I promised a scene from the book, Bound by Three Strands, as this month’s blog.  I am in the process of formatting the book and am hopeful for a release date this month. This book will be available in both paperback and kindle edition, as was the first book of the series. This book is a sequel to Bound by Secrecy, published in 2016. I took one of my favorite characters from Book 1 – Doc Vince – and he is now the protagonist in this sequel. The characters from Book 1 continue to show up frequently in this book as well. For those that have read Bound by Secrecy, you will remember Laurel, Tom, Joshua, Beau, Valerie, and Ethan Clayburn, to name a few. You will also be introduced to Seth Redrick, a new and somewhat mysterious character, who’s first meeting with Doc occurs over a puncture wound and a very odiferous sock, causing Doc to inhale deeply once he escapes the non-ventilated exam room. I have chosen to give you a glimpse of the very first scene of Bound by Three Strands. Watch Amazon for the day of release. A signed copy will be available through me by emailing delilalumbardy@gmail.com. A donation to St. Jude’s Hospital will be made from the proceeds of the signed copies.

Chapter One…On His Own

There wasn’t much that could dampen Doc Vince’s spirits, but the three other patrons in the post office lobby noted Doc’s immediate silence as he pulled the envelope from his post office box. They also noticed his pinched eyebrows creating worry lines above the bridge of his nose. This was not the usual jovial Doc that greeted everyone with a slap on the back and a warm smile.

Removing his keys from the box, Doc turned and left the post office with not so much as a nod to the other patrons. He nearly stumbled off the curb as he studied the writing on the envelope. There was no doubt this was the same handwriting as the other two notes; the letters of every word widely spaced and quite legible. This was the third one he had received in less than a month. A cold shiver ran down his spine as he ripped the envelope open. This time the note was written with a narrow felt tip marker rather than an ink pen; maybe suggesting he better pay attention.

Dr. Vince Peters:

I was not kidding when I wrote the other two notes. Marrying Ginny Phillips is a bad idea. You best heed my warnings.

The note was signed just as the other two had been. No name; no initials…just a scribble that looked something like a recumbent “S”. Doc reached in and pulled the other two notes from the inner breast pocket of his sport jacket.  He compared this newest one with the other two.  Except for the felt tip pen that the writer had used this time, the notes looked much the same. Each one was written on lined yellow paper with the same distinctive penmanship.

In all his years of living in the small town of Hooper, Nebraska, he had not received any type of threatening notes such as this. Doc couldn’t imagine who would send such a thing. He was respected by nearly everyone in the community, or so he thought. Of course, there were always those that chose to doctor in Westfield because of desires for the latest technology and the plushest of office buildings, but that was no reason for this. He waved the notes above his head as if making a point. Likewise, he couldn’t think of a single person in the entire county that didn’t like Ginny. She had won them over by way of her home cooked meals. Available seats at the Red Rooster Café through the noon hour were as scarce as those in Memorial Stadium on any given Husker game day.

The idea of marriage had never come up between the two. Having never been married, Doc assumed he was way too engrained in his own schedules and ideas to make a marriage work now. And Ginny seemed quite content with her present situation as well. That’s another reason these notes seemed all the more mysterious. The idea of marriage was pure speculation on the sender’s part.

He had not told Ginny about the notes. He hadn’t told anyone about them. Maybe it was time to confide in his friend considering she was mentioned in the notes. She might have some idea who could be sending them and why.

(That’s all for now, folks. Formatting calls me…but, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.)

 

 

 

 

When I travel back to see my family in Nebraska there are a couple of different routes I can take. I can make it in a little over five hours if I head east down Interstate 90, exit at Murdo, SD, and head south; passing through the Rosebud Indian Reservation. I have taken this route many times because it is the quickest, but it’s not the one I prefer. There is one town I pass through, on this route, that if I didn’t need my sight to drive, I would gladly close my eyes and pretend it didn’t exist. Except for a newer gas station on the west end of town and a decent school on the east end of town, most of the buildings are shoddy and uncared for. Many lack paint and some windows are not windows at all, but plywood barriers cut to fit. This isn’t what bothers me the most, though. It’s the hunched shoulders, the downcast eyes, and the purposeless walk of the individuals I see as I drive through.

