancake an eighth inch thick.  She burned her pizza that tasted like cardboard, but her pork chops were marvelous.  She spent every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter with us.  She went on numerous vacations with my family.  She was special.

pablo (2)So how could I, at 15, understand what it meant to face life without one of the most important people?  While she was still in the hospital, I wrote a letter to her, where I told her brave she was, how much I loved and admired her, and asked her to send me a sign upon reaching Heaven.  She passed on a dreary early April day.  The rain continued until the day of her funeral four days later.  After we came home from an emotionally draining day, my mom called me to look out the window with her.  Stretched across the clearing sky was a beautiful rainbow!  I knew this was her sign to me!  Just as soon as my mom and I saw Grandma’s rainbow, it faded.  I had no doubts.  I found comfort in that rainbow.  Even though I would miss her dearly, time had helped heal the immediate stabbing loss.  A scar remains on my heart, but my grandma and her rainbow would go on to create something miraculous.

I wrote her life story in a fictionalized account and published it a year ago.  She has been my inspiration to write more books, to embrace what I call my heart’s song, my raison d’etre.  Not only died my grandma give me hope and the possibility to write, but my daughter is named after her.  Emma was a surprise child, not planned but welcomed and blessed!

Out of loss came immense possibility that became reality.

As the years went on, I would know the loss of a relationship with a boy who I once was in love with, but I would then meet the wonderful man who would become my husband and the father to my children, who I’ve been married to for 14 years.

We enjoyed several years of marriage where it was just the two of us.  We got to know each other more intimately.  We travelled to Italy, Hawaii, the Caribbean.  We focused on our careers.  We got a house together and made it our own.

The next step seemed obvious: children.  I was in my late twenties.  Everyone around me seemed to be getting pregnant, so I knew I was at that life stage when it was time.  My husband, Erik, and I were ready…as ready as we could be.

pablo (3)Little did I know how hard our journey to conceive would become.  Every month would come and go the same: hope that this would be the month we got lucky, only to flee with more tears and heartache at an empty womb.  This trend would continue for the next two and a half years.  My husband and I went through testing.  They could find nothing wrong.  We tried artificial insemination three times…nothing.  We were told fertility drugs would only increase the chances slightly, so we held off.  As 2008 drew to a close, we were on the verge of trying in vitro.  Drained beyond panic and exhaustion at this point, I suggested we held off for six months and just tried to relax and enjoy life again.  We had put so much pressure on ourselves to conceive that I was just done.  With it being Christmas, my favorite time of year, I didn’t want to deny myself drinking some wine and the general fun of the festivities.  

That Christmas was great.  Pictures from the time show a true smile on my face, surrounded by coworkers, friends, and family.  I stopped thinking so much about conceiving.

The New Year came.  I was late.  Of course, there had been a few months when I had been tricked before by this very thing.  Why did early pregnancy symptoms have to mirror the ones I got when it was that time of the month?  I knew the stabbing pain of loss from too many months of not conceiving, and I didn’t want to be tricked again.  Why get my hopes up?

But I couldn’t wait.  It was now five days past.  In the bathroom at work, I took a pregnancy test.  When two lines appeared instead of one, I thought for sure this was a dream.  You can imagine my elation!  Finally!

All those months of loss died upon receiving this amazing news.  My pregnancy would continue as healthy, and I gave birth to a 7 pound boy right on his due date of September 10, 2009.  Luke was a miracle baby, a baby so many friends and family, and my husband and I, had been praying for for years.  

As Luke grew, we knew we wanted to grow our family more.  The stresses of trying to conceive were no longer a problem because we knew we could do it.  Luke was now a toddler, a happy kid who was walking and beginning to talk.  A younger brother or sister would be great for him.  As we wanted our kids close in age (2-3 years apart), we decided the time was ripe.  On New Year’s Eve of 2010, I had a hunch I was pregnant and took a test.  It was positive!  The exciting thing was that this second baby would be due the same date as Luke’s birthday!  We attended a friend’s party that evening, and I declined the wine.  The other girls gave me knowing looks, two of whom were pregnant.  We all squealed quietly.  

On January 12, 2011, I miscarried.  Sure, it was early…only six weeks in, but the loss of my baby hit me like a train.  Loss of life is tragic, no matter how old.  A mother carries her child in her for the first nine months.  She and the child are literally a part of each other during that time.  I think I cried more that day than I ever had.  My prayers to save the child went unfulfilled.  I was devastated.  How could I possibly move on from this?

