Monday, May 02, 2016

Just Released Sofi's Bridge available at Walmart, Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Pelican Books.....And now for my guest author's postSex-Crazed Reprobates vs. Vegan Knife-Wielders: My Discovery of Galatians By guest Anne Garboczi Evans

Today's guest Anne Garboczi is doing an Ebook giveaway of her book "What's a Foster Family" picture book. To enter this draw, leave a comment below, share this blog on social media, and spell your email address out in your comment. I will draw the winning name on the Sunday after this blog posting. TWEET THIS

By Anne Garboczi

Ever since I can remember, I’ve been a perfectionist. Need a banana bread for that church potluck? I might only be in 4th grade, but I’ll bake you ten.

Perfectionists take hope TWEET THIS

What’s the highest score one can earn on the SAT? Three years of studying, and boom, I just got that perfect score. 

You say you offer a three years Master’s program? Watch me do that in eighteen months months. 4.0? Oh yeah!

But my perfectionism doesn’t just drive victories.

How could you wear those clothes? So not modest, teenage girl. If you cause a man to stumble, it’s your fault.

Never had a boyfriend, what do you mean? Never even been on a date? You’re twenty-years-old.

Married now and you don’t cook your husband dinner every night? 

You’re a lousy wife. And complaining when he deployed for a year? Unsupportive military spouse.

What do you mean you didn’t exercise and eat lean meat and whole grains every day of pregnancy? Dry-heaving multiple times a hour is no excuse. It’s probably your fault your baby ended up in NICU.

How do you think you can be a mom when you’re working part-time? Don’t you know that kids need your full attention?

Growing up, I didn’t know what to say when the questions and the doubts bombarded me. Judgment, judgment everywhere, not just from those around me, but from my own brain too. God said, “Be holy, because I am holy” (1 Pet 1:16).  He even came to earth to die, a miserably torturous death no less, to make me holy. And look at what an unholy wreck I am?

Failure, complete failure. Ever think God might give up on us someday? Seems like a pretty logical step to take.

Then one day, I read Galatians. Do you know what an amazing book that is? I’ve been reading the Bible since I was five, and yet, at age twenty-seven, Galatians astounded me.

The Galatians were of Celtic origin and they seemed like pretty clean-cut folks. Not like those Corinthians, who thought bringing sex orgies into the Christian worship service would be a good idea. 

Yeah, no way that could go wrong. Write them a letter already, Apostle Paul.

But in Paul’s letter to the Galatians, he gets really angry at the Galatians. More angry even than at those sex-crazed Corinthian reprobates. The Galatians had gladly accepted the gospel. But then some Jewish Christians came along and started picking on the Galatians for their eating habits.

“Eating pig meat, really?” Back in the day, that stuff could kill you, by the way. Not to mention that it’s against Jewish law

“Circumcision, come on Galatians, we’ve got some male infants and a knife. You know God will love you more if you do this.”

Maybe the Galatians also started to pray a certain amount of times a day, or nail up scrolls to their doorways like Jewish followers of the Torah. What’s so wrong about that?

Apparently a lot. Because Paul let loose on those Galatians. “You think you can please God by your works? You can’t. And the minute you start thinking you can make one jot of difference with your best efforts, suddenly you’re discounting everything Christ did for you. You’re saved by grace, so you can have a friendship with God. And don’t you ever forget that.”

Hmm, guess I won’t make a read-through the Bible in a month checklist or give up dancing so I can be truly holy. It’s just God and me, and His love pouring through every vein and capillary, organ and cell, thought and neuron signal.

So judge away perfectionist brain. I’m redeemed. TWEET THIS





ANNE GARBOCZI EVANS is a mental health counselor, military spouse, author, and mama to an opinionated little preschooler named "Joe-Joe."










Another book by Anne Garboczi 

PURCHASE LINKS for What's a Foster Family? by Helen Cochrane & Anne Garboczi Evans http://www.amazon.com/Whats-Foster-Family-Forever/dp/1505418771/

CONNECT WITH ANNE GARBOCZI 
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Friday, April 22, 2016

Happy Release Day for SOFI'S BRIDGE

Paper trade-back and all E-book versions available at: 



Read Chapter One Seattle Washington, 1913

A blur of white raced along the grounds to the beach. Sofi froze at the second story window. Set against the tattered sky of an incoming squall, her sister’s nightgown billowed in the dark. For the past six weeks Trina kept as much distance as she could from the sight and sound of the surf. Sofi raised a shaking hand to her throat, turned and tore along the upper hall. “Mattie, she’s outside.”

