Stories to Grow By

Devil’s Orchestra

2007-02-28T21:03:00.000-08:00

Read Excerpt Here
Devil’s Orchestra
How far would you go to get what you want?

Tab McGrifth- #1 radio personality on the Eastern seaboard. He made his money the old way--by stepping on one person at a time. He's lied, cheated and "misrepresented" whatever needed to be as he clawed his way to the top of the pile. Now the man that taught him everything he knows, his old mentor Whitey Ford, has returned....

Deva- Hip hop princess extraordinaire. Many are under the impression that she is just a gorgeous airhead. But nothing could be further from the truth. With her shrewd business mind and amazing "luck", Deva is worth somewhere in the upper nine digit range. Deva, like all of us, has her faults. She loves the money--and what accompanies it--just a bit TOO much. In fact, she is slap out of control. When an old friend from back home, Ed Burris, confronts her about her lifestyle, things get explosive...

Juan Rodriguez- gay author and proud of it too. With his life partner, Zeus and son, Loam, Juan's life is definitely on track. That is, until Bodie pops back into his life. Bodie. Blond, beach boy tan, Juan's first lover. He put the w-h-o-r in whore...and doggonit if Juan wasn't still feeling him...

And then there's Luke...

Devil’s Orchestra…whose side are you really playing for?

www.sydneymolare.com
Sydney Molare' Books...Fiction that satisfies the soul...

Gena Showalter and Jill Monroe

2007-02-27T21:00:00.000-08:00

Two great friends - Two February books!

This is the first time Gena Showalter and Jill Monroe
have books out at the same time!

For your paranormal taste, we have Valerian. Females young and old, beautiful and plain crave Valerian's touch. None can resist his blatant sensuality and potent allure…until he steals Shaye Holling from a Florida beach and holds her prisoner in his underwater kingdom.

And when you're ready to read something contemporary, there is Hitting The Mark. Danni's a woman with a little revenge on her mind. Romantic Times says Hitting The Mark is, "impossible to put down."

2006-12-20T01:02:00.000-08:00

Like the Turtle
by Erin Hoffman

My grandmother is one of the kindest, most giving and beautiful people I know, but never, at least during my lifetime, has she ever been called "athletic." The colorful dresses and vintage suits stored carefully in dusty garment bags in the spare room's closet give testament to both of my grandparents' younger lives as sparkling social butterflies and first-class swing dancers, but as time passed I knew them as the relaxed and smiling retirees I always liked to visit.

As my grandfather got older he had blood pressure problems, and with them came the trimmed diet and regimented exercise program that doctors recommended. I can say without hesitation (though perhaps not without reluctance) that he is more physically fit than I. I was once outpaced by this cool and casual senior citizen when he motored past me as I panted up a steep hill in West Hollywood. By contrast, my grandmother had to be pestered to take a five-minute walk around the block a couple of times a month.

In the summer of 2002, our family took a thirteen-day trip to China. We expected Grandpa to fare better than Grandma, and for the most part this was true - until we visited the Great Wall.

The Great Wall is just that: great in every possible sense of the word. We traversed stairs of jagged stone, two feet high and three inches wide, ascending hillsides that make a mockery of San Francisco. There were towers with tiny staircases so narrow that only one small person could pass through them at a time.

My young niece and nephew were, of course, undaunted. They ran at full tilt back and forth along the straightaways and gamely clambered up steps more than half their own heights. When we made it about halfway to the tourist checkpoint, my great-uncle and grandfather turned back - the altitude, heat and sheer aggression of the Wall had defeated them. My own quads were burning and so were my lungs; my brother, two years younger than me and quite a bit stronger, wasn't faring much better. As we struggled to keep up with our niece and nephew, eventually it occurred to us that we'd lost Grandma. Unworried but curious, we used our walkie-talkies to triangulate her location.

She was at the far-end checkpoint. Buying a souvenir. A little plaque that commemorated one's stamina and fortitude in making it that far along the Wall. Many energetic and athletic young couples, armed with water bottles and expensive walking shoes, had endeavored to make it this far and failed.

We were amazed. My grandfather was astounded. "I was like the turtle," was my grandmother's simple, almost laughing explanation. And indeed she was; as the rest of us had scrambled to keep the younger generation in sight, we'd been completely unaware of Grandma's steady progress toward the far-end checkpoint - a place, by the way, that neither my niece nor nephew had the energy to overtake in the end. I fought my way, exhausted, to also get a plaque. Grandma wasn't even breathing heavily.