One thing I knew: I didn’t want to keep my loss to myself.  Having a miscarriage is understandably a very private thing for many people, but suffering alone is daunting.  I shared my experience with those around me, mostly other women from church and my friends.  What did I immediately notice?  How common miscarriages were.  How many people related and understood what I’d been through.  If it weren’t for these brave, strong women supporting me through this tough time, I wouldn’t have been able to heal.  Of course, a woman never can forget her lost child, but with the support of friends and the passage of time, healing can occur.

My doctor encouraged me to try to have another baby after allowing my body (and mind) to heal for a month.  Would you believe I got pregnant that first month?  After the hardship of trying to conceive with our first child, there was no pressure.  I had another healthy boy that November: Josh.

As my boys grew, life seemed to fall into a comfortable routine.  I continued to stay home with Luke and Josh.  The boys played together and were both generally happy kids.  As Luke got older, however, we noticed that he wasn’t developing socially and verbally like other kids his age.  We had already enrolled him in speech therapy soon after turning two, as he didn’t have many words.  Seeing little progress over several months with therapy and Help Me Grow intervening in our home, it was suggested that I take him to a developmental pediatrician.

Luke wasn’t even three years old when we got the diagnosis: moderate autism with a speech delay.  My husband and I sat there as the developmental pediatrician, a speech therapist, and a psychiatrist gave us the news.  We were inundated with information in the form of tons of papers of what we should be doing as far as intervention, plans to move forward, what the diagnosis meant, and so much more that I couldn’t process it all.  

I went home, determined to be proactive.  I enrolled Luke in occupational therapy (OT) for his fine motor delays.  Help Me Grow got us set up with the preschool in our city, and he would be receiving services there.  We would continue private speech.  I read through the information and tried to arm myself with knowledge, hoping that early intervention would make a difference.  My son was still so young, after all.  He had time to catch up with his peers.

Luke made progress, but it was slow.  He, to this day, speaks in single words or short phrases to express his wants and needs.  We paid a lady to come into our home to potty train him over a weekend, and it was successful…only to have that work undone a couple of years later when he regressed with no understandable reason why.  We haven’t been able to completely get back to where we were with toileting.

While usually a happy kid, Luke has been prone to meltdowns, especially when overloaded due to sensory processing issues.  Loud noises, crowded rooms, hunger, cold, heat, tiredness, and more can trigger a meltdown.  When he was smaller, it was easy enough to pick him up and put him in his room until he calmed down.  

As he’s grown, his meltdowns have gotten harder to control and more violent.  He kicks, hits, pulls hair, throws thing, and pulls pictures off walls.  We’ve had to remove the lamps and anything breakable from his bedroom.  He is on a medication to help with the meltdowns, and while they are less frequent, they can happen without provocation.  His mood can change like someone has flipped a switch.  As his mother, it breaks my heart to see him like this, to know he cannot express himself like he wants to.

pablo (4)My biggest struggle is facing the loss of the son who I thought I would have.  I will be honest.  I hate autism most days.  Look what it does to my son.  As moms, we have these too-perfect dreams of what our kids are going to be like.  Sure, we expect them to have some struggles and quirks, but a diagnosis like autism… Who expects that?  I often rant and rail at God at the unfairness of it all.  I have cried bitter, angry, dejected tears in the middle of the night or locked away in my closet because–let’s be honest–it’s not fair.  Even yelling at God is prayer, however.  Any communication with God is prayer.  Knowing that helps.  God can handle my anger.

Soon after the diagnosis, after a few weeks of trying to hold it together and be proactive, depression grabbed hold of me and pulled me down.  I took out my anger and hurt on those closest to me.  Sadly, from time to time, I have turned to this dark place because sometimes I just cannot take it.  I feel unqualified, underprepared, unable to raise a special needs child.  Did God really think I could handle this?  

I have been through plenty of times of loss in my life, but those losses have either resolved themselves or have found a way of healing.  This time, this loss is ongoing.  There’s no end in sight.  This is lifelong.

So what do I do?  How do I choose to face this epic loss and embrace a new possibility?  Hard truth: I embrace the loss of my picture-perfect dream and truly embrace the boy who is my son.  Because he is my son.  He is a person worthy of love and deserving of understanding.   No diagnosis changes a mother’s love for her child.

If it weren’t for Luke’s autism, I would not have met many other precious people in my life.  I have cried with other moms “who get it.”  I have hugged and been their source of encouragement, and they have returned the favor.  Other people have been strong for me when I couldn’t be.  My parents, my church, my friends…they are the true heroes here, not me.

