To know when to push in and not take no for an answer

I was reading on my chaise lounge when a fly landed on my knee. I swiped him away. He buzzed in a circle for a few inches and returned there again. When I shooed him off the second time, the same thing happened. It was repeated for about five or six times. I said, "You silly wally. What a pea-brain." No, he was smaller than a pea himself, so it would have to be a dot-brain. "What will it take to make you realise that it would be better to land anywhere but there?"

That got me thinking how human beings can be similar to flies sometimes, going around the same dead-ends repeatedly. I picked up my notebook and jotted some ideas about how we tend to make the same mistakes until it dawns on us that it's time to change, similar in our actions to a dumb housefly whose memory is only a split second. Why else have people written sayings such as, When you do what you always do, you'll get what you've always got? I wondered whether celestial beings are inclined to shake their heads while watching us, just as I did with the fly.

When I finished, I looked up and noticed that fly was back on my knee again. As far I'd knew, he'd been there ever since I got sidetracked with writing. I shooed him away but this time, I knew the joke was on me. Here I'd been, writing about his stupidity, and he'd got his way for far longer than I'd intended. Maybe he'd just taught me something about the power of persistence and focus.

For whatever reason, he'd decided that my knee was the best place in the whole room to be, and nothing was going to deflect him from his goal. He didn't go off all depressed and decide to settle for second best. He gave no signs of feeling sorry for himself and thinking that circumstances and providence were pitted against him. For all I knew, he might have been calling me a silly wally.

So as there's wisdom for both points of view, how do we know when to pursue something and when to stop? You can't flog a dead horse holds just as true in some circumstances as Hold fast to your dreams and never give up does in others. That's been a question that's frustrated me, but I'm sure being buffeted by waves of circumstances has taught me something I never used to know. When we do our bit, making an effort to stick close to God through prayer and studying His words and precepts in the Bible, He finds it easier to reveal His plans for us through the promises He's made for His followers for all eternity, which are recorded in His book, and through the gut instincts and promptings we get from our own hearts. Many who are saturated in the Christian tradition call this the guidance and leadings of the Holy Spirit, although you often hear it expressed as intuition, hunches and gut feelings too. When we have clear declarations to the effect that God is going to keep the covenant He's made with us, that's when we need to get a clear idea of what those covenant promises are and push in, sticking to them and expecting them, just as that fly did to my knee.

My history of faint-heartedness and timidity has sometimes disqualified me for receiving the promises because I simply haven't persisted. If I'd been the man who knocked on his friend's door at midnight, asking for bread for my guests, and he told me to go away, I would have slunk off with my tail between my legs thinking, "If only I'd got here before they all went to bed." If I'd been the widow who wanted justice, I would've taken just one scolding from that old curmudgeonly judge and thought, "This is definitely not going to work." If I'd been one of the fellows who carried their paralysed friend on his stretcher to see Jesus, I would've taken one look at that crowd and said, "We didn't get here early enough." I've been quick to acknowledge closed doors without even attempting to give the handle a bit of a twist and a rattle.

Two of my faith heroes are elderly people who lived in the vicinity of Jerusalem's great temple. One was a devout old man named Simeon who had a revelation that he wouldn't die before he'd seen the promised Saviour in person. There was also an old prophetess named Anna, who'd been widowed for 84 years and now lived in the temple vicinity, devoting her life to seeking God's will in prayer. When Joseph and Mary brought in the tiny baby Jesus, both Simeon and Anna recognised instantly who He was. In their expressions of joy at the sudden blessing they were witnessing, they, in turn, blessed Joseph and Mary (Luke 2).

What really grabs me about these two is how persistent they must have been in their prayers and expectation. Jesus was little more than newly born, yet Simeon and Anna had been awaiting his arrival for decades. She'd probably been living her devout routine at the temple for over 60 years. Like that fly, they'd returned to the same place over and over, fueled by their inner certainty that their prayers for the Saviour's arrival would be answered. After a mere 30 or 40 years of praying and hoping, they didn't just shrug and say, "Oh, well, that hasn't happened. There might be some mistake."

But unlike the fly (well, as far as I can tell), they had solid reasons to believe that their persistence would yield its reward. They had the promises of Scripture recorded with words, and Simeon had his personal revelation to support it. We have promises in Scripture recorded with words too. Knowing that's true, I love to figure out what's definitely promised to me and press in for it, even when it seems I'm getting shooed away.
 

That we can honour by remembering

Tonight, I was reading through some genealogy research I'd typed out for my dad several years ago. There is a long and interesting section about his father's experience in the First World War. Charlie Mitchell was born in 1892. He was nicknamed 'Red' because of his bright hair colour. My father, Bryon, is his second youngest child, born in 1932. I am the youngest of the next generation, born in the very last week of 1969. I'm proud to have had a grandfather serve his country in WW1, although he and my grandma both died in the 1960s before I was born.

The true story of Red Mitchell's war experience begins when he left Adelaide, just before Christmas, 1915, with the expectation that he and his fellow soldiers would reinforce the ANZACs on the beach of Gallipoli. It turned out their battalion evacuated Gallipoli one week earlier, so they joined them at Alexandria, Egypt. Next, they joined the trench warfare in France.

Typing it out brought the hardships vividly to life. My grandfather was one of the brigade runners, whose job it was to sprint and deliver messages between trenches, the sort of thing we now use electronic communication for. Running at top speed while trying to breathe through a gas mask took its toll on him, and he suffered from rhinitis, which was severe inflammation of the mucous membrane. At one time, he was severely shell shocked while running, and couldn't avoid breathing in a lungful of chlorine gas. He never recovered his sense of smell for the rest of his life.

Dad's story describes how the soldiers lived with deafening and unceasing shell fire, unable to get any quality sleep. They had to march through muddy trenches, after weeks of downpour. The boggy ground sucked their gumboots off and seeped through to their skin. Whenever anybody peeled off his boot to examine his chafed feet, it was almost impossible to wriggle them on again. 'Trench foot' was the most common condition treated by the medicos.

I think my extended family still has an old postcard, sent from Charlie Mitchell to his mother in Adelaide, telling her that they were soon expecting to go to the front line but for her not to worry.


Here is one of my favourite parts. One day, Red Mitchell and a mate were walking in the vicinity of a German prison camp and heard wild cheering and singing from the captives within the walls. They popped into a bistro in the nearest village to learn that the War was declared over. Something about both sides being united in their happiness and relief touches me.

Throughout my life, I've had moments of being a worrier and control freak. Reading this brought something home to me. If I'd been conscious somewhere in 1915 to 1918 to witness how many times my grandfather's life had been at risk, I might have panicked about never being born. As it all worked out without my input, I find it a good reminder to entrust other aspects of my life to God too.

Still, I think of the young soldiers in several wars who made the ultimate sacrifice and never returned home to have children. In the 1970s, when I was a little girl watching the ANZAC march in Adelaide, there were still a number of frail old diggers from the first World War, as well as a pretty large number from World War 2. My mother would always cry.

Having all this at my fingertips really makes me want to try writing a story in the form of a novel about this time period, but I haven't mustered the confidence yet. I believe we do honourably to remember those brave men and the women they left at home, who all sacrificed so much, enabling us to live safely in our beautiful country. I'm probably going off to our local Dawn Service at 6.30am tomorrow morning. Will you do the same? And if you want more food for thought, why not get hold of a copy of "The Greenfield Legacy", the novel I co-wrote with my friends Meredith Resce, Amanda Deed and Rose Dee. It has a strong ANZAC theme running through it, as one of our pivotal characters won the dubious 'lottery' making it compulsory for him to serve in the Vietnam War. We consider it our tribute to those soldiers. When I think of the spirit of Australia, still a reasonably new nation at the time of WW1, rising to the serious occasion, I feel very proud.

Why Jesus didn't speak a word

A careful comparing of all four Gospels is needed to figure out the order of what happened to Jesus from the moment he was arrested in the Garden of Gethsemane to when he died on the Cross. Matthew, Mark, Luke and John don't highlight all the same details but we can piece it together with some detective work.

It seems Jesus was brought first to the household of Annas, the father-in-law of Caiaphas, that year's high priest (John). Annas referred the case on to his son-in-law, and after some questioning and severe beating by the people, Caiaphas had Jesus turned over to Pilate, the Roman Governor. Pilate, suspecting that the charges were trumped up and Jesus had done nothing wrong, tried to free him. When he found out that Jesus was from Galilee, he tried to pass the responsibility on to Herod, saying that Jesus was under Herod's jurisdiction (Luke).

Luke goes on to say that Herod was delighted to have Jesus stand before him as he'd been curious to see him perform a miracle for a long time. Yet when he fired a barrage of questions at him, Jesus said nothing. Herod and his soldiers got tired of that, so after dressing him in a kingly robe and making fun of him, they sent him back to Pilate. At this point, Pilate once again tried to free him, but when the people behaved as if they were ready to start a riot, he decided to give the crowd what they demanded.

When I used to read Luke's account of the events, I wondered why Jesus refused to reply to Herod. As a young person, I assumed there must have been a touch of insolence there, some bravado like a schoolboy being called before the principal, whose only comeback is to sullenly clam up and ignore questions. But one day, in a book about God's favour, I came across an explanation which is completely different. Perhaps Jesus didn't speak because he was so powerful and full of so much favour from God that if he'd opened his mouth, he might have prevented himself from being crucified. The fact that the words we speak are surprisingly powerful has been in the media a lot recently, from both secular and spiritual sources. If this is the case, imagine the possible effect of any words from Jesus declaring his identity and innocence.

In Exodus, when Moses dared ask God's name, the Lord replied, 'Tell them I AM sent you.' That was always a confusing, bothersome scripture for me. What sort of a crazy name is that? Yet when the soldiers in the Garden said that they were looking for Jesus from Nazareth, he responded simply with the same words, 'I am he,' and it was enough to make the soldiers keel over with his power (John). It amazes me that they still had the audacity to take him before the high priest after that. I would have stuttered, 'Sorry sir, I think we got the wrong person,' and run away.

It does make sense that because Jesus knew his time had come, keeping quiet in Herod's court was to help make sure that God's plan was fulfilled. He had many chances to get out of the situation before. He'd always operated under God's favour and now was no different. He didn't have to be in Jerusalem at that time, he surely could have escaped in the Garden when the soldiers fell backwards, and Pilate was willing to let him go. Even Pilate's wife had a revelation in a dream that Jesus was an innocent man and sent a messenger to her husband, warning him not to harm Jesus (Matthew). Any ideas of Jesus as a victim and underdog I retained had to go. All the time, he was master of the whole situation and chose to face the Cross for us, when he could have got himself free at any time.

Many people understand that when Jesus died on the Cross as our sin substitute, part of the benefit for us is having our sin cleared away and forgiven when we look to him, because he willingly took our punishment. It follows that when God looks at us, he sees people who he regards just like his son, Jesus, because we've been cleansed from our sins. We're like the adopted siblings of Jesus and he's like our big brother. The Bible also calls us joint heirs of the kingdom of heaven. One of the most exciting parts of the Easter story for me is that as adopted children and joint heirs with Jesus, we may experience similar favour to that which he could've used to prevent him going to the Cross at all. Amazing! We don't need to think of ourselves as sinners, worms, hopeless cases, underdogs or losers either. Each Easter reminds me to act like it.

Our new position is what inspired Jesus, when risen, to assure us that we'd be able to do similar things to those he was recorded doing, and tell us to go everywhere in the world telling the Good News to everyone.

Have a blessed Easter, everyone.

People can do as they please with our gifts

Next week is my youngest son's ninth birthday and we've been wrapping presents, which he's been shaking and trying to guess. Every Christmas or significant birthday, I've faced the challenge of trying to match gifts with people who will love them. I like to think they will find my presents valuable or useful and not be disappointed. Don't we all prefer to think that our presents are being used and loved rather than sitting, forgotten, in the back of some cupboard or drawer? But protocol demands that when we give a gift, it's out of our hands and we must leave it to the recipient to decide what to do with it.

Years ago I got into some friction with my mum which started when she offered to give me back a present I'd given her so that I could give it to my mother-in-law instead. I protested that I gave it to her, thought she'd like it and didn't want it back. She said she was only trying to help and then got offended and didn't talk to me for some time. I regretted opening my mouth and it made me more determined than ever to remember that what other people do with presents I give them is their own business. If we find the perfect centrepiece for somebody's hall stand and then they don't choose to put it there, we can't march over and demand that they do. Once it's wrapped and handed to them, it's out of our control.

Well, why should it be any different with gifts we give to God? Many of us have heard it said that God gives us our passions and talents and what we do with them is our gift back to Him. In my case, I like the notion that writing novels isn't just amusing myself and others but giving a gift back to God. But it struck me that some of the angst I go through may stem back to this whole thing about gift giving. Am I treating God with the same protocol I'd treat anybody else I gave a gift to? Or am I getting my nose out of joint because I really want Him to use it a particular way?

Perhaps I catch myself thinking like this. If I give God my writing, I consider it a good gift which includes time, imagination and skill in crafting words and telling stories. It also covers the sacrifice of possible money I would have earned doing something else instead. So I expect Him to take it and make sure lots of people read it, recommend it to their friends and that I'll get plenty of good feedback. I also like to think that He'll wrangle things so I can earn enough money from it to support my family and even get to take them on little holidays from time to time. I want Him to help set up articles and speaking engagements. I look at the lifestyles of other authors and notice that this seems to be the way He's used their gifts. That's how He's supposed to use a writing gift, isn't it?

But no, God, like anyone else, has a perfect right to leave my gift at the back of His cupboard if He wants to. What applies to other people must also apply to Him. It's my inconsistency that makes me sad. A vase may be put on the hall stand for show where many people can see it, or it may be used in the recipient's own private retreat to be used only by them. In the same way, a gift of writing may be used by God to impact millions, or perhaps just thousands, hundreds or even tens.

If you're like me, you chafe at the idea of being tossed to the back of a cupboard and forgotten about. Imagine somebody taking out your gift and saying, "I forgot all about this. I totally would've been using it if I remember I had it." Over the years, I wonder if I've had some vague, unconscious idea that this is what it may have been like with my writing in God's celestial drawer?

Bringing these feelings to light shows up some ridiculousness about them. It helps to remember the nature of this particular recipient, who has promised that He's numbered all the hairs on our heads, that He'll never forget about any of us, that there's nowhere we can hide from Him, no matter how fast or far we may try to run. He is closer than our next breath and living deep in our hearts. Thankfully, this is where He differs from any normal gift recipient. His drawers don't contain darkness and cobwebs. He is responsible and dependable with what we give Him, because He gave it to us in the first place. And that needs to be enough for us. All we need to worry about is being good stewards of our gifts and using them to the best of our abilities, trusting Him to illuminate what we don't know every step of the way. We need to rely on His promise that He doesn't give gifts for nothing and will certainly make sure our gift are put to perfect use.

We may be too close to catch the spiritual fragrance of our lives

My daughter, Emma, asked me, 'If you could change just one aspect of your face, what would you choose?'

I really couldn't think of anything straight off. No single feature seemed to stand out as needing a change. There was nothing I'd put myself through the rigors of botox or plastic surgery for, anyway. Eyes OK, nose, check, cheeks, no problems, mouth and chin fine. I wouldn't mind reducing the sheer size of my skull but that wasn't what she was getting at. It was a surprising exercise that raised another question. If I can't find any major problem, why do I pass other women and think, "I wish I looked like her"? Could it be that I'm just overly familiar with my own face.

Is the concept of longing for greener pastures such a powerful syndrome? When I was a teenager living down near the beach, I loved the Adelaide Hills because I thought they looked like picture postcards from some storybook. I suppose they still do, but that doesn't stop me wanting to be elsewhere now that I've lived here since I was 18. The Italian countryside, America, European castles, the Great Wall of China, tropical islands up Queensland's coast, I'd be at any of those places in a flash if I had the chance.

Where do we draw the line and just be content? I sometimes find myself battling a sort of restlessness and guilt that I'm not different and feeling that I ought to be. There's a deep angst that I don't measure up to what others would probably be like in my place. Yet I did a similar sort of exercise to when Emma asked what part of my face I'd change. Once again, it was hard to put my finger on anything that may need a radical overhaul.

I love my family, work hard, and know I must have a sense of humour because it often gets tickled. I don't like the ill-at-ease feeling I sometimes get during one-on-one social situations, but as I try to cover up, I really shouldn't beat myself up over that one. I must be empathetic, because anyone without that quality probably couldn't pull off writing the sorts of books I do. What is it then? What is the quality I lack that causes this restlessness? Do you ever have similar feelings?

Could it be that we can all relate to the story of the boy who wanted more than anything to visit the shiny, palatial dwelling around the other side of the lake from where he lived? One day he set off on an expedition to get a close look. When he arrived, he was perplexed to find that it was just a normal looking place with weeds in its courtyard and a bit of salt damp in its bricks. And it didn't shine at all.

Suddenly, a girl who lived inside came out to greet him. While they were chatting, she pointed across the lake and said, "I'd love to know who's lucky enough to live in that fantastic looking place." The boy was amazed to see that she was pointing straight at his house, shining in the early sunset.

My son, Blake and I enjoy going on night walks around our neighbourhood. Near our last house is a huge mound of pine chips. He likes running up and down where there are grooves from the feet of other kids. I like getting several hundred yards away from it and then taking a deep breath of the pine-scented breeze. It doesn't seem as strong closer up. Maybe it's the same with life in general. We don't necessarily notice the goodness when we're living with or through anything, because we're too close to catch its real spiritual fragrance.

That's why we hear stories of elderly women who tell harried mothers of toddlers to remember to appreciate and enjoy every moment. Also, why I've sometimes been away for a couple of weeks, or even just a weekend, and then returned home with a renewed appreciation for my environment. Whenever I've finished writing a book and all the editing has been done, I like to wait a bit of time and then read the pages with fresh eyes as if I'm a brand new reader.

Maybe taking some distance to survey our familiar things really works. I've heard advice to list our blessings as if we're somebody else. Not a bad idea.

Maybe I'm being pruned

The start of 2013 has been one of pruning for me.  I don't feel I have many leaves fluttering in the breeze right now, let alone fruit dangling from my boughs.

Shortly before Christmas, we had a surprise call from our Real Estate agent telling us that our landlords decided not to renew our lease. Their son had decided he wanted to move in. This was a blow as we'd only been living in the picture-postcard house for eight months. Back when we first went through, I made a point to ask whether they were looking for long-term tenants. "Yes, they are." The owner lived overseas and her partner lived interstate. It seemed perfect and we all loved the house. It incorporated 2-storeys, a huge spa bath, lots of cupboard space and a restful blue colour scheme. I'd had great fun showing people through and saying, "Yep, this is our mansion." Now, as we started looking for other rental properties, I was learning how foolish it was of me to be so proud of something that had never belonged to me. Having a grueling house move so recently behind us, breaking our old lease and losing money was all heartbreaking.

Hey, I've been going around saying how our prayers have been answered, that even though we weren't actively looking for a new house, this just came up out the blue, we're blessed and serendipitous things are happening. Now, as well as being homeless, I feel like a total doofus.

About the same time, early January, there was an email from my publisher reiterating things we couldn't help knowing already, that Australian Christian fiction sales are slow and even though we're all doing our very best, we're all pouring in and getting not much to show for it. I remember sitting there reading it, straight after coming back from walking through yet another potential change of address, thinking, OK, I might as well face this too. I'd better stop kidding myself that book sales will some day shoot through the roof. That's what I've been hoping for over a decade and I might have been better working some office job.

I avoided blogging and social media because I didn't want to come across as wallowing in self-pity, even though I was. Social media, I've found, is like the surface of a pond. When you stop putting things in, the ripples subside as if you had never been working your butt off. So I felt isolated as well as foolish. At the same time, my eldest son came to the end of his homeschooling journey and couldn't figure out whether he ought to accept a TAFE or University offer and I felt clueless about how to advise him. My identity as the wise, homeschooling mum who always knows the best advice to give was out of the window too. I felt demoralised and drained. There was no money, not even enough for a lousy take-away. The ripple effect of self pity was still going strong, anyway.

It occurred to me to begin wondering why this stripping away seemed to be happening all at once. I sensed that maybe, if I'd been setting my worth on all that fruit and foliage, it was placed where it shouldn't be.

OK, I've got to accept that I'm still the same person as when things seem to be going well. I've got to remind myself that God loves me for who I am, not for what I do or what happens to me. Am I actually going through a pruning stage like that vine in the New Testament?

Then I begin seeing, maybe it's a favour, in a way. People who get to keep all their status symbols may be like urbanites who have their view of the galaxy obscured by the city skyline. At this stage of 2013, I feel I have nothing to stand behind at all. What you see is what you get. I must stop worrying over what people think, how I'm perceived. Must stop trying to meet higher standards. Maybe when your trappings are pruned back, the simplicity of merely living in the knowledge that God loves you no matter what, may be all we need. It may allow me to move from the city smog and draw a deep, fresh breath. Galatians 6:4 tells us not to be impressed with ourselves. Well, maybe God was making sure I could not be impressed with myself.

What am I finding when it's all pared back? That family are most important. That it doesn't really matter where we live, because we're still having fun times in the house we've just moved into. That even though I'm aware of the lowly position Aussie Christian fiction holds compared to other literature, I still want to spend slabs of time doing it. I still have a sense of purpose about it, even though it's hard and probably won't ever earn me status or wealth as I'd once dared to hope. It's still my chosen pursuit in spite of the lack of trappings. Giving yourself wholeheartedly to the task closest to your heart is valuable.

Maybe these are worthwhile sorts of thing to find when you're pruned.  And at times like this, I guess we shouldn't forget the real purpose of being pruned is to bear more fruit at some later time.

The Next Big Thing

The Next Big Thing is a blog chain for writers and artists linking together and talking about their current projects. It gives you, the reader, a chance to discover great writers and their work you may not have heard of before. I was delighted a few weeks ago when my friend, Jeanette O'Hagan invited me to participate. The concept is simple: each creator gets a chance to share a bit about their latest project (new release, completed book or works in progress). The opportunity is paid forward to another blogger or group of bloggers who likewise post about their next best thing in exactly one week’s time, January 16th, 2013.
Check out Jeanette's blog, http://jennysthread.com/the-next-big-thing-blog-hop/ and the fascinating fantasy/adventure trilogy she has been hard at work on. Her "Arkad's Children" sounds like something I'd really love to read.

Anyway, here is my contribution below.


1. What is the working title of your next book?
Along for the Ride

2. Where did the idea come from for the book?
For a long time, I've been interested in the Christian healing ministry. There are such a lot of questions, such as whether God really promises in the Bible to heal his followers. If it is part of the covenant we have with him, why do we see so many sincere Christian followers struggling with their health? As this is an interest of mine, I've read many non-fiction titles about healing and they've been fascinating. I've never come across what I've learned from those books and websites being written as the main thread of a fiction story, so decided I'd really love a go at doing that. Hence, my hero is suddenly given a shocking diagnosis from his doctor and doesn't know where to turn.

3. What genre does your book fall under?
Basically, it is Christian romance with elements of drama and some suspense and mystery, the same as all of my other contemporary novels.

4. What actors would you choose to play the parts of your characters in a movie rendition?
This is a fun question. I think I can imagine somebody like Sienna Miller or Keira Knightley as my main heroine, Imogen. For the hero, Asher, I had to think harder. Perhaps a younger Hayden Christenson, as he appeared as Anakin Skywalker in "The Phantom Menace" or an older Ben Barnes, the hero of "Prince Caspian.

5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
A young woman, anxious to make up for mistakes in her past, becomes far more of a pivotal help than she bargained for, while a young man regains his health and comes to terms with old regrets at the same time.

6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
No details are available yet about dates and times, but I'll be working on it with my usual publisher for the next block of time.

7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?
Somewhere between one and two years, as I paused to work on another project in the interim.

8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
As I haven't come across many books like it, I'm not sure. I often shy away from medical dramas which may deal with similar themes, as I don't like lots of detail and sadness. Perhaps you might tell me what it reminds you of if you read it. It certainly isn't a medical drama.

9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?
To be honest, my inspirations are too many to mention. Whenever I read a novel that keeps me glued to my seat, longing to know what will happen to the heroes next, I get inspired to keep trying my own hand at it and perfecting my craft.

10. What else about the book might pique a reader's interest?
Well, I'm trusting there's a good combination of chemistry and attraction between the main characters to keep us happy and hopeful, enough mystery to keep us wondering and enough humour to make us laugh, despite the underlying seriousness of the main theme. Can a book about a serious medical diagnosis boost a reader's spirits? That's the challenge I took and we'll have to see.


I'm passing the baton on to my friend, Penny Reeve, who is a very talented author of picture books and children's chapter books. Mother, wife, missionary, craftsperson, presentor, she has lived an interesting and varied life with many roles. You'll find her at http://pennyreeve.com/page3.htm