To this day I still don't know how she did it. Neither does my grandfather. Maybe she's been hiding her physical fitness all this time, though that seems unlikely. Maybe her Chinese ancestors imbued her spirit with some unnatural strength to conquer the Wall they had built. Or maybe - and more likely - the will we all knew was strong carried her along.

Tawny Taylor's contest

2006-12-17T07:11:00.000-08:00

Tawny Taylor is proud to announce the launch of a new vampire series titled TWILIGHT’S POSSESSION in 2007. With it comes a new website, http://www.twilightspossession.com/, and a new myspace, www.myspace.com/twilightspossession.

To celebrate the new series, and a second piece of good news--the official acceptance of Real Vampires Don’t Drink O-Neg by Kensington (Sept. 2007)--Tawny is holding a contest.

The prize: A Vampire Lover’s gift basket full of terrific paranormal romance novels, a tote to carry them, and (not shown) a few necessities to help the winner score a sexy alpha vampire of her own.

To enter: email tawny at tawnytaylor@sbcglobal.net with the name for the secret brotherhood of warriors AND their creed copied and pasted into the body of an email (no attachments will be opened). To assure your entry in the contest, please put the words Vampire Lover Contest in the subject line. And please, don’t forget to include your name and contact information.

No purchase necessary.

A BONUS: Extra chances will be awarded to anyone who posts this announcement (including the live links below for Tawny’s websites) on his/her blog and/or myspace. One extra chance per post, up to a maximum of five extra chances per person. So post away! Please! To receive the extra chances, please send a link of the live post in the body of your email, along with your contact information.

Entries accepted Dec. 1 through Dec. 31 (11:59pm, Eastern US Time) The drawing will be held on New Year’s Day and the winner will be announced on Twilights Possession by 5:00 PM Jan. 1, 2007.

Finally, Tawny would like to wish everyone a blessed Christmas and New Year.

Links for contest:
Tawny Taylor’s Erotic Romance with Sassitude
Tawny Taylor’s Twilight’s Possession

2006-11-21T23:10:00.000-08:00

Enchiladas: A Metaphor for Life!
By Renee Fajardo

My familia is from Colorado. During my first year of college, I returned home for a family celebration: my grandparents' fiftieth wedding anniversary. The whole Fajardo clan was busy with preparations for this auspicious occasion. While helping to make what seemed like a million enchiladas, I stood at the kitchen counter and looked over at my great-aunt Lucía.

She was a beautiful woman, about seventy years old at the time. The youngest of eight siblings (born a decade after my grandmother), she usually took over the role of head cook for all family celebrations. Her reasoning was that she was younger and had more stamina. I suspect it was because she could roll enchiladas faster than any human being alive. It was a God-given gift. I admired her greatly and was always amazed at her dedication to every detail of our fiestas: baking all the bread from scratch, making tamales days ahead, cooking green chili to die for and preparing enchilada sauce that, to this day, makes me weep with joy.

That day, I really looked at her for the first time in my life. She was always so busy with the comida or organizing the last details of preparing the food that she never had time to talk about herself. I was newly puzzled by her self-imposed exile at the kitchen stove, and it occurred to me that my tía had been cooking for us for all of our lives. She had no grandchildren of her own. All three of her sons had died tragically, and her remaining daughter was childless. I knew in my heart that this must have been a terrible burden for her to bear, but I never heard her complain. I never heard her once mention the hardships she had witnessed when she was a child. Nor had I ever heard her speak of the humiliation she had endured because she was from a poor Chicano family. I knew from others in the family that my abuelos and my other old ones had seen great misfortune and pain.

I gathered my nerve and stared at her a long time before I asked her about her life. I recall stammering as I asked her how she always seemed so happy when she had lost so much. I think that I even told her that most people would not have been able to go on after losing so many children.

What she said to me that day changed my whole outlook on life. She looked at me and, wiping her hand on her apron, smiled.

"M'ija," she said softly, "I look at my life like making enchiladas."

I laughed when I heard her say this, but she went on:

You see, my niece, you start out with the corn tortilla; that is the foundation of the enchilada, the family. Then you dip the tortilla in warm oil; that makes the tortilla soft and pliable to work with. I like to think of the oil as sacred; it is an anointing of the familia with all that is precious in life. It is similar to going to church and having the priest put sacred oil on your forehead. The family is being blessed.