And God.  I cannot understand why Luke has autism, but I believe God works good from the bad.  My heart and mind have been opened by raising a special needs child.  I believe I am more compassionate and understanding of others who have various diagnoses.  I believe we all will go through some sort of diagnosis at some point in life.  It’s all part of living.  God holds us and sustains us through, often by using other people in our lives to carry us when we cannot walk.

Whatever loss you’re facing in your life, I ask you to take some time to try to see a new possibility in it.  Every experience is a chance to grow, to learn something, to continue in hope.

That is a much better place to be than alone and suffering in your loss.  Loss is just as much a part of life as gain.  I believe there is much to be gained in loss–hope for tomorrow.

Like what you’ve read?  Please subscribe to my blog, where I post a new blog every Friday, including book reviews.

My new novel, Lorna versus Laura, is available for only $2.99 here.

My first novel, Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful,  is available for $3.99 here.

 

Review of Life as a Spectrum Mom: The Ups, Downs, and Upside Downs of Parenting Autistic Kids by Karen Pellett

I love the title of this quirky and honest book because I am also a spectrum mom.

Now try saying the title fast three times while I sit back and smile.

Okay, in all seriousness (or not)… Can I really take life so seriously?  Karen Pellett, despite raising not only one kiddo on the spectrum, like me, has three.  Yes, three.  And she manages to find humor in her situation because, honestly, sometimes all you can do is laugh when life takes a detour around every carefully crafted plan you had for your kids, and life seems to be mocking you as your child melts down for the fifth time in ten minutes.

This is the first review of a nonfiction book I’m doing, and while I usually read fiction, because I am trying to escape from brutal reality at times, I felt drawn to this mom’s story because I understand her pain, her worries, her frustrations, her joys, her laughter.  Anyone who is a parent understands these sentiments in regards to raising children–the hardest job you will ever, ever have…and no one is paying you to do it.

The author begins the book by sharing facts about her three kids (a girl born first, followed by two boys, all in three years)–their names, their quirks, their diagnoses, etc.  She also explains how she had a vision of what her family would look like before having kids and how that changed quickly.  It was either get on board with what she’d been dealt with or continue in denial, refusing to accept it.

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I commiserated with her when she said it took years to conceive their first child, as my husband and I also went through that.  Then you get the best news ever–you’re pregnant!  But then after the child is born, you start to realize she or he isn’t developing typically.  For us, our son had delayed speech.  At 24 months, he hardly spoke, and we got him started with speech therapy.  Nine months later, he was diagnosed as autistic.  Karen’s daughter has ADHD and sensory processing disorder (SPD).  My son also has ADHD, although it wasn’t until last year that was confirmed.  Both of our oldest kids are eight.  

But as Karen’s story continued and she almost died while giving birth to her last kid, I soon realized that I had to take a step back.  I am not one for comparing heartaches, but I can say her situation is harder than mine.  I know how it feels to watch helplessly as your child grows frustrated and has a meltdown, which results in throwing things, kicking, hitting, and ripping pictures off the walls.  As a mother, nothing hurts more than seeing your kids in pain, whether that pain be physical, mental, or emotional.  If we could, we would take it away.

But that is not the reality of things.  I love how Karen has shared funny stories in the midst of telling her tale, which often is quite serious–like her injuring her back and needing surgery or having a car seat thrown at her head, resulting in a concussion.  She is a strong woman who has been through more than most, and I admire her brutal honesty in sharing her story.  Books like hers as essential for bringing awareness and understanding to autism.

While I don’t often feel judged by the public eye when my son acts out, I know there is still ignorance out there.  I was at the library (alone, for once) and walking out when I passed a mother and her son, who were standing off to the side.  The boy was obviously autistic, exhibiting the hand-flapping, bouncing in place, and vocalizations my own son does.  He was about ten and wasn’t wearing pants or shorts.  He had on a diaper, a shirt, shoes, and socks.  Now, I don’t know what was going on, but even when a mom tries to be prepared with extra clothes and diapers, accidents happen.  Also, autistic kids have sensitives, sometimes resisting clothing.  I continued on my way out, but an older lady stopped me and asked why that boy wasn’t wearing pants.  I am glad she asked me, as I was able to explain to her that the boy was autistic.  I don’t know if this woman knew nothing about autism, but she was shocked and seemed to judge the mother for not having pants on the boy.

