I spent a large chunk of this past rainy Friday in a hospice room at the Veteran’s Hospital. Visiting with my cousin, Neil, and his sister Eva, reliving our childhood memories was time well spent.

Neil and Eva are my first cousins, part of a family of six siblings. Their home was only a short hike through the fields. There was always something interesting going on there and I always wanted to be in the middle of it. Their mother never seemed to mind an extra kid or two running around her house.    

When one grows up like that, first cousins start to feel a whole lot like brothers and sisters.

The reason Eva is staying with him is because sometimes Veteran’s hospitals are not all they should be. To make certain Neil is well cared for, Eva drove across several states and moved into her brother’s room. She is sleeping in a cot in his room, monitoring everything from his meds to his meals. She has always had a gift for turning everything into a party. She has decorated his room with family photos and other mementoes of his life. She offered me tea from her new Keurig machine as we talked.

In addition to childhood memories, we also discussed the war. Neil was a soldier in Vietnam—part of a fighting group that went on near-impossible assignments. He told me that his officers frequently gave the impression that they did not expect them to return. It was on one of those missions, deep in the jungle, while low-crawling toward the enemy, that Neil saw a grenade arching through the air and heard it thud into the ground beside him.

With no time to think, he did the unthinkable. He deliberately rolled onto his back, directly over the grenade, mashing it into the dirt with the heavy radio equipment he carried on his back, and absorbed the blast with his own body.

He had not expected to survive, but he did survive—in spite of extensive injuries. His quick action saved not only his own life, but the lives of all the other soldiers around him.

Later, recuperating from his wounds in the hospital, he received an unexpected visit. General Westmoreland came to personally present him with his Purple Heart. Neil said Westmoreland stayed a few minutes to talk, thanking him for his heroism. Those few minutes alone with the commander of U.S. troops in Vietnam are among the most cherished of his life.

The Purple Heart medallion I hold in my hand in the picture, is a replica of the real one he has at home. He carries this one in his pocket.

Neil is battling cancer. The reason behind the cancer is not a mystery. He and his fellow soldiers spent a large part of their time in Vietnam covered with Agent Orange. As we were talking about Agent Orange, he made a face as he brushed at his sleeve, as though still trying to brush the chemical off.

“It was nasty stuff,” he said. “We rarely had the opportunity to wash it off. Usually we had to just let it wear off over time.”    

He also described his bewilderment when, as he made his way home, there were strangers who tried to kick, hit, and even spit on him because of his uniform and participation in the war.  

My cousin, for most of his life, did not talk about his war experiences. He tried to forget and move on with his life, but there are some things that are impossible to forget. Like so many returning soldiers, he struggled with relationships and work. Like most of us, he has not led a perfect life.

But now, as he faces the cancer that, barring a miracle, will eventually consume him—it is encouraging to see the soldier coming out in him once again as he faces his future with an impressive dignity, faith, and courage.  


Years ago, while fishing on Ice Lake on Manitoulin Island in Canada, my family and I discovered the ruins of a huge, mysterious-looking stone house overlooking the lake. There wasn’t much left standing except a few portions of the old stone walls.  

Later, we met a man in Michigan who had grown up in that house. He had a photo of it hanging on his nursing home wall and he told us stories of how their family had built the house with rocks that they dragged from the earth with horses.  

Soon after that we heard the good news that the house, which the islanders called ‘Stoney Castle’ had been purchased by an outsider who was having it rebuilt. The difficult restoration project was tackled by Sheppard Bros. Construction, a company known on the island for the quality of their work.

The next time we went, the house had been restored to its former glory. The new owner was kind enough to allow us to make a video to take home to show our nursing home friend.  

In showing us the house, the new owner said that master stone masons were rare, and he had worried about finding one expert enough to take on the complicated task. Fortunately, one of the best lived on Manitoulin Island, and Sheppard Bros. Construction was able to hire him to do the stone work. The owner proudly pointed out how well the old walls had been blended in perfectly with the new.

(Photo: Master Stone Mason Launie Gibson and Ron Sheppard of Sheppard Construction )

Ultimately, that experience inspired the thread in my latest book series. Love’s Journey On Manitoulin Island. Which is a story about a master stone mason who takes on the job of restoring a derelict lighthouse and the granddaughter of the family who once lived there.