Next you fill the corn tortilla with cheese and onions. The queso is sweet and rich, made from the milk of life. It is symbolic of the joy and richness of this world. But how can you appreciate the queso without the onion? The onion may make us weep, yet it also makes us realize that there is a reason the cheese tastes so sweet. That reason is because there is a contrast to the queso, a balance to the joy . . . sorrow is not necessarily bad. It is an important part of learning to appreciate this life.

Then the enchiladas are covered with the most delicious sauce in the world - a sauce so red and rich in color it reminds me of the blood of the Cristo, a sacrifice of love. Still to this day my mouth waters when I smell enchilada sauce cooking on the stove.

The most important ingredient in the sauce is agua. Water is the vital source of all we know and are. It feeds the rivers that make the great oceans. Water rains from the skies to nourish the fertile earth so that the grains, grasses, flowers and trees may grow. Water comforts us when we hear the sound of it flowing over mountain cliffs. Water quenches our thirst and bathes our tired bodies. We are baptized with water when we are born, and all the rest of our days spent on this Earth are intertwined with water. Water is the spirit of the sauce.

The enchilada sauce also has garlic, salt, chili powder and oil. These are the things that add the spice and zest to life, just as they do to the sauce. Making the sauce is a lot like making your own life: You get to choose the combination of ingredients, and you get to decide just how spicy and salty you like it.

When everything is put together, you have the "whole enchilada." You must look at the enchiladas you have made and be happy with them; after all, you are the one who has to eat them. No use whining about maybe this or maybe that; there is joy and sorrow and laughter and tears. Every enchilada is a story in itself. Every time I dip, fill, roll and pinch an enchilada, I think of some part of my life that has gone by or some part that is still to be. M'ija, you have got to pinch a lot of enchiladas in this life! Make that experience a good one, and you will become una viejita like me.

I couldn't believe that my auntie, who had never spoken more than two words about her philosophy on life, had just explained the universe to me. I wiped my hands on my apron and began to laugh.

"Thank you," I said, between tears and smiles. "I will never forget what you just told me!"

And I never have.

2006-09-13T21:42:00.000-07:00

Harvest Moon
By Kenneth L. Pierpont

My grandfather had a small farm where he raised beef and some grain for feed. He also worked diligently as a factory laborer and country pastor. He was a good neighbor and well-respected for honoring his word.

When harvesttime came, he'd piece together his old one-row corn picker and oil it up for the season. He pulled it behind a little Ford 9-N tractor with a wagon hooked on the back. It was a noisy contraption unlike the modern machines you see these days devouring the golden armies of grain in wide gulps.

His whole operation was like that. Basic. In fact, his life was like that, too. He worked hard, helped others, and you could count on him to keep his promises. That's what made it so hard one autumn when difficult circumstances closed in on him.

He had promised to harvest a few ribbons of corn that wound around the hills on a friend's farm, but after harvesting his own corn, Grandpa's little corn picker coughed, sputtered and quit. It would be out of commission until a particular part could be ordered, but that would take far too long to help this year. Then the odds of being able to help out his neighbor got even worse; the factory where grandpa worked began to require overtime. In order to keep his job there he had to leave the farm before dawn and didn't get home until well after sunset.

One autumn night, while harvesttime was running out, he and his wife sat at the kitchen table sipping bitter black coffee and trying to figure a way out of their dilemma.

"There's nothing you can do," said my grandma. "You'll just have to tell him that you can't help with the corn this year."

"Well that just doesn't sit well with me," said my grandpa. "My friend is depending on me. I can't exactly let my neighbor's harvest rot in the field, can I?"

"If you don't have the equipment, you just can't do it," she said.

"Well, I could do it the way we used to do it. I could harvest it by hand," he said.

"When do you think you'd have time to do it?" she asked. "With the overtime you've been working you'd be up all night . . . besides it'd be too dark."

"I know of one night that I could do it!" he said, running to the bookshelf. He grabbed the Farmer's Almanac and started flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for. "Aha! There's still one more full moon in October." As it happened, the harvest moon had yet to pass. They say it's called the harvest moon because it gives farmers more light and more time to collect their crops. "If the Lord gives us clear weather, I think I can do it," he said.

And so a few days later, after a long shift at the factory, my grandpa made his way to the field where my grandma met him in the truck with dinner and a steaming thermos of strong, black coffee. The weather was cold but clear, and the moon was brilliant. He worked through the night to keep his word.