My purpose in sharing this story is to drive home the importance of autism awareness.  I will promote it and push it.  That said, I highly recommend you read Karen Pellett’s eye-opening book.  You don’t have to relate to her or have autistic kids, but I believe her book brings servings of awareness to the table of autism.

5/5 stars

Buy Karen Pellett’s book here.

Like what you’ve read?  Please subscribe to my blog, where I post a new blog every Friday and a book review the second Friday.

My new novel, Lorna versus Laura, is available for only $2.99 here.

My first novel, Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful,  is available for $3.99 here.

 

“As long as we can love each other, and remember the feeling of love we had, we can die without ever really going away. All the love you created is still there. All the memories are still there. You live on – in the hearts of everyone you have touched and nurtured while you were here.” -Tuesdays with Morrie

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My great aunt Alma and my grandma, Emma, circa 1931

Today, I am going to share something very special to me, something close to my heart.  Below is the true story that inspired my first novel, Hannah’s Rainbow:

When I was fifteen years old, my grandmother was terminally ill. Months earlier, she had had a sarcoma removed from her leg and had undergone radiation therapy. She was given a clean bill of health in February of that year (1995). Shortly thereafter, she went to the hospital because she had fluid in her lungs, and when they did a scan, they found a spot: the cancer had metastasized to her lungs in a matter of months. Although given two to six months to live, her time on Earth would be much shorter than that.

The day she was released from the hospital and placed under Hospice care, I wrote a letter to her, telling her all that she meant to me, how much I loved her, and how much I would miss her. I expressed my heartfelt admiration of her courage to face what lay ahead. And I asked her to send me a sign once she reached Heaven, not because I was afraid she wouldn’t go there, but because I needed the comfort.

Two weeks later, she came to our house. It was the week before Easter, and she was to spend the time with us, and her sister from California was to come in as well. On the night she arrived, she was still walking and talking. Although thin and weak, she was still herself for the most part. I remember her eating an orange in the family room as I talked to my best friend on the phone.

The next morning, she never got out of bed. The day was gloomy and overcast with thick clouds of early April showers. We thought it might just be the weather or the fact that she had been transported the night before. I overheard my dad speaking to his brother on the phone that morning, saying he didn’t think she would live more than 24 hours. In denial, I refused to believe such nonsense. All I had ever known was a life that had my grandma as part of it; to imagine otherwise was unthinkable!

The pastor from her church came that afternoon to visit, and while doing math homework in my bedroom, adjacent to the room she was in, I heard his voice through the walls, uttering the twenty-third Psalm: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff: they comfort me.”

She was asleep most of the day, and the couple of times I approached the darkened room where she lay so still on the bed, I think I was afraid. At the time, I didn’t understand why I was feeling that way, but I think now it was because I couldn’t reconcile the figure I saw in that bed with the figure I knew of her warm smile, cheery eyes, and rosy cheeks.

Some relatives came to visit in the mid-afternoon, and she seemed to brighten some, even laugh at a few jokes. My family was originally planning on attending a concert at the high school that evening, but due to my grandma’s condition, my parents remained home with her, and my brother and I attended by ourselves.

A couple of hours later when we returned home, it was dark and still raining slightly. We parked on the street because there were a couple of other cars in our driveway, and I felt my heart skip a beat as I rushed up the driveway and into the house, not wanting to believe the worst. The first sight that greeted me was my mom walking toward me, her face lined with tears, and she was shaking her head. I knew without having to ask. To this day, over 20 years later, the events of that entire day as are clear as if they happened yesterday.

Standing in the kitchen were my uncle, my dad, and the pastor. We held hands and formed a circle as the pastor said a prayer. I left the kitchen to go to the spot where Grandma had been, but she was already gone from the bed. I saw the men from the funeral home carrying her out, covered in a sheet.

She was truly gone. That night, I dreamt that my mom died, too. While my parents were away the next day taking care of everything, I was at home in the company of my best friend, and it continued to rain. I found it in me to laugh some, finding a pair of checkered pants that was so hideously out of style, but my grandma wore them, anyway. I pulled them over my own clothes and just laughed, mostly because my best friend could always make me laugh. We were visited by a cousin and her husband, who had brought over dinner, and the four of us laughed some more. There was something therapeutic in this, although it was also a brief escape from the reality of the situation.