While researching stone masonry for the story, I read a book written by a stone mason. My favorite portion was a passage in which he explained that the human eye craves variety, and that is why stone walls are so much more appealing than those built with concrete blocks. He described the value of each stone being unique and said the stones he worked with often seemed to take on personalities. Sometimes he found a stone that was such an odd shape he thought he’d have to throw it away. Then there would come a moment when that “grumpy old rock” turned out to be the perfect fit for some portion of the wall which would be stronger because of it.  

I thought back to how many times my husband, during his years of ministry, would deal with an individual church member who just didn’t seem to fit in. Then suddenly, there would be this unique niche only that “grumpy old rock” could fill, and the church would be stronger because of it.   


To my delight, a reader who lives on Manitoulin Island, Wanda Whittington, recently sent me photos of some of the men who rebuilt Stoney Castle. So many readers have contacted me since the first book came out, telling me about their own good memories of Manitoulin Island and their first glimpse of Stoney Castle that, with Wanda’s permission, I’m including these photos for their enjoyment.   

Love’s Journey on Manitoulin: Moriah’s Fortress (Book 2) was released Friday (September 1st) and I’m really excited about this new series and I hope everyone really enjoys it too! I can’t wait to hear what people think about it!



Picture a hungry writer sitting in an unheated attic, wearing a ragged head scarf and moth-eaten sweater over shabby clothes. She’s blowing on her fingers, warming them just enough to dip the pen into the ink well again. Then she scribbles a final sentence “the end” on a page of cheap paper, lays it reverently atop a pile of similar paper, and sighs, knowing she has written a book of aching genius that will make her fortune.  

At least that’s the romantic image I grew up with.  Most of my young life I envisioned myself being like Louisa Mae Alcott’s heroine, “Jo.” A writer suffering for her art.

Being a writer in America in the 21st Century is nothing like that.



The glut of manuscripts, thanks to the ease with which one can churn out thousands of words a day on a computer—readable or not–has made publishers very suspicious of unsolicited manuscripts. Slush piles grow to towering stacks. Endless on-line submissions queue up in an editor’s in-box. Few editors have the time or manpower to skim through all of them.

For those of us who first published during the days of hoping to be picked up by a traditional, royalty-paying publishing house (before the Kindle was invented and getting published through Amazon made self-publishing a viable venue) the struggle to get noticed was real.

I completed manuscripts and sent them to publishers. After a while felt like I was tossing them into a black hole. Then I joined Romance Writers of America and was told about the Catch 22 of publishing. The more experienced writers said that publishers didn’t want to look at a manuscript unless it was first vetted by a literary agent. Literary agents preferred not to look at a manuscript until an author was already published.

It was like being told as a child that I could not go near the water until I could swim. 

Eventually I learned about and joined Romance Writers of America, where I learned that the only way to break through this invisible fence was to 1) write a good book 2) go to writer’s conferences where the admission price bought us wannabes a whole fifteen minutes to make a pitch to a literary agent or editor.

Problem was—writing conferences cost hundreds of dollars and my husband and I did not have deep pockets. We were trying to raise three sons on a country preacher’s pay.    

Things changed when a friend called and offered to give me a part-time job of stocking Hallmark cards in area grocery stores. I jumped at it. The hours were flexible, the money was decent, and the work was pleasant. Best of all, I made enough to pay for several conferences and workshops, where I sweated my way through interview after interview until a literary agent finally decided to take a gamble on me.

That gamble paid off for both of us.

A lot of wonderful things have happened since then career-wise. I’m a full-time writer these days. I gave the Hallmark job to a friend who needed it.



Even though I no longer work for Hallmark, I have a big soft spot in my heart for that company. They unknowingly helped me sell my first book.    

I doubt the company is aware that the author of one of their latest movies once worked for them. I was a teeny-tiny cog in a huge company.

But here’s the big news. One of my Amish books, An Uncommon Grace, has been turned into a movie and will air February 12, 2017 at 9:00 pm EST on the Hallmark Movies and Mysteries channel.

I think this is called coming full circle…and I am so very grateful.