I know this story well, because I've spent hours on that old tractor's fender talking with my grandpa. We've even suffered through some of that same bitter coffee together. I'm proud to say that my parents named me after him.

Sometimes, when I'm tempted to cut corners or to put off responsibilities, I think of my grandfather with his scythe cutting wide arcs of corn in the light of the harvest moon. I hear the ears of corn hit the floor of the wagon and the music of geese crossing the cold October sky. The chilly autumn morning darkness envelops my mind and I see my grandpa, his work finally done, crawling into the seat of the old tractor and making his way home. Behind him in the pale moonlight, row after row of corn shocks stand at attention in respect for a man who keeps his word.

2006-07-07T04:33:00.000-07:00

Finding Passion
By Mary Lyn Miller

I know a lot about passion because in the process of living, I lost it, but in the process of dying, I found it again.

My life was about three things: pleasing, proving and achieving. I thought that if enough people liked me, I would feel better about being me. I wanted desperately to please everyone . . . family, bosses, neighbors, people I didn't like. It hardly mattered who they were; other people's approval and validation were the source of my self-esteem. "Looking good" was my daily regime, and I was incredibly good at it. I continually quested for greater and greater accomplishments because those proved my value to the outside world.

This thinking affected the entire fabric of my life. My work was a series of long hours, proving my dedication and making sure I never offended anyone. I made impossible promises that were hard to keep because I was afraid to say no, which added untold amounts of stress. By constantly reacting to outside circumstances rather than taking charge of my life, I felt victimized and I lived in fear that "they" - whoever "they" were - would suddenly discover I was incompetent. The fact that I was the youngest woman in my company to hold an executive position and became director of corporate communications while still in my mid-20s did not assuage my concern. Nothing soothed my self-doubt.

The only solution I knew was to try harder, work longer, achieve more. I just knew I'd be happy when I did the right thing. I left the corporate world knowing that being independent would change everything. Ironically, I became a career consultant and taught people how to look good and be aware of what others expected of them. I knew all about that.

Of course, I was still a people-pleaser and took lower fees because I feared no one would use my services. Instead of being driven by the demands of a boss, I was driven by the demands of my clients. I couldn't understand why I was financially struggling and assumed the answer was to simply make more money. So the cycle escalated as I decided to increase my marketing and promotion efforts even more. When I burned out and grew discontented with no improvement in my income, I decided there was something intrinsically wrong with me and embarked on a campaign to fix it. I went to classes, lost weight and joined personal-growth groups. I was still empty.

So it went . . . my life of pleasing, proving and achieving. What did it get me? Tired. Broke. Emotionally depleted. And terribly afraid.

Then in 1986, the awakening came. I discovered I had bladder cancer and the prognosis looked bleak because my symptoms could be traced back for three years. My doctor had the bedside manner of a blacksmith and was not gently encouraging. In my first surgery, he removed the largest tumor he had ever taken from a bladder and announced we would be doing another surgery in 10 to 12 weeks "to see what was left." This is a fun guy.

The cancer changed my life forever. I made a decision to live, and that had a number of implications. I gained immediate clarity about what was important and began focusing on becoming well. I changed my diet, discovered herbs, explored holistic healing and learned what it meant to take care of myself.

Most important, I began asking the question: Who am I and what am I doing here? Previously, my concern was: What does everyone else want and how can I make them like me? I shifted from being involved with the changing demands of the outside world to focusing on what was in my heart. This was not an easy process, since I had spent my whole life looking outside for answers. I was so accustomed to ferreting out what other people wanted from me, I had no idea who I was.

I realized that my life totally lacked passion . . . that zest for living, that sense of joy, creativity and spontaneity that truly comprises life. Suddenly faced with possible death, I knew I had never really lived. In fact, there had been no "life" in my life. As a result of this awareness, passion became my reason for living. I committed myself to it wholly and completely!

No, I had no idea what it meant. I just knew that my daily purpose was to get up and do something passionate each day. I walked on the beach, discovered I love rollercoaster rides, took fun classes that wouldn't make me a "better" person and read books I had wanted to read for years. I made a list of things I wanted to do before I died (whenever that might be) and as I did them, the list just grew. Enthusiasm, excitement and fulfillment were ends in themselves. I wanted to fully experience and live every moment I had left. I could wait no longer.

I felt more positive and hopeful. It took less energy to produce better results. I allowed myself to be uncertain about how my future was going to unfold; I just continued exploring and expressing my passion on a daily basis. I now know the sheer force of this commitment produced miracles.

By now, my business was shut down, I had no money coming in and no one was interested in hiring a terminally ill patient. But some of my old clients began calling and asking if I would do career coaching in my home. Heaven knows, nothing else was happening, so I said yes, but my consulting took a new turn. I talked about the cancer and my commitment to living a passionate life; I thought they might want that, too. Indeed, many wanted to hear more, and I began conducting groups. By the end of the first year working in my living room, I discovered I had seen more people and made more money than I had any other year in my career. After all those years of working and trying so hard, it was that simple. What a revelation! I knew I had stumbled onto something that could work for anyone who embraced it.

The other major miracle is that I have been cancer-free since 1987. My doctor is stunned by my recovery. When I have my annual checkups, he always comments on how well I have healed. Apparently, there are not even any remaining indications of the surgery. Is this the result of a commitment to passion? While I cannot prove it to you, I don't doubt it. I believe passion is the strongest force in the universe and that it is a magnet for all one's good—happiness, power, joy, abundance and health. You know how exhilarating it can be to be around a group of passionate people. It produces a euphoric energy. Like running, it creates endorphins in the brain. Endorphins boost and protect the immune system. Cancer is a disease of the immune system, so why couldn't passion heal it?

For me, the process of dying brought great relevance to living. Today I bring as much life to living as possible. It has also become my livelihood. I built an organization called The Career Clinic, which has helped well over a thousand people heal their relationship with work through discovering their passions and purpose in life. Passion is not for the lucky or the talented; it is the fire waiting to be ignited in every soul.

Through cancer, I received the gift of life. Now I get to give it away by speaking and teaching, and do so with great gratitude and joy.

2006-05-01T22:56:00.000-07:00

A Real Home
By Carol McAdoo Rehme

Her world had shattered with the divorce.

Bills, house payments, health insurance. Her part-time job provided little income and fewer benefits. With no financial support, she had finally lost the house.

At wit's end, Karen managed to rent a cramped camper at the local RV park for herself and five-year-old Joshua. It was only a little better than living out of their car, and she wished with all her heart that she could provide more for her child.

After their evening ritual of giggling over a table game and reading stories, Karen sent her son outside to play until bedtime while she agonized over the checkbook. She glanced out the window when she heard voices.

"Say, Josh, don't you wish you had a real home?" asked the campground manager.
Karen tensed and held her breath as she leaned nearer the open window. Then a smile spread across her face when she heard Joshua's response.

"We already have a real home," he said. "It's just that we don't have a house to put it in."

2006-04-10T01:20:00.000-07:00

A Jelly Bean for Halloween
by Evelyn M. Gibb

The bag of assorted candies was ready, and I'd been looking forward to visits from pint-sized goblins. But Halloween morning, my arthritis flared up, and by evening, I could barely move. I couldn't possibly answer each knock on the door to distribute the goodies, so I decided to fasten the candy bag to the door and watch the parade of trick-or-treaters from my darkened living room.

The first to arrive was a ballet dancer with three little ghosts. Each picked out a sweet in turn. When the last tiny hand emerged full-fisted, I heard the ballerina scold: "You're not supposed to take more than one!" I was pleased big sister would play conscience for the little one.

Princesses, astronauts, skeletons and aliens followed. More children showed up than I had expected. The candy was running low, and I was about to turn off the porch light when I noticed four more visitors. The three oldest reached into the bag and pulled out Hershey bars. I held my breath, hoping there would be one left for the tiny witch. But when she pulled out her hand, all it held was a single orange jelly bean.

Already the others were calling, "C'mon, Emily, let's go. There's no one home to give you more." But Emily lingered an extra moment. She dropped the candy in her bag and then paused, facing the doors. Deliberately, she said, "Thank you, house. I like the jelly bean."

Then I watched her scamper away to join her fellow trick-or-treaters. One dear little witch had cast her spell on me.

2006-03-14T04:32:00.000-08:00

Ballerina Dog
By Jackie Tortoriello

One April afternoon a few days after my twenty-first birthday, my parents announced that they were ready to give me - their live-at-home, frazzled, college-student daughter - a belated birthday present.

Wheelchair-bound since birth, I propelled myself from my bedroom into the living room where my parents anxiously waited.