The wake was two days later, followed the next day by the funeral. It rained in all the days between my grandma never leaving the bed and on the day of the funeral. My letter to my grandma was read at her funeral by the pastor. The Lord’s Prayer was sang by the co-pastors, a husband and wife team. My grandma’s favorite hymn, “The Lost Chord,” was played. As the family followed the casket down the aisle, I was a sobbing mess, and my brother, who was walking alongside me, put his arm around me. I remember briefly trying not to laugh, as we had this weird thing about never touching each other as teenagers, so hugs were forbidden.

Much of the graveside service was a blur, but we stood under a tent as the rain continued. A dinner was served, and then it was over. We were on our way home. That evening, the rain finally stopped. I was in my room when I heard my mom exclaim, “Cyndi, come here!”

I ran into the front window and looked outside. Stretched across the sky was a rainbow! I smiled and knew this was my grandma’s sign to me! There was no doubting that, and to explain this away as mere coincidence is an insult to her, her memory, and to our Lord of miracles. My mom and I turned away for just a moment, and when I looked back, it was gone. To catch such a brief moment in time when that rainbow appeared was not coincidence in the least. Only my mom and I saw that rainbow; it was meant for us.

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My grandparents, Howard and Emma Grundman, circa 1942

I had the idea for the story back in October 2006.  I woke in the middle of the night with the name “Hannah Rechthart” on my mind.  “Hannah” means ”favor” or “grace.”  “Rechthart” means “right heart.”  I started writing down character names and researching.  Many details from early in Hannah’s life were taken from an autobiography my grandma wrote in high school and another she and her younger sister, Ida (whom Irma is based on), wrote later in life about growing up, called “The Billhardts of Fuller Avenue.”  I also spoke extensively with my mom and had my own memories to work with for Hannah’s later years.

I composed four chapters between October 2006 and January 2009.  Then I had my first child and my second, and the story sat for years, until I started writing in earnest in March 2015.  It may have taken a decade to finally sit down and write it all out, but only by God’s grace and my grandma’s legacy was that inspiration possible.

It’s been over twenty years since my grandma passed away, but in writing this story, I hope I was able to convey with the love I’ve always had for her that she was a wonderful person.  

May you see many rainbows in your life, wherever you go.

The Letter I Wrote to Grandma:

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Like what you’ve read?  Please subscribe to my blog, where I post a new blog every Friday and a book review the second Friday.

Also, check out my novel, Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful, available for $2.99 any other time on Amazon: Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful

Review of The Blue Rebozo by Pamela Humphrey

12232826_866517436795996_7217886777960372424_oThe Blue Rebozo is a fictionalized story based on facts the author had of her ancestors.  I can appreciate Ms. Humphrey’s love for genealogy, as I share this passion. When I wrote my book based off of my late grandma’s life, it was done in a similar fashion, although I changed names and the story’s timeframe was more recent.

The setting for The Blue Rebozo is late nineteenth century Texas.  The narrative is centralized around Petra, a young woman whose family came from Mexico when she was a child.  The Ramirez family is large, with several children of various ages, and while I understand that large families were the norm for that time period, there were a lot of names to keep track of.  I guess there’s really no way around this, but the large number of names mentioned made it hard for most of these characters to be developed much.

One of the nice elements of the story was the grandmother, Clara, who was Petra’s abuelita.  Clara shares the tale of Leonor, who is the mother of Clara, and how she met and married Esteban.  When they married, a blue rebozo (a blue scarf) was given to the bride, Leonor, to wear on her wedding day.  The blue rebozo becomes a symbol of love that’s passed down the generations, from Leonor to Clara, to Jesusa (Clara’s daughter-in-law), to Petra (and eventually to Petra’s daughter, Candida).  This was a nice touch.  Many families have such heirlooms that have meaning.  I have my grandma’s china, which belonged to her mother-in-law and is well over 100 years old now, so I understand and appreciate such objects.  It’s like having a part of those who have gone before with you.

We follow Petra as she loses her first husband, Mr. Torres, to a stranger who stabbed him on a horse, to when she falls in love with Francisco, who has lived with her family for years and worked on the farm.  Mr. Torres was older than Petra, and while he was a good man, Petra hadn’t been in love with him.  I am a sucker for romance, so my favorite part was when Francisco confessed his love to Petra and she to him.  As I read, I kept waiting with anticipation from that moment.  Petra is still a young woman, after all, and has been left with three young kids to raise after losing her first husband.  The fact that Francisco was in love with Petra for years before he told her melts my heart even more as the hopeless romantic.  As a woman, wife, and mother, I know what it is to have one of the good guys.  Those quiet fellows who smile and trip over their words, waiting for the right moment to say “I love you,” that’s gold.