I much prefer to take the longer route through western South Dakota and Nebraska. On this route I notice that folks commonly wave, even to strangers. When I stop for a break in Chadron, NE the folks I meet on the street make direct eye contact and often offer a “hello.” When traveling Highway 20, this time of year, I enjoy the endless hills of growing grasses, the deep greens of the meadows along the streams and rivers, and the budding of deciduous trees close to the roadway.  Most of all though, it’s the newborn calves, romping and playing on the other side of the fences, or maybe lying in a warm spot of dandelions that makes me smile. Some of the calves will be kicking up their heels in the bright sunshine; the attentive mothers always close by and watching. Some will be pushing aggressively at their mothers’ udders with a ring of foamy milk encircling their mouths. Maybe I will even see a calf – so new – that it’s struggling to stand on its sea legs and reach for its first drink.

Just as there are different roads to take me home, there are different roads to experience in life. When I have the time, I am content to take the longer one home because it’s the more scenic and pleasant, but most often we favor the shortest routes. We tell ourselves that if we can save time, that’s what we should do. That is why McDonalds alone sells an average of 75 hamburgers every second. Yes, every second!

We may live in the “fast food” age, but the idea of getting somewhere via the shortest route isn’t anything new. The Israelites, thousands of years ago, couldn’t understand why God didn’t guide them by way of the most direct route from Egypt to the Promised Land. We know now that He was detouring them  away from the hostile Philistines. If they had come upon these fierce people, they would have been filled with fear and likely would have hurried back to where they had come from; as dreadful as it was.

Many times, the road to reach our goals seem time consuming and filled with potholes.  We would like to order them up “fast food” style and have them met immediately. We have even been known to manipulate circumstances so our goals could be reached now instead of later.  But, often, it would do us good to take a lesson from the calf lying in the dandelions – to sit quietly and prayerfully, waiting on God’s perfect direction.

If the road to meet your goal seems never ending, don’t get discouraged. It just might be that you are being detoured around a Philistine camp.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

Since the last time we visited, my husband and I have completed a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle. It is a picture of a great horned owl sitting on a limb of a snow covered pine tree. There were multiple browns, greens, and white pieces – and nothing else. It took us weeks to complete it, and there were many evenings we threatened to throw it back in the box and take it to the Salvation Army. But, we kept after it – after all, what else did we have to do on cold March evenings? Once completed, my oldest son asked if we were going to decoupage it and hang it. My husband said he was going to take it out and shoot it with a shotgun. However, in the end, he was the one that preserved it and will be the one that makes a frame for it. It will fit in with the décor of our log home and remind us that patience does pay off.

Jigsaw puzzles have been around since the 1700’s when John Spilsbury of London fashioned the first one out of wood. They weren’t known as jigsaw puzzles then, but as dissections. It wasn’t until 1880 that they began to be called jigsaw puzzles, but this was a misnomer as they were cut with a fretsaw – a saw not all that much like a jigsaw.

Jigsaw puzzles became very popular during the Great Depression. They provided a cheap, long-lasting, and recyclable form of entertainment. Even today,  I would consider jigsaw puzzles as being one of our least expensive forms of leisure activities. But, don’t be fooled by those you see on the shelves at Wal-Mart. In 2005 the most expensive puzzle, to date, was sold for $27,000 at a charitable auction for The Golden Retriever Foundation. The puzzle, created by  Rachel Page Elliot, predicted a female Golden Retriever with her five puppies playing in the grass. What a honor that must have been for this 92 year-young woman who hadn’t taken up puzzle making until she was in her seventies.

Besides the sense of accomplishment that’s felt when completing a puzzle, there are possibly other benefits. The Alzheimer Society of Canada proclaims that jigsaw puzzles can help keep the brain active and may reduce the risk of developing Alzheimers.

When I looked at our owl puzzle with the last piece still absent, it came to mind that this is what our lives are like without the most important piece – God. Our life is an unfinished picture when we try to fill it with “things”, but leave God out. Solomon reminds us in Ecclesiastes 3:11, that God has planted eternity in the human heart. We will never be completely satisfied with our earthly pleasures and pursuits if we leave the “most important piece – “the piece of God”- in the box.  He has built in us a restless yearning for Him, and no matter how many things we fill our life with, if we turn our backs on God, a void in us goes unfilled and peace escapes us.

Isn’t it wonderful that God discriminates against no one? Anyone can pick up that last piece and put it where it belongs. Because He wants nothing more than for us to have a relationship with Him, you can be assured it will fit perfectly.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

I became a bird watcher of sorts fifteen plus years ago when I moved to the prairie community of Recluse, Wyoming. Some of that had to do with the fact that there were more birds than people in this sparsely populated grasslands. Some of it had to do with the man I had just married that was into nature. I bought the Reader’s Digest Book of North American Birds and my husband bought me an 8×40 magnification pair of birding binoculars. We hung up four birdfeeders – one with common birdseed, one with nyjer seed for the finches, one with sugar water for the hummingbirds, and one for suet that I handmade in my kitchen. I was on the beginning of a journey to learn some amazing things about these feathered creatures.

One of the most fascinating and almost inconceivable  pieces of information I learned had to do with bluejays. I checked several reputable sites on the Internet to make sure someone wasn’t pulling my leg. What I found was that there was a consensus among the experts that the bluejay is not blue, but black. Now that I live in South Dakota we have plentiful numbers of bluejays that feast at our feeder. (I only saw one bluejay during the 13 years I lived in Recluse.) No matter how hard I try, I cannot make that vivid blue bird look black. But, they say it’s so. We only perceive their feathers as blue, according to the scientists. They explain it as the same phenomenon as why we see the sky as blue – a process that has to do with light refraction and reflection – whatever that means.

This morning I read about another instance, not related to birds, that had folks scratching their heads. This had to do with a man – a man by the name of David McNight from Durham, North Carolina. Mr. McNight was better known by the locals as “the street fiddler.” The disheveled older man with unruly gray hair spent much of his later years on the streets of Durham, playing his instrument and gathering a few coins that those passing by might toss into his opened fiddle case. The folks in Durham may have thought they knew Mr. McNight; they certainly saw him often enough.  But when he succumbed to a brain tumor in 2017, many were surprised what stories his obituary held. David spoke many languages, was the graduate of a prestigious university, composed music compositions ranging from bluegrass to waltzes, and had even run for the senate at one point.

And my point of the blog this month is that we can be deceived easily. Birds and people are not always what they seem. Some people would take these examples to warn us again about the dangers of deception. Of course we need to be cautious, but this is not where these stories are taking me today.

Today, I am wondering how many people we think we know, when we really don’t know them at all. I wonder how many David McNight’s I have in my life. Maybe a few more sincere questions to the Davids of the world would make a difference in their lives and in mine. Maybe it’s not even a stranger or a casual acquaintance that we’ve not taken the time to know. Maybe we’ve lost touch, in the midst of our busy lives, with those that mean the most to us.

This week I’m going to strive to ask a few more questions. Maybe give an encouraging word to a clerk or a sympathetic pat to a downtrodden face, or a follow-up call to a friend who’s having issues. Maybe by this time next week, I can say I know “a David” a little better.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

 

There were three  kids in our family when I was growing up. My brother, Dave, is three years older than me, and my sister, Connie, is six years younger. As soon as we were old enough our summers consisted of working long days in the hayfield. Dad didn’t have hired men, so we were the next best thing. The pay wasn’t great, but we did get room and board, experienced the great outdoors, and learned how best to combat  deerflies, mosquitoes, and bees. In addition to that, Dad and Mom sent us all to college, making the pay  better than we realized at the time.

There was a summer or two that my brother was offered an actual “bring home pay” kind of hayfield job with a rancher down on Goose Creek. The folks encouraged him to take it to help with college expenses that would be coming up soon.  My little sister at this time hadn’t earned her right to passage yet (being able to reach the tractor clutch), which left Dad and me to put up the hay.

Many of the days in the hayfield were carbon copies of the previous day – hot sun, blue skies, bumpy treks across the meadow, and delightful smells of cut hay, meadow flowers, and fresh air. If we would see a blue heron fishing on the creek, or a family of grouse rising off the meadow, or a beaver slapping his tail along the creek bank, it was a bonus.  These events were notable for us, but not deeply branded into our memories.

There was, however, one sultry July day that presented a rather anomalous event that I remember clearly.  There was barely a breeze and the air hung heavy with humidity. The deerflies were out in hordes; coming after me from all directions. I noticed Dad, across the meadow,  swatting at them with his old straw hat. I did the best I could with my bare hand, sometimes leaving bloody blebs on my arms.

That day, I was in charge of raking up the scatterings of small bunches of hay that had escaped the teeth of the side delivery rake and of Dad’s front loader sweep. Once I had the scatterings arranged in a windrow, Dad would again maneuver the front loader down the hay row, picking up the scatterings and depositing them onto the stack he was making.

By mid afternoon, Dad, satisfied with the stack he had just finished, waved me towards the pickup. I was more than ready to take a break and leave the pesky deerflies to find some other poor  victim. “Let’s go to the house and have a piece of that chocolate cake your mom made before we tackle the next stack,” Dad hollered over the noise of our tractors.

Afternoon breaks usually lasted about twenty minutes – but occasionally longer. It often depended on whether Dad had an inclination to stretch out on the carpeted floor “for a few minutes” after making his stomach happy. This particular day, a few big sprinkles began hitting the kitchen window as we devoured our cake and lemonade. I could see the treetops swaying some now as I looked through that same window. Good! The deerflies wouldn’t be as prevalent when we went back.

“Let’s see what happens with this weather,” Dad said as he lowered himself to the floor and stretched out in front of the box fan. The sprinkles didn’t last long, but Dad’s nap lingered. That was okay by me – the novelty of the hayfield had worn off some time ago.

I refilled our silver thermos with ice and water and then picked up the book I’d been reading to pass the time until Dad awoke. Before I finished the chapter we were headed back out the door to the truck. As we turned onto the meadow, we noticed alarming changes. The first thing that got Dad’s attention was that the three haystacks he had constructed earlier had vanished – not a trace of them anywhere. While Dad was pining the loss of his stacks,  I was noticing the large cottonwood tree lying on its side beside the creek. “Look,” I pointed to the tree. “What happened?”

“Must have had a little twister come through.”

I was stunned we hadn’t known anything of it while we were at the house. But then, I remembered the noisy fan, Dad was sleeping, and I was absorbed in a book. It was possible, I supposed.

“Why did it knock that tree over and none of the others?” I said, pointing to the grove of trees that lined the road.

“I imagine it’s because that tree didn’t have a strong root system. Because it sat next to the creek, it’s roots didn’t have to go far to search for water.”

I have learned since that many things  determine the length of tree roots, but nothing more  than the soil conditions they are placed in. Dad was exactly right. Under general conditions, tree roots extend about 1.5 times the height of the tree and most are in the top foot of soil. There is a Banyan tree in the Botanical Gardens in Calcutta that far exceeds this “normal.” It’s root system spans out over three acres.

The Bible compares a man that trusts in the Lord as having roots like a tree. (Jeremiah 17:7-8.) As he trusts in the Lord, that man is not bothered by the storms of life just as the trees that lined our road were not bothered by the twister. Louisa May Alcott said it this way: I am not afraid of storms for I am learning how to sail my ship.

It is my hope that we may all  learn how to sail our ships with a little more confidence, even if it’s stroke by stroke.

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

 

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