The Evergreen Grove - Lesson Three

They still stand, just south of the middle stoplight in Pratt, America, along Highway 54, this grove of evergreen trees. Years ago, I wrote about the lesson I learned from the trees, about their glorious diversity, back when they each wore a different color of Christmas lights. And about how, even wearing different colors, in different species, and with different shapes, they all looked to the same sun for light, and how their roots, intertwined, helped them to hold each other up. About how humans could take a lesson from this grove of trees.

But things change, as things must, with the passing of time. Two of the trees are gone now, lost I think in 2001, when we lost two other towering symbols. Their circle is broken, their underground support network weakened. Two new trees, not evergreens, have been planted. And they no longer wear colorful lights; they are all now tastefully adorned with white.

We can see two kinds of lessons in these changes to the evergreen grove. On the one hand, we can say that the breaking in the circle symbolizes the breach of trust in America since 9-11, the demolishing of our invincibility, the weakening of our global leadership. The planting of new, non-evergreens could say that evergreens are out of fashion, like patriotism, responsibility for one’s actions, word bonds, or professing one’s faith, killed by political correctness. The white lights could simply mean that it’s cheaper for the city to only maintain one color of light, city-wide. Or it could stand for the homogenization of our culture, where instead of celebrating our diversity, we elevate minority viewpoints while stifling, even silencing, the majority. It could mean that we have lost America in the fashionable trend not to expect diverse groups to assimilate, but are instead encouraging them to remain separate, isolated, in their ethnic pride. It could symbolize the fact that, in much of America today, there are no wrong answers, everyone is right, no one loses, children must be passed to the next grade to preserve their self-esteem, no matter whether or not they understand what they need to know to survive in life. It could mean that it’s no longer a grove of Christmas trees, but a group of “holiday symbols.”

On the other hand, the positive hand, the grove could teach us that change is inevitable, that torches must pass to new and different generations, and that there is beauty in that passing. The gaps in the grove might tell us that, though some of them fell, the grove itself remained, roots strong, still surviving and overcoming, much like America after 9-11. The single color could mean that, in America today, or perhaps very soon, people will indeed, in the words of Martin Luther King, Jr., “be judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.” It could mean that we no longer see colors, but simply people.

The grove could teach us that both lessons are true in different ways. The America of today, six years after 9-11, is no longer solidly behind the war on terrorism. Yet, due to those terrorist attacks, we are suspicious of those different from ourselves. Economic pressures and modern life shows us in graphic ways every day that there are indeed wrong answers, there are winners and losers, and that some do fail at tasks they have attempted. Yet, America is like any family: when times are good, or at least, average, we squabble, quibble, whine and fuss. But when someone or something threatens that family, the family is as unified as a herd of musk ox, forming a circle with the weaker ones in the center and the rest of the herd facing the threat with horns and hoofs. Though we fear those different from ourselves, we take the chance to get to know them, help them if they need it, and they in turn help others. Our attitude of no wrong answers is simply a path we have taken in an attempt to overcome the law of nature that only the strong survive. Without giving Him credit, we are exemplifying, though perhaps in a flawed way, the essence of the nature of the Christian God, that He is not willing that any should perish.

That evergreen grove has been around for a long, long time. I’m sure others have gleaned wisdom from the branches, and that it will be there to teach for many years to come, even if it changes from an evergreen to a deciduous or mixed grove. And maybe that it its greatest lesson: that it endures no matter what life and humans throw at it. Lights or not, it is beautiful. Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, Ramadan—whatever holiday, it celebrates with dignity. Maybe we really do need to learn the lesson of the evergreen grove.

The Evergreen Grove - Lesson Two

Three years ago during the holiday season, I was impressed by the Christmas light-wrapped evergreen trees in what used to be called Pelican Park, just north of the swimming pool. To me that Christmas the variety of the trees and the lights called to mind and celebrated the diversity of humanity.

This year, the trees are showing me a different lesson — the fact that, despite our diversity, we all share certain commonalities, that the differences between us blur as life passes on. For instance, with the passing of time, the bulbs have faded, to the point that the pink and red are almost indistinguishable. You have to look close to tell the difference between the white and yellow, or the blue and green. As they burnt out, bulbs have been replaced on the strings of lights. When the proper colors were not available, substitutes were used. Therefore, this season, we have some white lights among the pink, some yellow among the orange, some green among the blue. This is exactly the way humans are becoming. Very few of us, especially in the melting pot we call America, are of pure heritage. In fact, some of us celebrate the diversity of our ancestors, serving the lutefisk of our Swedish heritage alongside the tamales of our Mexican forebears.

There are other blendings not so obvious. Some of us come from a farming background, but may share more of that childhood in common with a city child from Arkansas than we do with a child from today’s family corporation farm. That child may have more in common with the child of a Wall Street banker than with my father, who farmed from the twenties to the sixties. Those from around the world who are alumni of a particular school may be more similar, at least on game day, than they are to their neighbors. Single parents across the country, even across the world, share concerns that the married couple across the street will never experience. All parents, married or single, share common fears and hopes. All children, from toddlers to octogenarians, who have lost a parent feel a common loss.

And there is a deeper lesson, beyond the trappings of the now imperfect lights. Once those trees were just saplings, twenty or thirty feet apart. Now, not only have their root systems intertwined, the trees themselves touch. They are growing closer together, and they will continue to do so. As humans age, we also grow closer to those around us, if we allow ourselves to do so. As youngsters, we distrusted those different from us. They appeared different, therefore they could not be at all like me. Yet, as years go by and experiences shape us, just like the wind and rain and lightning and heavy snow shape this grove of trees, we grow closer together, no longer isolated individuals, but a cohesive group that draws shelter from our similarities and no longer fears our differences.

Just as it did three years ago, the same sun still shines on these trees, and the same Son still shines His light for all humanity. These trees still draw their nourishment from the source underground, and all humankind has the opportunity to draw on the same stream of Living Water. The Bible says that every man shall acknowledge Jesus as Lord. Until that day comes, I hope that we can all continue to grow together and find our common ground. And that is lesson two of the evergreen grove — harmony and hope.

The Lesson of the Evergreen Grove

Though this essay was first published several years ago, these trees just keep providing lessons.

They stand near a busy intersection in Pratt, America. Just north of the empty, snow-dusted swimming pool, they serve as a stepping stone in a path of parks stretching from the highway that borders the south edge of town to the capstone park adjoined by Highway 54 as it cuts Pratt in half. They must be visible from some of the hospital windows, just above them on the hill, these seven stately evergreens, each wrapped in a different color of festive lights.

As I drove past them last night, intent on just where on the racks and shelves of the busy stores I would find each item on my list, I was stopped short in my mental rush by the simple beauty of the arrangement. Each tree is unique in its own right. Though all are old and tall, some tower above the others. Some are full and round, others tall and spindly. Some cluster together, but two stand aloof at opposite ends of the grove. Some have branches that drape down, others' branches sweep upwards as if in praise. Each is a testament to the glorious diversity of evergreen trees.
Then the lights — white, yellow, red, orange, pink, green, blue. Some are spaced precisely around the trees, others splashed on with a hurried hand. The orange lights blaze out for all to see. The blue ones are so subtle, they can't be seen until night is well advanced. Together they present the same colors that make up the spectrum and the rainbow.

Shopping finished and more at peace, I drove back past the lights — and there it was. Glorious diversity. God made each of us as unique as this grove of evergreens, the tree that symbolizes the never-failing quality of His love for us. Some of us are round and full, others tall and spindly. Like the trees, some of us gather together, while others stand aloof. Some of our shoulders droop, while others of us lift our hands in praise. We are covered in many colors of skin, just as the trees wear different colors of lights. Yet each of us is a testament to the glorious diversity of the world we live in.

As this Christmas season rushes by us so fast that the bright colors begin to blur, I hope we can take the time to appreciate the world God made for us — the glorious diversity and the marvelous complexity of it. Each year near midnight on December 24, the entire world does seem to pause, to hold its breath for just a moment. Warring guns fall silent, and people around the world stop. Some give thanks that a baby was born nearly 2,000 years ago, just so He could die for us. Some people may even look heavenward, wondering when that bright star may come again.

Until it does, maybe from time to time we can remember the lesson of this grove of evergreens. Although each of them is different, they draw their nourishment from the same source underground, where their roots intertwine to help each of them stand. They all draw warmth and life-giving light from the same sun. They're not so very different from us, this grove of trees. And as they stand together to celebrate this season, their lights send a message to all of us.

I know why the old folks sleep

I know why the old folks sleep. You know what I mean. In their homes or in an “extended care facility,” they sit in their chairs or lie in their beds and nod away. When you talk to them, they are not there. They may look at you, but they do not see you. Or they close their eyes and shut you out.

They sleep because, in their sleep, they feast on crispy fried chicken — not the Colonel’s but Aunt Bessie’s or mom’s — and plump corn on the cob, fresh from their own gardens, that gushes its sweetness down their chins — and crisp, cold, juicy apples with real flavor, from the backyard tree, not the pretty but tasteless ones from the chain grocery store — and fresh blackberry cobbler from berries picked in the upper pasture that afternoon, covered with sweet cream stripped from the cow last night and chilled all day. In their sleep, they dine on these, not the bland pureed food with just enough chunks left in it to hint at what it once might have been. In their sleep, they don’t worry if the teeth fit right, or if the hand that scoops up the food can hold it steady enough to make it to the mouth.

In their sleep, they are not warehoused in small rooms, but swing lazily on front porches throughout summer afternoons so still they can hear a horsefly buzzing on the neighbor’s porch and the cries of the small boys playing sandlot baseball down the block. They sip real lemonade, made with real lemons, hand-squeezed, and they hold forth with friends and family, now long gone, in eloquent discourse that holds the wisdom of the ages. No longer do they form simple phrases (Yes, I want to sit there) that get lost somewhere on that long path from mind to tongue. There are no more unspoken good-byes, no empty promises to return soon.

As they sleep, they are no longer trapped in bodies that betray them, refuse to obey their commands, or even to feel. In their sleep, they dance balls of long ago. They Charleston, and boogie, and waltz, with partners who have all their hair and all their teeth, and who remember them fondly. They take strolls through the park, down by the river, and up Main Street. They work hard at tasks they perform with efficiency: baking bread, raking a garden, pitching hay, milking cows, mending socks, hanging laundry, running a lathe. They make a difference, build a country. They laugh and love and live.

Yes, I know why the old folks sleep. In their place, I would sleep, too. And when I do, I hope that no one wakes me but lets me dream, and wonders where I go, until I go to where my dreams are not dreams, but eternity.

Tribute to a great man and writer, my fiance Charles Durham

Charles Edward Durham was – is – without a doubt the most extraordinary man I have ever met. He often lamented that we had not met earlier, yet had we crossed paths twenty, ten or even as little as five years ago, we might not have liked the people we were then. We meshed when we did because we had made mistakes in our lives and learned from them. We had walked through fire and been tempered in the flames. No one who truly lives avoids mistakes, and Charles lived more deeply and enthusiastically than most people.

Author of The Last Exile, Walk in the Light, Temptation—Help for Struggling Christians, and When You Are Feeling Lonely as well as unfinished manuscripts; minister to many congregations; editor; gunsmith; artist; historical reenactor; teacher; outdoorsman; philosopher: Charles was a man who fully experienced his life. He backpacked around Scotland while visiting daughter Rebekah, sailed with friends along the Pacific coast, spent months living in an isolated cabin writing a novel. When he began editing for iUniverse, he drove to Lincoln to meet the staff, so he could put faces to the voices he spoke with on the phone.

He was a man who saw no incongruity in a bookshelf lined with Dostoyevsky, Faulkner, Cather and Calvin and Hobbes. Theological and psychological treatises shared space with the Time-Life Seafarers series. The gentle man who frowned at me for smashing a spider on the furniture went upland hunting last fall with his brother, a time they both clearly treasured. He continually preached and practiced loving-kindness, but slept with a pistol under his pillow (he was, after all, born in Texas). He not only did scrimshaw and wood carvings, he built rifles and pistols that were works of art. He professed an inability to cook, yet devised his own version of tuna salad that was an organic health food party. He read 14^th Century Middle Eastern poets and cried at movies, but he was the most manly man I ever encountered. He told his grandsons they could drink milk straight from the jug at the cabin as there were no women around. Because of his insatiable curiosity, he understood at least a little bit about a lot of subjects, often learned just by asking questions and letting people talk. He blended these apparent contradictions and this broad knowledge into a ministry that could relate to anyone, and he listened with true interest to everyone he came in contact with.

Dating Charles was an adventure that took us to a cemetery, where he quoted Poe’s “Annabel Lee” before crumbling mausoleums. We visited ice-coated wind generators, a Greek Orthodox cathedral and the foot of the Keeper of the Plains in a snowstorm. We took an outing to Clark County Lake and got hit by a deer. We even did dinner and a movie out—once. We discovered diverse tastes in books and music. He liked Sinatra and Jimmy Durante, while I preferred 70’s rock and modern country, but found common ground in Gordon Lightfoot, Neil Diamond, and Barbra Steisand. I liked TV; he liked NPR. Yet the last time we listened to “Prairie Home Companion,” the musical guest was country artist Brad Paisley, and, trapped, he listened to “I’m Still a Guy.” He read everything, usually several books at once. I did the same, but leaned toward science fiction. He quoted both Islamic poet Rumi and Edgar Allen Poe. We both loved Tony Hillerman and Poe, but because of my comments about one of my all-time favorite books, he began listening to the audio version of Dune. We loved many of the same movies, and both enjoyed the miniseries Centennial. We never got the chance to go sailing, canoeing, camping, shooting or even traveling together, but were, to the last time we spent together, making plans for our future.

Disease is no respecter of persons. If it was, my enemies would be pushing up daisies now, and the people dearest to me would enjoy perfect health. Instead, disease prowls like a lion, picking its prey purely by chance. But God does not grant grace by chance. What the devil would intend to destroy, God uses for all manner of good purposes. The refining process of affliction brings precious metal (and mettle) to the surface. And in the mirror of the molten soul, we see God reflected. I saw this in Charles.

I was with him in the hospital room when the diagnosis came—acute myelogenous leukemia. While he sat trying to assimilate the news, he tasked me with calling his eldest son and daughter and his brother, not exactly the best way to introduce myself to the family. Yet, they couldn’t have been more gracious to me, due I suspect in part to the influence of their father and brother. Then, as he asked for time alone, I began the calls to my support network—my children, my friends and prayer partners, my bosses. I shed some tears and let the fear roll over me: after waiting a lifetime to find a love that was absolutely RIGHT, I might lose him. My kids and friends mobilized every prayer network they were involved in, as did Charles’ family and friends. Our support network promised, as did Jesus, not a perfect outcome, but that they would be there with us through this.

When he asked the doctor about his options, Dr. Dakhil cut to the chase. “You can fight or you can fold. Those are your choices.” Charles asked for time to make his decision. For nearly 24 hours he struggled with the choice. On the one hand, he said he was only a year short of his three-score and ten, and he had had a good life. He said the last couple of years had been the happiest of his life. He dreaded pain and discomfort. On the other hand, he felt he was doing a great deal of good and making a difference in the world where he was now. He did truly love his life as it stood at that moment. He chose to fight, though he was prepared if it went the other way.

About half of our relationship was spent in the hospital. That’s where I learned the true depth of this man’s character. In the movie Hitch, which we watched there one evening, Hitch tells a woman that there are two kinds of people in the world. One walks into a room and says, “Here I am!” The other enters a room and says, “There you are.” Charles was definitely the “there you are” kind of man. He tried to learn the names of all of the staff, from housekeeping to nursing, who entered his hospital room, and asked them what kind of day they were having. He hated to trouble any of the staff for the milkshakes he liked so well, but they always reassured him it was no trouble. He was clearly the favorite of many of the staff. Though he denied it, I called him “nurses’ pet.”

When I had to leave him at the hospital, I felt like I had abandoned my puppy at the pound, those soulful puppy eyes following me to the door. And when I returned and our eyes met, time stopped for a heartbeat and both of us breathed a long, satisfied “Ahhh” in our souls, as if we’d just had a thirst-quenching draught of cool spring water, and all was in place in the universe once more.

One afternoon during his last hospitalization, he mentioned he was tired and wanted a nap. I agreed it sounded like a good idea, so I stretched out in the recliner beside his bed. When I awoke an hour or so later, the setting sun would have been in my eyes, except for the fact that he had gathered his blankets in his hand and rested his hand on “Matilda,” the IV pole he often had to waltz with, so that the blanket shaded my face. That’s just the kind of sacrificial love he showed every day.

Every day I learned from Charles how better to treat people. When visitors would come into his room or his house to cheer him, he usually ended up ministering to them. During his battle with leukemia, friends came out of the woodwork to contact him, from high school classmates to people he had only met during his hospital stay. Pastors from several churches came to visit regularly. He had a way of bringing people together who would ordinarily not interact, and making them all the better for it.

Charles was probably the most humble man I ever met. It was months into his membership in our writing group before we found out he had published a successful novel, and months after that before we heard about the second. I didn’t learn until after we began dating that he had also published two non-fiction books. He showed me some photos from reenactments in which he participated, and finally admitted that he won some shooting contests. Evidently, he was not only a wonderful gunsmith, but also an expert marksman. But the most telling example of his humility came one afternoon when he surveyed the plethora of cards and photos on his windowsill, the books and movies that had been sent to him, and tears filled his eyes (not an uncommon thing with Charles). He worried that he had fooled people somehow into believing he was a better person than he thought he was. I told him then that we should never think better of ourselves than other people do, because to do so would be to commit the sin of pride, but that all of these people genuinely loved him, because of the kind of man he was. He hadn’t fooled anyone.

He said, early on in his battle, that he wasn’t afraid of dying, that in fact he was looking forward to the next part of the adventure. His only regret was the pain those he left behind would feel. I don’t think any man ever loved his children and grandchildren more than Charles loved his family. First Corinthians 13 says: If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but I have not love, I am nothing. By this standard, Charles had everything, for he had love for all God’s creation, most especially the people in it.

The last sermon he preached, on Palm Sunday, was one of his best. In it, he talked about how we are only tested over unacceptable circumstances. If they were acceptable, it wouldn’t be a test. He also mentioned the fact that he needed to learn to “offer up” his illness. I asked him to copy that sermon for me on a thumb drive, then forwarded it to my kids. My son’s girlfriend Kim, who is herself facing a test over unacceptable circumstances, had this observation of the sermon:

I also think that even though they are unacceptable, they may still be overcomeable. In my eyes, Charles lost his battle to leukemia, but still overcame the situation. He did learn how to "offer it up," and that is why I believe he is enjoying his great adventure and watching you very closely to ensure that you learn the same.

Several times over the past two months, Charles urged me to abandon him, cut my losses and walk away. I told him then, that whether he passed that day, in a month or twenty years from that day, it was too late: he would leave a hole in my heart that would never fill. Had we had another year, another ten, or even fifty, it would never have been enough. I would have wanted more time with him. I treasure every second I had with him, and hope that what I learned from loving him will continue to make me a better person.>

Charles often made fun of my fondness for country music, yet he was continually surprised by the appropriate truisms I quoted from popular songs. And somehow, I think both of us knew at the beginning that the odds were against us having much future together. Had I known six months ago that things would have ended this way, I hope I would have had the wisdom not to change my choices. In the words of Garth Brooks’ “The Dance:”

Looking back on the memory of

The dance we shared ‘neath the stars above.

For a moment, all the world was right.
How could I have known that you’d ever say goodbye.



And now, I’m glad I didn’t know

The way it all would end, the way it all would go.

Our lives are better left to chance. I could have missed the pain

But I’d have had to miss the dance.

Jesus Wept

“Jesus wept.” The shortest sentence in the Bible is perhaps the most telling. Before the tomb of Lazarus, His beloved friend, whose fellowship He missed, in the face of the grief of Lazarus’ sisters and other friends, looking into the hopeful eyes of the sisters whose faith also reproached Him (“Lord,” Martha said, “if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” John 11:21, NIV), Jesus faced a choice, a turning point in His ministry. He knew, from having lived there from the beginning, what joy Lazarus now felt in heaven, at the right hand of God. He also knew, being fully human, the depth of the pain His friends who remained on earth felt at their loss. He knew, then, how deeply those He left behind on the cross would mourn Him.

Yet, it was ordained also from the beginning that through Jesus, God would show that He had the ultimate power over life and death, that both were parts of the realm He created. In summoning Lazarus forth from the tomb, Jesus foretold that death was no longer the end, that those who believe would have life everlasting.

This came home to me with aching clarity today, as I continued to mourn the loss of my fiancé, my lover, my partner, my mentor, my playmate, my pastor, my traveling companion, my sounding board, my best friend—in short, the mirror that reflected everything that represented the best part of me. I don’t begrudge him the place he is now. The events of the past month—earthquakes, floods, tornadoes, genocide, abuse, murder—all would have grieved him to the depths of his soul. He said he was weary of the sorrows of this world, so was ready to go on. He was facing pain, suffering, the diminution of all that he was as a vital human being. Now he can chat with Einstein about the properties of time that so absorbed him, have tea with Lewis and Tolkien, listen to Rumi compose new poems, hear Sinatra live. He walks now with Jesus; who could want to take him away from that?

Still, I am faced with continuing, with picking up what’s left of me (our hearts had become so entangled that part of me went with him and part of him remained with me), traveling onward to find meaning in the metamorphosis I underwent during the long journey we shared in such a short span of time. In his own words, that now apply equally to me, “You have changed me. I’m headed to a different place. I will be something other than what I was going to be.” I feel that somehow he passed a charge on to me, changing me forever, and now I have to understand what to do with it. I can’t be the minister/philosopher that he was, because we come from different experiences, yet I can’t remain the person I was before him. So I read the words he wrote and the books he read, listen to stories about him, and reflect on my memories of him. In this way, he continues to teach me, if I am open to learn.

The other night, an unusually bright moon cast its reflected light over the earth. I noticed it as I took items for the next day out to my van. Because he had slowed me down and taught me to experience the NOW, I stopped to absorb the experience. I walked from under the obscuring trees to the end of the street. Clouds tried to blockade that brilliant orb from view, but they couldn’t form a cohesive enough mass to stop the glow. Instead the clouds formed a gauzy curtain that added to the scene with their inky centers and silvered edges. “Oh, honey,” I whispered, remembering his fascination with the phases of the moon, with the primordial rhythms of the earth. “Can you see this?” As I stood there, with the stop sign blocking the streetlight’s glare, the thought suddenly hit me. “What does this look like from your side?”

I have faith, albeit the size of a mustard seed, and I have prayed that God would strengthen it. So I asked God one night, “Lord, you have the power over life and death. You brought Lazarus back. How about now? Could I get a do-over, could we back up to where the doctor came out of ER and have him say ‘We relieved the pressure on his brain and he should recover fully,’ or ‘We’ve moved him to ICU, he’s conscious and you can see him now,’ anything except ‘he went into cardiac arrest and efforts to resuscitate were unsuccessful.’ Could you bring him back to me?” And yet, because of my faith, I acknowledged submission to His will. What I got was that Lazarus was a one-time deal, proof to those of us with imperfect faith that what He did for Jesus, He will do for us, too. And on that day, I’ll see my beloved again, and we’ll have eternity to explore the cosmos holding hands and taking joy in the being together. Until then, I have work yet to do. Lord, give me the wisdom to find it and the strength to complete it.

What I Write

I vividly remember when I first considered writing. I was less than five years old, galloping about our yard at the farm, probably pretending to lead a cavalry charge or round up a stampede. On one of the few unbroken limestone slabs that made up our sidewalk, I paused and turned to face the east, where the yard sloped into a grove of evergreens that led to our garden and the highway. I focused on something far beyond the highway, past the hay meadow and the locust-forested pasture. “Maybe I should write books,” I thought. “Someone has to.” I pondered this momentous choice for a while. Then I decided that it would be more logical for people who could read to write books, and galloped off again. However, I took up writing, as many people do, in my teens. As the years passed and life in the form of marriage and children intervened, I tried repeatedly to give up writing, but it would not give me up.

With over twenty years working for a cabinet-level agency, I have observed politics from the inside, on both the personal and public level. Some of those observations have been threaded into my writing.

Those experiences, along with my curiosity about human motivation, weave the tapestry that has become More Than a Point of Honor, my first published novel, available at http://www.lulu.com/content/1254170. Honor is a novel of personal and political suspense, with a twist. When his wife dies in his arms during a terrorist attack, American diplomat Richard Matthews walks away from diplomacy vowing to bring to justice the man responsible for her death. His quest pits him against the man in charge of CIA field operations, Robert Adler. The stakes rise as Richard gets closer to finding a witness who will testify, and Adler plants rookie Terra McIntyre to serve as Richard’s assistant. But like black market nitroglycerin, Terra is a volatile unknown quantity. To which man will Terra prove most dangerous? Or is she a hazard to both of them?

Honor is just the first novel to appear; watch for The Judas Seat, its sequel. I’m plotting the next in the series, as well as working on a couple of other novels with different characters, locales and situations. Also on here, I'll post blogs that reflect my observations on life. I'm a divorced parent, a Christian, and deeply interested in the way the world works. My fiancé recently passed away, and coming to terms with losing him has taken me into some deep places. Check out my website (www.myspace.com/katherinepritchett) for the most up to date information about my projects.

Thank you for reading my work. God willing, we’ll have lots more stories to share.