The story reads smoothly and is easy to follow.  As this is a novella, it’s not very long, which makes for a good book to read if you’re looking for something that isn’t going to take long to get through.  I read this book in a few days during the summer.  I have limited reading time, as I am also a writer and a mom of three young kids (like Petra), so finishing this novella wasn’t a problem.  I suggest it as a light read for someone whose time is already stretched but is looking to read more books, maybe as a vacation read for this summer.

This is a story with heart. I would have liked to have seen more details fleshed out, as Petra, the main character, goes through a lot: falling in love and losing loved ones.  It’s tragic how many children died young back then, and I cannot imagine the heartache it would have been on a mother (and father).  This is a repeated theme in the story in every generation, and while Ms. Humphrey writes that the parents are saddened to lose a child, more details about the heart-wrenching agony would have driven this point home.  Still, I suppose it is not something that is easy to write about in any circumstance, and unless a person has actually experienced such loss, it may be difficult to write about it convincingly19141955_10155375087713607_1447486949_n

Overall, this is a good little story.  I don’t wish to spoil it by saying too much, especially in regards to who dies (which is a lot of people, sadly), so I recommend you pick up this little book and give it a try.

4 out of 5 stars

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Character Friday – Meet Hannah Rechthart Grunner

Hello there, I’m Hannah Rechthart Grunner.  Someone thought it would be a good idea for me to write down a bit about myself, so here it is.  I don’t know how exciting my life has been, but it’s been a good life, ups and downs and all.

I was born on April 12, 1912 to Gus and Lucy Rechthart in Cleveland, Ohio.  They already had three children — my older sister, Amy, and my brothers, Erik and Harry.  Growing up, even though Amy was ten years older than me, we banded together.  My brothers were always joking around, especially Harry, mostly driving me crazy.  When Ma became pregnant years later, we were all surprised, but I was overjoyed to have a younger sister, Irma.  I was ten years old when she made her debut into the world.

Our family life kept me on my toes.  There was rarely a dull moment in the Rechthart household.  With five children, we were a noisy, rowdy bunch.  We weren’t rich, but we didn’t lack for anything.  Ma baked bread every Saturday and was the queen of her kitchen (and made sure we all knew it).  Pa was the old softie, especially toward his daughters.  He worked long, hard hours at his trucking and delivery business.

When I wasn’t being kept busy picking berries, feeding the hens, or doing some sort of chore, I was with my friends in the neighborhood.  There was a group of girls who I was the ringleader of, but sisters Louisa and Rosemary were my closest friends.  While Rosemary was a couple of years younger than us and rather shy, Louisa was my age and outspoken.  We argued often, but we had each other’s backs.  I’ll never forget all the times we girls spied on the boys as they skinny-dipped!  I also pulled the fire alarm in the school when I was in eighth grade — something I would never dreamed of doing if it hadn’t been for Louisa!

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Hannah Rechthart Grunner – main character

I guess you could say that I was the “good girl.”  I worked hard, got good grades, and rarely got into trouble.  My dark blonde hair and hazel eyes may have matched Amy’s, but I never had her confidence around boys.  When I was out of high school, that was the first time I began dating seriously.  I worked as a secretary and met a young woman named Kat.  Kat was a few years older than me and introduced me to her brother, Will.  Harry and I had actually grown quite close in the past few years leading up to the end of high school for me, and I told Kat about my crazy brother.  We were double dating for several months, but those times were short-lived.  Harry, who always knew how to have a good time, had too much of a good time and developed an alcohol problem.  

Worse than that, his alcoholism landed him in jail because something really, really terrible happened.  I hate to even mention it, but years later, he was out of prison and came back to the family.  

I have since married a wonderful man who I met at work — Edward Grunner.  We have a family of our own with three children, but I’ll never forget where I came from.  My parents and siblings are always in my heart.

And how could I forget to mention what else is part of me?  Music — or, more specifically, playing the piano and organ.  I began piano at age seven and haven’t stopped.  I played the organ at church for years until my children were born.  Maybe one of my kids will inherit my love of music.

As for now, I can rest happy in knowing that my family, my faith, and my music will keep me going until God deems it time for my earthly life to end.

Hannah is the protagonist in my novel, Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful. 

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Also, check out my novel, Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful, now available for only $2.99 on Amazon: Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful