Small Miracles

Today is my mother’s birthday. She will be 95. Unfortunately, she will be celebrating it in the hospital this year, virtually alone because of Covid. A week ago, she fell while tending her flower bed and broke her hip. Mom is a lifelong Christian and an amazing example to her family of what a life of faith looks like. She is also a prayer warrior. I have been asking all of my friends to pray for her recovery, and I was reminded of this blog that I wrote about Mom ten years ago. I hope it will encourage you today to keep praying for miracles.


I have a story to tell about one of God’s small miracles. A true story. If I made it part of the plot of a novel, the “coincidence” would be unbelievable.

Last Christmas, I attended a concert at Moody Church in downtown Chicago with two couples from our Bible study group. My husband Ken performed in the concert. Before the music started, I was talking with my friend Peggy about the pain she still experienced from a car accident a few years ago. I mentioned that my 85-year-old mother, who has a quiet, one-woman prayer ministry, had been praying for her.

A stranger seated in front of me suddenly turned around and said, “Would your mother please pray for me, too?” He told me his name was Shad—short for Shadrach—and he explained how he was also in great pain and had trouble sleeping at night. “What’s your mother’s name?” he asked. “If she’ll pray for me, I’ll pray for her.” We exchanged information, the concert began, and Shad and I didn’t talk again.

Every morning, my mother (who lives 800 miles away from me) faithfully prays for her daughters, sons-in-law, twelve grandchildren and their spouses, and her eleven great-grandchildren—along with countless other people she hears about, like my friend Peggy. She added Shad to her list. In fact, she told me that he often came to her mind—sometimes in the night—and she prayed for him then. Most of Mom’s prayers are answered in amazing ways, but there have been some prayers that have gone unanswered for a long, long time. She rarely asks for prayer for herself, but I knew of one particular need in her life that she was trusting God to answer—and He just didn’t seem to be listening.

Four months after the Christmas concert, I returned to Moody Church with two friends on Easter Sunday to hear my husband play for their morning service—a glorious musical experience that always makes me feel like I’m in heaven, listening to the angels sing. When Mom heard that I would be returning to Moody Church she said, “Oh, maybe you’ll see Shad again. Find out how he’s doing. I think of him so often when I pray.”

“Impossible,” I told her. “Finding him would be like finding a needle in a haystack!”

For one thing, I couldn’t even remember what he looked like, since he sat in front of me the last time. And for another, the auditorium at Moody holds close to 4,000 people and every seat is filled on Easter. I found it impossible to imagine that I would cross paths with Shad again, especially since I would be sitting in a completely different part of the auditorium this time. But for Mom’s sake, I did look around half-heartedly that morning, eyeing the nametags that ushers and some church members wore, looking for one that said “Shad.” My friend asked me who I was searching for and I told her the story. She agreed it would be nearly impossible to find a man whose face I couldn’t recall. I didn’t even pray that God would help me find him because I didn’t really believe He would answer such a difficult prayer.

A few minutes before the service started, I happened to overhear a conversation behind me. The two men who were talking had never met, so they introduced themselves. One of them said, “Nice to meet you. My name is Shad—short for Shadrach.”

No! Impossible! Right behind me?

I whirled around with tears in my eyes and reminded Shad how we had met at Christmas. He told me that my mother’s prayers were being answered. I marveled at how God had put him right behind me in an audience of nearly 4,000 people and he said, “You know, I started to sit farther back, but I heard the Lord telling me to move up. And there was only one empty seat—right behind you.”

I couldn’t wait to call Mom and tell her the story. Finding Shad was indeed a miracle, but I believe the even bigger miracle was that God would orchestrate this impossible reunion just to encourage His faithful, sometimes discouraged, prayer warrior. He wanted to let Mom know in a personal, seemingly impossible way that He loved her and was listening to her every word when she prays. He truly did hear all of her prayers, even the unanswered ones.

But this Easter miracle was meant for me, as well. I have no trouble believing in God’s big miracles like the Christmas story and the empty tomb—I was praising Him that morning for the miracle of His resurrection from the dead. But for the small things in my life? Surely God was too busy to micro-manage the little details. I have a few unanswered prayers of my own that I’ve been praying about for a long, long time. But when I consider the size of the crowd filling the auditorium—and overflowing into a second hall with a video screen—I can’t deny that He performed a miracle that Resurrection Sunday. Only He could put the very stranger I was searching for in the seat right behind mine.

My prayer time has been re-energized by my “chance” meeting with Shad. And I’ll continue to pray for all of the impossible, unanswered needs on my list. Because the God who is listening is a God of small miracles as well as big ones.

Books and Cover Art

Every now and then, my publisher sends me copies of the foreign editions of my books. It always amazes me to learn that my novels are being translated and read in different places all around the world, places that I’ll probably never get to visit. I also find the foreign covers very entertaining! Sometimes the publishers use the same cover art as the original book, but sometimes I like the foreign cover design better. And sometimes the covers are—to be honest—quite terrible! I thought I would share some of these foreign editions with you and see what you think.

I received this copy of my novel “Gods and Kings” yesterday. It’s in the Slovenian language:

Here are “Gods and Kings” in Afrikaans, Polish, and Slovakian. I love the fact that my name is Lynn Austinova in Slovakian! Doesn’t that sound cool?

And this one is in Korean:

These are all copies of my book “Hidden Places.” The one in the top row beside the original is in Danish. The bottom two are in Russian and Polish. I think the Russian version looks racier than the original, don’t you?

Here is my original “Eve’s Daughters” with the Dutch version beside it. Below it is the Danish version and the Romanian version. Which is your favorite?

My novel “Until We Reach Home” is about three Swedish sisters who immigrate to America in 1897. I find it amusing that the sisters look the same, but in the US version they are gazing at the statue of liberty, and in the Swedish version they’re saying goodbye to the Swedish coastline.

This is the American version of “Waves of Mercy” compared to the German. The novel takes place in Michigan but the German cover sure looks like Maine to me:

The cover of “Fly Away” on the left is the original US version published in 1996. (Not one of my favorites!) The middle cover is Dutch, and the one on the right is my own reprint with a cover designed by Deb Raney’s very creative, graphic-designer husband Ken Raney. The “Fly Away” cover at the top of this post is Tyndale House’s new e-version:

And finally, these are two of my least favorite foreign covers: A Woman’s Place” in Norwegian and “Fire by Night” in Romanian:

They say you can’t judge a book by its cover, but that doesn’t mean the cover isn’t important! So, what do you think of these foreign editions? I would love to hear your opinion.


Celebrating Independence Day

What I’ve missed the most during this virus quarantine, is being with family and friends—especially for holiday celebrations. We could invite some fearless souls for a get-together this Fourth of July and wear masks, use hand-sanitizer, and stand six feet apart. We could still have a picnic and play horseshoes on the lawn. Unfortunately, the fireworks that we usually watch from our beach on Lake Michigan have been cancelled this year. It would still be Independence Day, as my grandma used to call it, but somehow it won’t seem the same.

Lately, I’ve been remembering the Fourth of July celebrations that my grandparents used to have at their home in the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania. A spring-fed creek ran through their wooded property, and Grandma and Grandpa worked hard to create dams and bridges and waterfalls and a little pond, which they stocked with brook trout. The creek attracted deer, birds, frogs, turtles, and the occasional garter snake. In the middle of this paradise, my grandparents built a picnic area beneath the trees with a fireplace for roasting hotdogs and marshmallows, a hammock for lazy afternoons, and a tree swing for their grandkids. If it sounds idyllic, it was!

Grandma was one of six sisters, and every Fourth of July they’d come with their extended families, bringing food for the feast. They would smile and tug my pigtails and say how big I’d grown. My grandparents also invited all their friends and neighbors and their families. There were many, many fascinating characters in this crazy group, including my very German Uncle Otto who played cymbals in a marching band. I could write several novels about all of these characters.

The food was abundant and delicious, especially Grandma’s potato salad. The soda pop stayed cold in the creek—Grandma’s homemade root beer was my favorite. We would chase frogs beside the brook and feed bread crumbs to the trout. We carved sticks with our pocket knives to roast hotdogs over the fire. We lit sparklers after dark, and when they were gone, we’d catch fireflies. Throughout the day, the adults laughed and ate and reminisced, and there was always a lap to sit on, someone to put iodine on a scraped knee.

Our family reunion in happier times

I’ve been trying to decide what it was that made those celebrations so memorable, and I think it was the feeling of joy I experienced at being part of something that was so much bigger than me—and yet I belonged! Everyone knew each other—and they knew me. They had shared joys and sorrows, good times and bad. They had experienced two world wars and the Great Depression together. And my sisters and I were part of the next chapter of their story.

My Great Aunts often told stories at these gatherings, and it thrilled me to know that their past was part of my story, my history. They’d talk about growing up on a farm without electricity or plumbing. They rode into town on horseback. Wild cats and panthers roamed the woods nearby. Grandma’s oldest sister, Aunt Martha, remembered coming to America from Germany in the 1890s as a small child and landing at Ellis Island. She had brought a little doll carriage with her, and one of the immigration agents took it away from her, saying she wasn’t allowed to have it in America. He set it aside, probably to give to his own daughter. But after her family had sorted through all the paperwork and were free to leave, little Martha marched over to her doll carriage and boldly wheeled it away. I’m proud to share her genes.

I wish I could recreate my grandparents’ celebrations for my own grandchildren, but our family members are scattered across the country, with one uncle in California, another in Indiana, more aunts and uncles and cousins and second-cousins in Texas and Florida and New York State. I would love for my granddaughters to meet their feisty great-grandmother who is 94 and still full of life. She could tell them some stories!

I would love for my home to overflow like Grandma’s did with people I have known through good times and bad, people who are glued to me with bonds of love. More than anything else, I long for my granddaughters to know they belong to a community that is much greater than just their immediate family, a community with a shared history, and with many more stories yet to be lived. It won’t happen this Fourth of July. Family reunions on Zoom just aren’t the same. I pray that next year will be different.

Until then, what are some creative ways that you’ll be celebrating the Fourth of July with your loved ones?

Be Prepared

There’s no escaping the news, the fear, the warnings. The Coronavirus is coming! Beware! Be ready! I understand that I should be worried—after all, I’m over sixty and that puts me at a greater risk of dying if I do contract the virus. But strangely, I’m not worried. While I would like to live another dozen years and watch my grandchildren grow up, my philosophy is the same as my heroines’ motto in my novel “Where We Belong.” Whenever their lives were at risk they would say, “God knows when the end of our days will be; we have nothing to fear.” The question that should concern me is not “how or when will I die,” but “how will I live in the meantime?” How well will I represent Jesus?

I keep wondering what Christians are doing in China, where the outbreak began. Or in Iran, another hard-hit country where Christians make up a tiny minority. Naturally, they must hope to survive this epidemic—we all do. But I’m guessing that believers in those hard-hit nations are reaching out to their sick and dying neighbors with the love of Christ in spite of the risk to themselves. I’m certain we’ll hear stories of their courage and faith in the days to come. And of the lives they saved.

The Apostle Peter urged us to “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give a reason for the hope that you have” (1 Peter 3:15). And non-believers are never hungrier for the hope that we have in Christ than when they are facing death. Perhaps that’s why God allows Christians to suffer through the same plagues and wars and disasters as non-Christians, side by side—so we can proclaim His love and hope to the lost.

While this particular virus is unusual, the fear and uncertainty it brings to people around the world is not. Every generation has faced life-threatening disasters, natural or man-made. In my novel “If I Were You” (releasing June 2), the main characters live in London during World War II, and experience the relentless Nazi bombings known as The Blitz. In the passage below, Eve is worried for her mum’s safety, and tries to persuade her to quit her job in London as a maidservant to Lady Rosamunde and go to a safer place.

“I don’t understand why you’re so loyal to her, Mum. Lady Rosamunde demands so much from you, working all hours of the day and night, yet she doesn’t have an ounce of consideration for you.”

Mum sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. “It isn’t easy to explain, Eve. I suppose . . . I suppose it’s because of what the vicar once said in one of his sermons. He read a Bible passage that said servants should do their work joyfully, as if serving the Lord. Jesus said if we’re ordered to go one mile, we should go two. And I feel sorry for Lady Rosamunde. For all her wealth, she is a sad, lonely woman . . . But she gave me a job at a time when I badly needed it to support you. So I’ve always thought that God must have a reason for wanting me to work for her.”

I don’t believe there are any “accidents” with God. Whatever disaster may strike us—a Nazi bomb, a deadly virus, or a heart attack—we can know that it is firmly under God’s control, and that it will serve His greater purpose. We already have eternal life, and so “to live is Christ and to die is gain” (Philippians 1:21). We can face the end of our days with nothing to fear.