"Bring it on! Good things come to those who wait," I joked, as I closed my eyes and extended my hands waiting to feel the weight of a beautifully wrapped gift.
"Why are you holding out your hands?" my dad laughed. "Your gift isn't coming in a box this year."

"Huh?" I opened my eyes to study the glee stamped on both of their usually calm faces. "I know! It must be that handicapped-accessible van I've been praying for!"

"No, it's not a van, but it's almost as good," my mom chuckled. Then she said more seriously, "Jackie, we know you were devastated when Buck passed last year. We all were. He was a great dog. But we think our house has been void of doggy joy long enough. It's time to hear puppy noises again."

"So today, right now, in fact," my dad broke in, "we're going to a place where you'll be able to select the puppy of your choice."

"But," I stammered, but there was no time for protest as he scooped me out of my chair and into our car. My parents chatted to each other while I sat in the back, desperately trying to quell overwhelming waves of sadness.

Sadness because not so long ago, this trip would have seemed incomprehensible - a betrayal. After all, it had been only seven months since Buck lay on my cold bathroom floor drawing his last breaths. Seven months since I slid from my chair onto the floor, gently caressing his gray-streaked black-and-white fur, as his spirit passed from this world to the next. Sobbing, I vowed to him and to myself that I would never get another dog . . . but now here I was, about to break that promise.

Finally, my father turned to me and asked, "It'll be nice to hear the pitter-patter of paws again, won't it?"

"Yeah," I said flatly, trying to conjure up the excitement he'd expected. But I couldn't. Tears began to roll down my cheeks. I wiped them away quickly as my father, unaware of my tenuous emotional state, continued.

"When we get there, should we make a beeline to the shih tzu puppies? I know they're your favorites."

My favorite was Buck, I thought, not his breed. Buck, my constant companion, who climbed up on my lap and, like a salve, soothed my spastic, palsied muscles in a way that no drug ever could.

"Buck is irreplaceable!" I wanted to scream, but I held back, opting for something kinder. "Breeds don't really matter. It's their heart that counts. I'll look at them all." I paused, then continued as we pulled into the parking lot, "Who knows? I may not find any and walk out empty-handed." I wanted to prepare my parents for this possibility.

"I doubt that," Dad smiled at me, as he plopped me in my chair and headed toward the building, "but we'll see."

A chorus of barks and howls heralded our arrival, as a friendly employee offered to show us the available puppies. My parents accepted, but I lagged behind, gazing at the other dogs, shimmying and shaking, pleading to be released from their four-walled prisons. I smiled, but held myself in check, determined to keep my vow.

Until . . .

Until I saw my father's face shining like the noonday sun. "Over here," he called to me.

Intrigued, my heart began to race, as I pushed toward the pen where my parents stood. Struggling to get a better look, I hoisted myself up, my legs tightening with the effort. There, nestled in the pen, were two angelic shih tzus. The male, a fluffy caramel and white pup, was gregarious and charged right at me. His smaller sister, a beautiful midnight-black-and-white puppy, was more demure, waiting for me to lean in a bit, before licking my nose. Aww, she looks like Buck, I said silently, my heart beginning to soften. Then suddenly, before I knew what was happening, my resolve toppled. I was hooked.

"Well, it looks like we won't be going home empty-handed," my mother said, as if voicing my thoughts.

"Wonderful." My father was pleased. "Which one?"

I was leaning toward the male; he was obviously the alpha and far more playful. Yet the girl was so tiny, her ebony eyes captivating and sweet.

I held them both, the male against the center of my chest, while the female lay curled in the warmth of my lap. It was nearly closing time as the male nibbled the ends of my hair, and the female slept serenely against my atrophied legs. Still, I was hopelessly undecided.

The employee, observing my deadlock, lowered his voice to a whisper and said, "Look, if I were you, I'd take the boy because the female's disabled. Her legs are deformed; she stands like a ballerina in first position."

Stunned at his insensitivity, my eyes widened. Hadn't he seen my legs or the wheelchair I sat in? I wondered.

Noticing my _expression, the employee continued, "I don't mean to upset you, but she'll need constant care. And the last thing you probably need is another pile of doctor bills."

Wanting to prove him wrong, I placed her on her feet. Instantly, her two bowed legs scissored, as she strained to keep her balance. Yet, despite her valiant effort, her tiny disabled legs faltered and she tumbled onto her side.

"See her legs cross?" he said quietly. "She's our little ballerina dog."