China shattered as Matilda, their housekeeper, dropped a supper tray. At the staircase, Sofi hiked up her black silk skirts and pounded downwards. Matilda followed close behind.

Ten minutes ago Trina had been in the nursery, huddling on the window seat. Though nearly grown she was always in the nursery since that night when. . .Trina even slept in the nursery instead of her bedroom, crying for Papa, with Sofi holding her close.

Matilda huffed. “I only left Trina to collect her supper.”

A yelping Odin found Sofi at the kitchen hallway. The Springer Spaniel bounded, his cold nose nudging her hand. Thank goodness one thing in this house had stayed the same. With Odin barking, she pushed through the green baize door. The dog darted past her. Inga, their cook, swung around to face her. Frida, the housemaid, dropped whatever she held in her hand. A man Sofi could swear she’d never seen before sat at the table, and shot to his feet as she hurtled through the kitchen.

She reached the outer door when the man—the gardener, she remembered now—pushed past her and flung the door wide. He charged across the lawn. The dog yowled and leapt after him. With Inga, Frida, and Matilda running behind, Sofi fled in the wake of the gardener down the trail to the beach.

The man reached the sand. Odin bolted past, across the beach as Trina rushed along the dock. Sofi scrambled to keep up, each ragged breath a prayer. Matilda shrieked, and behind, Frida’s and Inga’s calls, “Trina!”

Sofi reached the beach in time to see Trina slip into the skiff at the end of the dock. Her sister pulled on the oars, and made swift progress out on Puget Sound. At the edge of the dock, the dog pawed the planks, whining.

“Trina!” The wind snatched her cries as Sofi tripped over the shore strewn with rocks and driftwood. Dear God, please keep her safe. She had failed in looking after her sister.

The gardener reached the end of the thirty-foot dock and dove. It was hard to see anything other than green phosphorous as he swam toward the small skiff. Cold brine swirled at Sofi’s knees as she waded to the dock. She ran to the end of the wooden planks. It should be her saving Trina. It was her job to look after her family. Twenty yards out, Trina stood up in the skiff. Her nightgown streamed in the wind, a white sail against the squalling night.

Sit down, Trina. Oh, please sit down.

Swells buffeted the small craft as Trina stood, peering into the depths. Sofi cried out, but the wind swallowed her words, until a wave nudged the boat, and Trina fell. Sofi screeched.

One moment Trina was there, the next the sea had taken her. Just like Papa.
She wrenched open the buttons of her bodice. She would not remain frozen, but get out of this wretched gown and bring her sister out of the depths.

“No, Sofi!” Matilda gripped her arm. “You’re not as strong a swimmer as Trina. She has a better chance than you.”

She thrust off Matilda’s hand. She couldn’t lose her sister. She’d swim in her petticoat if need be. But Inga and Frida had made it to the end of the dock, and now three sets of hands held Sofi, as the rising tempest droned. Captive, Sofi counted the strokes of the man swimming to Trina. Then he dove, and the night went quiet. Sofi couldn’t breathe. All that she’d kept dammed up since Papa’s death cascaded over her.

Waves pummeled the pilings and beach. Odin whimpered at her knee. A moment later the gardener came up, gasped for air and dove again. Sofi pressed the heel of her hand against her tight chest. Dear God, don’t take her from me.

At last the waters broke. The gardener surfaced with Trina coughing in his arms. Pins and needles flared over Sofi’s skin. At last, she could do something. She reached for the life ring, tossing it to the man. It landed on the waves near his head. Trina batted at him, and he ducked beneath her. Seconds passed. He emerged to take hold of the life ring. He kicked, towing Trina with his arm across her chest. Until he lost his grip on the ring.

The wind and waves flailed at him and Trina. Hand over hand, Sofi pulled in the rope, and threw the ring out again.He caught it. The tide fought to drag him and Trina, but with Frida’s help, Sofi hauled them in.

As they neared the dock, Sofi and the women reached down to lift Trina from the waves. Sofi pressed on her sister’s back to expel the water she’d taken in.The man hoisted himself to the dock. Dripping wet, he pushed Sofi away, and rolled Trina on her back.