If you’d like to learn more about “If I Were You,”  follow this link to see a fun video with more information:


Visiting Bethlehem

The first time I visited Bethlehem more than 25 years ago, I expected to feel a sense of the beauty and simplicity of the much-loved Christmas story: a crude stable, the holy family, shepherds, wise men, and the Son of God in the manger.  I was sadly disappointed. The traditional site of Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem is inside the Church of the Nativity—a truly ancient church built in 565 AD.  It has survived enemy invasions, the Crusaders, restorations, renovations, a fire and an earthquake, but it looks like . . . well, a church.  A beautifully decorated and ornamented church, with all the sacred clutter that has accumulated over the centuries, but it bore no resemblance to my image of what Jesus’ birthplace was like.

But wait—the real site was down a set of stairs and inside a natural cave that has been venerated as the place of His birth since 160 AD. But even this simple cave was so gilded and bedecked with artwork and tapestries and lamps and incense burners that I still couldn’t get a sense of what it might have looked like on that first holy night. In the center of the floor was a silver-encrusted star with a hole in the middle. By putting my hand inside, I could touch the place where Jesus was born more than 2,000 years ago.  I tried it, but I left Bethlehem feeling empty, unable to make the sacred connection I had so longed for.

And isn’t that how so many of our Christmases end up feeling? In spite of all the tinsel and glitter and sparkle, all the money we spend and the stress we endure as we try to create the perfect Hallmark Christmas, we’re often left with the same let-down feeling I had inside that church in Bethlehem.  We’ve lost the simple beauty of the story, that precious connection with Jesus that is the true miracle of Bethlehem.

The year after I visited Bethlehem, I began looking for ways to recapture the simplicity of Christ’s incarnation. Santa Claus has never been invited to our family’s Christmases, and we’ve always celebrated it as Jesus’ birthday, exchanging presents because God gave us the gift of His Son.  But year after year, the clutter and glitz had draped themselves over our celebrations, just like the religious trappings that have collected inside the Church of the Nativity over the centuries.  That year, I purchased a nice but inexpensive manger set. I wanted something that wasn’t a toy, but that my children could handle and touch. We placed it at their level and at the center of our holiday, and began the simple tradition of gathering together as a family to fill the empty stable while my husband read the story from the Bible. Our children divided all the people and sheep and camels among themselves and when we got to their part in the Bible story, they added their figures to the stable.

This simple tradition has become so beloved by all of us that we still do it the same way every year, even though our children are now adults. One year, our daughter was living overseas and couldn’t make it home for the holiday but we still held our family tradition while she participated via Skype. And it’s always in those moments, with a simple stable and inexpensive plaster figures, and my precious loved ones gathered around me that I feel the holy wonder of Christmas once again—Emmanuel, God with us! May you find Him this Christmas season, too.

What Christmas traditions are special for you and your family?

Perspective: Of Mountains and Seas – (Guest Post & Giveaway)

Please welcome my dear friend Elizabeth Musser as my guest blogger today. Elizabeth, Tammy Alexander, and I share the same German publisher, Francke, and the three of us traveled together on a book tour a few years ago. We had a blast! Now, I have the privilege of endorsing Elizabeth’s newest book, “When I Close my Eyes.” Make sure you enter for a chance to win a copy. ~ Lynn

Perspective: Of Mountains and Seas

by Elizabeth Musser

So much of life is about perspective: how I perceive a situation, how I accept the different circumstances that twist their way into my life.

And so it is with our stories. The novelist is giving the reader a certain perspective and hoping that it resonates with the reader.

My newly released novel, When I Close My Eyes, is about a middle-aged writer who is in a coma, remembering her past. Part of the story takes place in Asheville, NC, surrounded by the Blue Ridge Mountains at the height of their color in the fall. The other part of the story takes place at a beach in La Grande Motte, France, beside the a Mediterranean Sea.

When I received the final cover for the novel, I absolutely loved it. They’d caught the feel of the novel down to the detail of the font fading, symbolic of someone going in and out of wakefulness. And my heroine, Josephine, is standing by the Mediterranean Sea.


Even though the main part of the story takes place in Asheville, I wanted to make sure the back cover copy included a mention of the Mediterranean, since that was the cover setting:

There is one story novelist Josephine Bourdillon shirked from writing. And now she may never have a chance. Trapped in her memories, she lies in a coma. The man who put her there is just as paralyzed. Former military Henry Hughes failed to complete the kill. What’s more: he failed to receive payment—funds that would ensure surgery for his son. As detectives investigate disturbing fan letters, a young but not-so-naive Paige Bourdillon turns to her mother’s tormented past for answers. Could The Awful Year be worse than one they’re living now? Set against the flaming hills of North Carolina and the peaceful shores of the Mediterranean Sea, When I Close My Eyes tells the story of two families struggling with dysfunction and finding that love is stronger than death.


But then I received a slew of gorgeous graphics that the team at Bethany House had designed for computer and smart phone backgrounds. And I literally caught my breath when I saw the design for the smart phone. Because of the shape of that graphic, more of the original photo is visible. And guess what? Josephine isn’t standing beside the Mediterranean Sea. She’s standing on a mountain, gazing out at the mist on the mountains.


It’s the perfect representation of the beginning of the book, a description taken from one of Josephine’s novels:

The clouds hang low, a mist caught between the carpet of mountains. I stand at the top of the lookout and gaze into a never-ending motion of undulating valleys and peaks. On and on, seemingly forever, they rise and fall in lush green hues and deep blue ridges that span past history. The mountains hold my imagination, and I feel a call to their beauty. Then they fade out of view as the mist floats above and around them, like puffs of smoke. I hover in the mist; I feel the calling of the dawn. I see the first ray of light piercing through the mist and I know. I am forgiven.

These Mountains Around Us, Josephine Bourdillon

The design team had picked the perfect picture, and in a serendipitous way, the cover perfectly fit both settings in the novel. Do you see the clouds and the mist and the mountains?

I absolutely love this cover for many reasons, but especially because it taught me a lesson in perspective. I can easily see something different because of where I am coming from.

I hope you like the cover. And I hope you also enjoy the story.

To be entered in a giveaway for a copy of When I Close My Eyes, print or e-book, leave a comment below.


ELIZABETH MUSSER writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. Elizabeth’s highly acclaimed, best-selling novel, The Swan House, was named one of Amazon’s Top Christian Books of the Year and one of Georgia’s Top Ten Novels of the Past 100 Years (Georgia Backroads). All of Elizabeth’s novels have been translated into multiple languages and have been international best-sellers. Two Destinies, the final novel in The Secrets of the Cross trilogy, was a finalist for the 2013 Christy Award. Her latest novel, The Long Highway Home was a finalist for the 2018 Carol Awards. Elizabeth’s novel, When I Close My Eyes, will be published in November, 2019.

For over thirty years, Elizabeth and her husband, Paul, have been involved in missions’ work in Europe with One Collective, formerly International Teams.  The Mussers have two sons, a daughter-in-law and three grandchildren. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at and on Facebook, Twitter, and her blog.





If I Had a Dollar…

I often wonder: If I had a dollar for attending every one of my husband’s concerts over the years, how rich would I be? Probably pretty rich! Ken is a professional musician, a trumpet player. He was already the principal trumpeter of the Kalamazoo, Michigan Symphony Orchestra as a college student before we were married. This month, we will celebrate our 49th wedding anniversary. When I do the math, that adds up to a lot of concerts.

We met while we were both students at Hope College. When he told me he was a Music major, I asked, “So, do you sing, play the piano…?” He said, “I play trumpet a little.” I eventually discovered what an understatement that was! His talent had won him a full scholarship to Hope, and would later win him a full scholarship for his Master’s degree at Yale University. We married right before he started studying at Yale—and the adventure began.

Ken proposed by saying, “If you marry me, we’ll probably never be rich, but we’ll see the world.” He was so right! His first job after graduating from Yale was as principal trumpet in the National Symphony Orchestra in Bogota, Colombia. It was a huge job with a full season of concerts. Bogota is a very cultured city and supports two orchestras, Ken’s being the larger one. We also lived in Canada for eleven years when he performed full-time with two symphony orchestras. There were numerous Broadway musicals such as “Les Miserables” and “The Sound of Music,” and “Fiddler on the Roof.” He toured China with “The New Sousa Band.” Many, many orchestras and performances every place we lived—too many to name—ending up in Chicago for twenty years.

During our time in Indiana, he worked with Bill and Gloria Gaither at their recording studio, and he met and performed with popular Christian artists of the time such as Steve Green and Sandi Patti. He traveled across the country with the Christian group “Truth.” Yes, lots and lots of concerts!

Now he is “semi-retired,” which means nothing. Our church has an orchestra and brass ensemble that play for our services three Sundays a month. He traveled to Germany with me earlier this year and performed at my publishing company’s 100th Celebration. A week ago, he was in Colorado as a soloist with The Great Western Rocky Mountain Brass Band. Last Tuesday, he played a solo with the Holland American Legion Band for their summer concert series. He had another concert with a Bebop group last Saturday at a Christian Conference center.

To say that I am proud of him would be like saying, “I play trumpet a little.” Thousands of concerts, thousands and thousands of hours of beautiful music. “A dollar for every concert?” My life has been enriched beyond what money could ever buy. Happy Anniversary, Ken! I can’t believe it’s been nearly fifty years!

Bucket Lists

What’s on your Bucket List—you know, that list of all the interesting things you would love to do someday before you “kick the bucket?” I had the privilege of crossing off one of my bucket list items several years ago when I worked on an archaeological dig in Israel for a month. Our team excavated the ancient city of Timnah, which is mentioned in the Bible as the town where Samson fell in love with a Philistine woman (see Judges 14). Things ended badly for Samson when she gave away his riddle and he called off the wedding. I worked in the area of the main city gate, and we uncovered the cobblestone street from Samson’s time. What a thrill to think that his feet once walked on those very stones!
My oldest son Joshua, who was 14 at the time, went on the dig with me. His wish was to find a skull (of course!) He was excavating a different section of the city and his group ended up finding a complete skeleton! He could happily cross that off his bucket list.
We started work before dawn to avoid the summer heat and finished by noon. We were on level ground when we began digging, and by the last day, we were standing in a pit that was several feet above our heads. We moved a lot of dirt! But what fun to discover buried treasures. The experience was everything I’d hoped for, and I would definitely go on a dig again if I had the chance.
A few weeks ago I was able to cross off one item on my list. Ken and I toured in Europe by bicycle with a group of friends from our church. We flew to Zurich, Switzerland to begin our bike journey around Lake Constance. We cycled 25-35 miles a day on this ten-day trip, and traveled through parts of Germany, Austria, and Switzerland, which all border the lake.
Along the way, we visited Medieval cities, saw a zeppelin museum, and toured the oldest castle in Germany. We stayed in lovely hotels at night and sampled fine cuisine (and slept like the dead!) I kept a journal and will be posting my story and pictures on a future blog.
We’ve been preparing for this trip since January when we logged 120 miles while vacationing in Florida. The weather in Michigan this spring has been so cold and rainy (and snowy!) that we’ve only been able to log 115 miles in preparation.
But I love to bike! I feel so alive and happy as I pedal away, absorbing all the sights and sounds and smells. Riding my bike was one of my happiest pastimes as a child, which is why I feel like a kid again whenever I ride (aside from the aches and pains that now come with age). I have a feeling that I’ll be planning our next bike trip as soon as I return from this one.
So, what things have you checked off your bucket list? What’s on your list to do next?

Spring Fever

Everyone I know has Spring Fever, including me. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and the last few piles of dirty snow are melting at last. The steady drip of snowmelt from the eaves outside my office sounds like a drumbeat, summoning me to come outside and play. The season of new beginnings is here.

And it’s a new beginning for my next writing project, too. My contract schedule has me handing in my manuscript in February then completing any changes my editor asks for by May. I’m just finishing that process now, and getting ready to turn in all of my final changes and edits. That means I’ll soon be ready to start the process all over again with a new book.

But where will my ideas come from? How will the next story begin to form in my mind? Every author is different, but I begin by replenishing my supply of words. That means reading lots and lots of books. I choose authors who not only know how to tell a great story but also have an extraordinary love of language. One of my favorite writers, Rosamunde Pilcher, can not only tell a gripping tale, but she paints word-pictures that are so vivid they make me shiver: “Antony opened the front door, and the cold wind flowed in like a sluice of icy water.” Brr!

At the same time, I start reading lots of non-fiction books about the historical time period I’ve chosen. This includes first-person accounts such as diaries or memoirs written by people who might have lived alongside my fictional characters. Whenever possible, I visit the setting for my new novel to absorb all the sights and sounds and smells, keeping track of them in a notebook for future use. I also love to ask people to tell me their love stories, or their God-stories, or their family’s story. (Warning: don’t ever tell me a story unless you’re not afraid to see it in one of my books!) I’ll be creating what I call “story soup,” tossing images and ideas and historical facts into a huge pot and letting it all simmer together in the back of my mind until I’m ready to start writing.

One of the things I love to do while these ideas and images are simmering is to go outside in the gorgeous spring sunshine and sample God’s creative handiwork. I want the theme of His redemption to flow through all of my novels—how he takes what is broken and cold and dying and fills it with renewed life. And seeing the beauty of rebirth in nature as the snow melts and the new grass and spring leaves began to peek through, inspires me to tell of His goodness and grace all over again.

After the overwhelming destruction and judgment of the flood, God promised Noah—and all of us—that “As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease” (Genesis 8:22). We will always have seasons in life that feel like a long, dark, frigid winters—those times when life hits us in the face like “a sluice of icy water.” But He is the God of Springtime and new beginnings and second chances. He breathes life into the cold, dark corners of our hearts and we begin to find joy again. “Behold! I make all things new!”

No wonder we have Spring Fever. Let’s go dance in the snow-puddles!

Celebrating Community

I’ve done a lot of odd and interesting things in my life as an author, but being auctioned off at a fundraiser last week was a first! Happily, it was for a very good cause—the 90th annual Tulip Time Festival—and it turned out to be a lot of fun. The evening included a gala dinner, entertainment, and lots of other prizes to bid on besides me.
Each May since 1929, the town where I live—Holland, Michigan—has celebrated their Dutch cultural heritage with nine days of festivities known as Tulip Time. The festival draws more than 500,000 people, who come to see klompen dancers perform in wooden shoes; parades with marching bands and floats; and more than 5 million tulips blooming in every color of the rainbow. Reader’s Digest magazine named it America’s Best Small-Town Festival.
Today Holland’s population is culturally diverse, but everyone loves to participate in Tulip Time whether they are Dutch or not. Area high school students dress in authentic costumes and wooden shoes to perform traditional Dutch folk dances, but the highly-detailed costumes cost a lot of money to create. That’s what the gala fund-raiser was for. I agreed to be auctioned-off to raise funds so that everyone who wanted to participate as a klompen dancer could afford an authentic costume. And soon I will join the winning bidder and her book club to talk about my novel “Waves of Mercy.” I’m very excited!
“Waves of Mercy” tells the story of the original settlers from the Netherlands who founded the village of Holland in 1846, seeking religious freedom. I purchased an authentic Dutch costume to wear for the novel’s debut. The wooden shoes I’m wearing in the picture were once my husband’s. He grew up here in Holland, and his high school band wore wooden shoes when they marched in the Tulip Time parades. If you look closely, you’ll see I’m actually wearing two left shoes—and it’s not because I dance as though I have two left feet! (Although that’s probably true.)
It’s because band members’ wooden shoes often fly off and get broken during their marching routine, so by the time my husband graduated, all he had left were two left shoes. The Holland band still performs the same routine to the same tune, “Tiptoe Through the Tulips,” and their wooden shoes still go flying. Be ready to duck if you visit Tulip Time!
My husband is half Dutch. His mother’s ancestors immigrated to Holland from the Netherlands in 1872. I don’t have a Dutch bone in my body. Ken and I met at Hope College, right here in Holland, Michigan, and I remember being intrigued by the flood of tourists who came to see the tulips every year. As I was crossing the campus with an armful of books one spring, a pair of tourists loaded down with camera equipment stopped me to ask if I was a Hope student. When I told them I was, they asked if they could please take my picture beside Hope College’s iconic anchor. I agreed, and struck a pose. Suddenly, the wife shouted, “Wait a minute! Are you Dutch?” When I told her I wasn’t, she said, “Never mind.

I think it’s wonderful that participants don’t have to be Dutch in order to be klompen dancers or to march in the parades. And I love the fact that my community can celebrate its cultural origins while still enjoying its modern diversity. From their earliest days, Holland’s founders never sought to be an exclusive enclave, closing its doors to “outsiders” who didn’t share their ethnicity or their strong, Christian faith. They must have done something right because faith remains a very strong component in our community. This diverse city of approximately 33,000 has more than 70 churches. And the Tulip Time Gala Dinner and auction began with a prayer of thanks to our Heavenly Father, acknowledging that our faith in Christ makes us one. To paraphrase scripture, “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, Dutch nor non-Dutch, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”
Now, that’s something to celebrate!