My eyes glistened as I listened to her tiny panting. I knew her struggle far too well. I recalled those times when I had used all my strength to stand upright - and that glorious second when I stood tall - only to come crashing down. I wanted to take her, but the employee was right: could I really afford her care?

"Okay . . . I'll take him," I said sadly.

As we were saying our good-byes to the little female, she struggled back up. Her eyes bursting with determination, she pushed her brother out of the way and then carefully placed one foot in front of the other, as she began her slow, steady ascent across my lap and up my shirt. She wobbled and stumbled but didn't stop until she rested against my heart.

Laughing and crying at the same time, I whispered, "I hear you, ballerina dog. You're coming home with me." Contented, she closed her eyes, knowing her mission was complete. We would manage whatever care she needed; it would all work out.

"Excuse me, sir," I announced loudly, "there's been a change of plans. I'm taking Ballerina Dog."

Big Problems, Little Miracles

2006-02-15T06:14:00.000-08:00

By Patricia Lorenz

My pastor called it my "midlife crisis." Personally, I think it was just string of rotten luck, including horrendous income changes, my son's poor health winging its way into its sixteenth straight month, medical bills that could choke a buffalo, bewilderment following cross words with two of my grown children, the empty-nest syndrome looming just months away when my youngest would be leaving for college eighteen hundred miles away, daily lower back pain due to lack of exercise, arguments with a woman in Texas over a book we were coauthoring and the fact that I'd only seen the sun for about twenty-six hours all winter.

Call it any old psychobabble thing you want - midlife crisis, midwinter funk, too many lifestyle changes at once, mild depression, premenopausal angst, seasonal affective disorder or simply being sick of being a single parent after twelve years. Whatever it was, the fact remained that I was not my usual cheerful self from the end of January until mid-March that year. By then my friends and family had caught on that the big-time blues had invaded my home, heart and health.

For a time, it was all I could do to barely take care of the three basics around the house: food, clothing and shelter. For about a week, during the bleakest days of all, the smallest things could reduce me to tears. I bit my lip a lot, trying to hold back tears.

One day after a job interview, I stopped at my friend Sharon's house for a cup of tea. She knew something was wrong, even though I didn't go into all the details. She hugged me, poured a second cup and tried to make me laugh. As I was leaving, Sharon noticed one of the two buttons that hold the decorative belt on the back of my winter coat was missing, causing the belt to dangle ridiculously in the back.

At that moment, during that extremely low point in my life, I honestly could not comprehend how or when I would manage to sew that button back on. Mortified, I felt hot tears sneaking into my lower lashes as I headed for the front door.

Sharon pulled open my coat at the bottom. "Hey, look here. There's an extra button sewn inside. Take your coat off and I'll sew it on for you right now."

At that moment, I felt more love and more compassion from a friend than ever before in my life. Granted, over the years, my friends have been wonderful to me, with me and for me. But this gesture, when I was at such a state emotionally, dragging so low that a missing button was about to send me over the edge, the gift of Sharon's time, her caring and intuitive knowing that I could not muster the energy to sew that button on myself, meant more to me than if someone had come to my door with a sweepstakes check.

When I got home that afternoon, I found a silly greeting card in the mail from another friend, Kay. Inside, it simply said, "I've got a hug here with your name on it." Every time I looked at that card for the next couple of weeks, I felt loved and buoyed by the light of Kay's friendship.

A few days later, on what was probably the darkest day of all, a day I seriously considered begging my doctor for a Prozac prescription, my Texas coauthor, the one I'd had arguments with as we worked on our book, sent me a "sunshine box." Little miracles of love spilled out of that box: chocolates, red silk tulips, sunflower candles, ginger-lily bath gel and three little juice boxes of pure Florida gold.

My heart melted as I noticed for the first time that day that the sun was actually shining. I took one of the juice boxes and the candy out to the deck and sat in my favorite yellow rocker in the forty-degree weather, sipping juice and basking in the glorious sunshine and in the wonderful miracle of friendship.

That sewed-on button, the hug card and the sunshine box got me through those dark days without drugs or further mental deterioration.

And when I began taking brisk half-hour walks every morning the following week, I did a lot of thinking about those friends of mine and their gifts of love. Before I knew it, I understood one of the most amazing, most profound aspects of life: God has designed the world and his people in such a way that no matter how big our problems, the smallest gesture given in love from a friend can become the biggest miracle of all.