“What are you doing?” She slapped his hands. If anyone would take life-preserving measures it would be her.

But he shoved her and pried Trina’s mouth open. After searching her mouth and throat, he flipped Trina on her front and thumped her back.

A moment later, Trina coughed and spat, and the man stood, leaning down to lift Trina into his arms

Sofi gave him a shove. “I’ll carry her.”

“Don’t be foolish, miss.”

“You can’t possibly carry her up to the house after that swim. We’ll carry her together.”

He swiped his wet hair out of his eyes. “It’ll be quicker if I carry her. She’s worn out and she needs—” He scooped Trina up.

“Please...hurry.” Sofi turned and ordered Matilda. “Water on to boil. Get blankets.” Buffeted by the wind, Sofi walked beside him as he carried Trina up the incline with the squall whistling.

He kept his gaze on the lights shining across the lawns from the kitchen. She kept turning to watch the rise and fall of her sister’s chest, those pale eyelids that remained closed, that long blond hair straggling like seaweed over the bodice of the white nightgown.

When they reached the kitchen stoop, Trina opened her eyes and looked at the man holding her. Sofi gasped. For a moment a spark of the real Trina—sixteen-year-old Trina—shone in the depths of her blue eyes.

Inside the kitchen was a warm hive of activity. The gardener settled a shivering Trina in Inga’s armchair next to the stove.

“A towel,” Sofi said to Frida. She dried Trina’s arms and legs, and wrapped her in a quilt as Matilda barged in with dry clothing.

Kneeling before her sister, she’d been prepared to take charge, have the man fade to the background as a servant of his standing should, but just as he’d done on the dock, he pushed her away. Ignoring his dripping clothes, he leaned close, listening to Trina’s breathing.

And Trina latched her blue gaze with his. In rigid silence, Sofi stood.

Matilda pierced her with a look that asked if she’d lost her mind. Sofi put a hand to her head. Was it giddiness at Trina being alive that sapped her of her usual verve? No. There was something about this man that calmed her sister like none of them had been able to do for weeks.

“Take your hands off her, ye shameless oaf,” Matilda shouted. She’d cared for Trina since she’d been a baby as if she’d been her own.  

The gardener fended her off with a pained look. “Matilda, do you honestly think I’d want to hurt her?” He took hold of Trina’s wrist, as if he counted her pulse, and hunched down to examine her feet. Rocks on the beach had gashed the inside of one arch. With a tea towel, he wiped away a trace of blood.

Sofi reached out to help, but Trina shirked from her, and focused on the fire burning in the grate.

Inga, Frida, and Matilda began to talk at once while Sofi stood aside, alone in the eye of the storm. It wasn’t that Trina rejected her help—she was getting used to being rebuffed by her young sister lately. But this stranger had taken control.
Frida and Inga submitted to his orders as if they’d known him for years instead of a month. Even the dog sat, his tail thumping as he shifted his gaze between the gardener and Trina.

Only Matilda eyed the man as though he were a hooligan. The desire to cry crept up on Sofi, but she shoved it deep. She must be exhausted from carrying the weight of what was left of her family, to let him take charge. Everything had changed since Papa’s death. She spoke to the man in a level tone. “You’ll need iodine. Bandages.”

“Hot water too.” He smiled his thanks when she brought him the basin. “She’ll be fine, stop your worrying.” His voice flowed in rhythmic Irish cadence.

With a calm Sofi did not feel, she retrieved the tin box, opened the bottle of iodine while Matilda ripped a clean white cloth into strips. Sofi would let him see to Trina’s superficial abrasions. He obviously had first aid training. But more than simple medicine was needed to heal her sister’s mind and heart. To think...only a few months ago Trina had been at the yacht club, laughing, challenging the young men to a race. Her sister’s teeth chattered. But her gaze was more clear than since the day they’d brought her home without Papa. “Leave me...alone. It’s my…”

The man’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “You’re all right. Your few wee cuts and bruises don’t worry me at all.”

Trina moaned as her shivering eased, and pulled the quilt around her. Then that heavy curtain came down behind her eyes. It seemed she grew smaller, shrinking away from them all. At least Trina was safe for now. Sofi pressed a hand to her stomach.

A frown replaced the gardener’s smile as he scrutinized Trina. “Is any tea ready? She needs a cup. With plenty of sugar and milk.” He cupped Trina’s chin, but she avoided his eyes. “It’ll do you good,” he murmured, “whether or not you want to talk to me.” His brows creased at Trina’s lack of response, and he cupped her shoulder. “You’ll be fine, so I’m handing you over to Matilda’s care before she tears me limb from limb.” His smile matched the lilt in his voice.

Matilda needed no further encouragement. She, Frida and Inga, began to cluck over their one chick, Matilda’s Scottish ‘R’s rolling, the two other women elongating their Swedish vowels.

For now, Sofi would leave Trina in their capable hands. Her sister was locked away in one of her moods. Later, tonight, Trina would need her. Setting her jaw, Sofi studied the gardener in an attempt to remember his name. She and this man had hardly spoken until tonight. Inga laid out his duties from the time he arrived on their grounds just days before Papa...

Emptiness swelled inside. With Papa’s drowning so shortly after this man started to work for them, she’d not had the heart to get to know him. She dammed up the memories of her father again, before grief sluiced through her—a grief she had no time to indulge. Not now when Trina needed her so much. And Mama too.
This gardener’s name was...Neil Macpherson. And his manner, his confidence...too controlled to be a mere laborer. His abilities hinted at some training, but he was still the gardener. A man who thought he knew what was best, as Charles thought. But then Charles, as Papa’s business partner, always thought he knew best.

Her voice shook. “You’re quite handy at first aid, Mr. Macpherson.”

“Sure anyone could do this. Even me, hired to trim the grass and prune the shrubs.” He flinched, so slight, she almost missed it.

Matilda held a cup of tea to Trina’s lips. Trina sipped and leaned her head against the back of the chair, her eyelids drooping.

Sofi felt Neil Macpherson’s gaze. “You don’t look so well yourself, miss. Take that cuppa that Frida’s bringing you.”

She rubbed her arms, and shook her head. Her soaking clothes clung. Weariness of heart must be spurring this unfamiliar perversity within her. This need to fight, to protect Trina and Mama.

“Well, if it’s not a cup of tea you want,” he said, “then perhaps coffee, as long as it has plenty of sugar to counteract the shock.” He led her away from Trina, and for a second she wanted to lean against him, like Mama used to lean against Papa.
But this was her family. She must rally herself.

“It’s plain your sister’s suffering from a prolonged sense of trauma,” he said, lowering his voice.

“It’s nothing more than a nervous malady.”

His brow winged upward. “It’s far more than that. She needs help.”

She turned away from his all-too-inquisitive eyes. Of course, her sister needed help.
Trina just didn’t need the kind of help Charles was suggesting.

Inga and Frida whisked away the first aid materials, and Matilda raced upstairs for an item of Trina’s clothing she’d forgotten. Sofi hunched down in front of Trina. She traced a finger down her sister’s cheekbone, along the delicate line of jaw. She turned the young face toward her only to be met by Trina’s vacant stare. Sofi choked back a sob. “Where are you, √§lskling? Where are you?” 

No response came from Papa’s favorite endearment. And really, there was no need for Sofi to ask. She knew exactly where the soul of her sister lay. Six weeks ago, it floated downward with Papa’s body to the dark and sandy bottom of the Juan de Fuca Strait.

What the gardener said was true. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that her sister suffered from trauma, but there had to be a way to bring her sister back to health other than what Charles was arranging.

Neil Macpherson’s officious manner wasn’t what angered her. As a simple laborer, he must only mean well.

But as for Charles...she would fight him with everything she had before she’d allow her sister to go to a hospital for the mentally insane.

~*~

Purchase Sofi's Bridge at these links:


Pelican Book Group (Ebook format)

Pelican Book Group (Soft-Cover Paper)


Read another short scene from Sofi's Bridge below:

“Sometimes I think it would be easier,” Sofi said, “if I didn’t feel the urge to use these natural abilities—I think God-given abilities—but to do the more expected tasks of a woman in my social position. Strangely, my father considered it more socially acceptable for my sister to enter yacht races than for me to consider a career.”

Sofi raised her gaze. “But what about you, Neil? With all this talk about life’s purposes and the toil of one’s brow, what are you doing with your life?” The sun nestled between two peaks as she tensed her weight against the sun-warmed granite.

Her natural perfume intoxicated him—not the overpowering colognes of society, but the scent of soap, apples she been paring earlier—stirring the desire to touch her cheek, her hands, her arms. What if he closed the gap between them? 

How would the softness of her cheek feel against the roughness of his? What would her lips taste like?

His breath quickened.

Sofi’s eyes widened.

He couldn’t tear his gaze from her softly parting mouth. A muscle tapped at the base of her throat.

Had one of them moved closer?

He pulled in a breath. When a man and a woman cared for each other, they should speak the truth. He wanted to tell her about the thrift clinic he’d partnered in for the poor back home. Tell her of the work he’d done in the hospital. If he shared his pride in those accomplishments, he knew her eyes would shine in understanding.

Aye, right, ye fool. Then tell her you left the clinic and your position in Belfast City Hospital, as well as all your patients, to run to Washington State to be a gardener. How could he possibly tell her about the night that stole his life from him, and all with one slash of a knife? He rubbed the pressure between his brows. “Time we were getting back to the cabin.”

“Right. Of course.” In a fluster, she smoothed her shirtwaist. Her eyes that moments ago were shining turned a dull slate. She set her profile to him. 

“Foolish for the two of us to stand here any longer.”

Monday, April 04, 2016

God’s Grace by Guest Author Gail Pallotta

My guest today is Gail Pallotti who is doing a giveaway of one of her books. To enter the draw leave a blog comment below with your email spelled out. I will pull the winning name on the Sunday following this post.  

Ten years ago a physician told me, “We can’t diagnose what you have, so we can’t treat it.” I froze right there in his office. A nurse finally helped me check out. I drove home in a trance, stopped at the door to the house, told my husband I didn’t have any of the diseases the doctor had tested me for and trod upstairs to the bedroom. I plopped down in a rocking chair and sat in shock.

I didn’t pray. I didn’t ask God for His help or what I should do. Looking back, I believe I was too ill and too stunned to think. But God intervened. Over and Over I kept thinking I should see Dr. Lee. He was a chiropractor a friend of mine had seen ten years earlier. I wanted to swat the busyness buzzing in my brain like a mosquito. Why would I need a chiropractor? But the thought persisted. Finally, I phoned my friend, found out Dr. Lee’s first name and phone number and learned that he was now also a holistic doctor. I contacted him, and he started treating me immediately for a toxic substance, which turned out to be Chronic Lyme disease.

I’ve often wondered why me? I’ve also heard if one asks why me, one has to ask why not me? We live in an imperfect world, so why would I be any less likely to contract Chronic Lyme disease than anyone else? I’ve been a Christian who prayed and trusted God to direct me for as long as I can remember. I believed God had a purpose for my life. I didn’t understand how Chronic Lyme disease fit into it.

That’s where faith comes in. Sometimes when we’re in what seems an impossible situation, it isn’t as easy to have faith as it is to profess it. It helps me to remember how a power so much stronger than me intervened for me. When I didn’t even have the presence of mind to pray, God stepped in and sent me exactly where I needed to go for help. In spite of Chronic Lyme disease, I enjoy an active life. Sometimes I have to step back and remind myself. We may bump into tragic circumstances in our imperfect world, but God has the power to lift us above them.


The man in the photo is Dr. Lee if you’d like to use it. Here’s a little about it.
David G. Lee,D.C., Ph.D., C.Ad., runs Wellness Revolution Clubs in Woodstock, Georgia, and Daytona Beach, Florida. One of his many positive approaches to life is to “Spread the good news with such abundance that the bad has no place to survive.”

Barely Above Water Barely will be available for pre-order on April 1, and the e-books will release on April 15th






An illness comes out of nowhere and strikes Suzie Morris. Her boyfriend dumps her. She has no living family, and her physician can’t diagnose the malady. Suzie relies on her Christian faith as she faces the uncertainty of the disease, and turns to a renowned alternative doctor in Destin, Florida. She takes a job coaching a county-sponsored summer swim team. She’s determined to turn the fun, sometimes comical, rag-tag bunch into winners. Her handsome boss renews her belief in love, but learns of her mysterious affliction and abruptly cuts romantic ties. Later he has regrets, but can he overcome his fear of losing a loved one and regain Suzie’s trust?

Purchase Link for Barely Above Water

Amazon.com/dp/B01DN2UTTS

Connect with Gail Pallotta

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