Between the Dirt and the Rosary Beads

A friend of mine posted these beautiful thoughts on facebook a few days ago:

I had a realization this morning. Miracles happen everyday regardless if we notice or acknowledge them. However, it is usually at moments in our lives when we need help of some sort that we see them best. Connection, if life were always easy we'd be blind to the miracles of God's hand in our lives.

I agree.

I have been praying for many miracles recently. Sometimes it is something as simple as "Please, help me to be patient with my toddler today" but often times it is a bigger plea--for this baby to be healthy, for our finances to stretch far enough, for us to be able to make it through this year.

With all the sacrifices that have come with this pregnancy, I must say that the hardest has been the loss of my wedding ring. I don't know that many people outside of me and Scott and Kevin ever knew that it was missing...mostly because I was so heartbroken I just couldn't talk about it. I couldn't even write about it. I could only pray about it.

I lost a lot of weight in the beginning of this pregnancy--and as my body tried to store fat in more important places, it disappeared from my feet and calves and arms and neck and my hands. My fingers shrunk more than one ring size. There were many days when I didn't wear my ring precisely because I was afraid of losing it...but then one day I remembered some advice that my mother gave me right after I got engaged. She said that you can't lose something if you are always wearing it.

For what may have been the first time in her life, my mom was wrong.

I was wearing my ring when it slipped off my finger without me noticing. All I knew was that one day I was wearing it and the next day it was nowhere to be found. I searched all the places it could be--all the places it had almost slipped off before. I went through garbage cans, searched the lint trap in the dryer, checked all the nooks and crannies of our house and under every piece of furniture. Since I'd had four different appointments that week, I wasn't even sure if I'd lost it at home or at the hospital. Scott called every place I had been to see if they had found it. No one had seen it. We put an ad on KSL.

It was the final straw that week. After spending more than six hours in medical offices, one of which told me I would have to come back and reschedule without even seeing me, breaking a bottle of very expensive insulin, and realizing that there was no possible way any of us were going to come out of this pregnancy unscathed, we figured that my wedding ring was just plain gone and would have to be added to list of sacrifices we've made for this baby.

The guilt ate away at me. How I could I just let that much money and sentimentality fall off my finger without noticing? What kind of wife did that make me? The dark clouds surrounding me started to gather in thicker clumps. I figured I wasn't worth anything...not as a mother, because I was clearly failing at that, and not as a wife, because I couldn't even keep track of the most beautiful gift I'd ever been given in my life. Scott worked so hard to pay for it outright, so we wouldn't have to start our marriage with debt. He spent hours searching jewelry stores along the Wasatch Front, to find the perfect ring (because I refused to go with him). He put his whole heart into that ring.

And I lost it without even noticing.

I started to pray. I figured if it hadn't been found at any of the places I'd been, then it was somewhere in our house. I felt slightly better. After a few days of praying, and being mad that I couldn't fast about it, I started with the mission technique of calling down the powers of heaven. I thought that one day I would just look down and there it would be under the bed--a place I had checked more than a dozen times.

After a week or two, it seemed that nobody was listening. Yet, I still knew God was, because I couldn't look at my left hand and accept that I would never feel the weight of that ring on my finger again. I knew it might take months...years, even...but I knew I would see my ring again. It would only really be gone when we moved away from this home without it. My pleas grew a little less frequent, but whenever I thought about it, I prayed about it. I tried not to hurt when I saw reminders--friends getting engaged, pictures of babies with their parents' rings hanging off their toes, our engagement date approaching on the calendar, our family pictures returned and my hands were so obviously bare. Scott started talking about getting me a new ring--a cubic zirconium just so I had something to wear and I told him I didn't deserve even that.

I kept telling this baby, "I would trade my ring for you. I would."

And I meant it.

This past Wednesday night, I prayed about my ring again. I'd checked a few new places, but it wasn't there. I checked a few old places, but it wasn't there. I asked Heavenly Father, again, for a miracle.

I felt peace, which was the best answer of all.

And there it was, Thursday afternoon. Buried in the dirt and the rosary beads in a planter in our front yard that I'd never touched. I was pulling weeds, trying to clear the debris out of the pot, and I saw it: a round circle of white gold. I knew exactly what it was, even when I had no idea how it got there.

Miracles happen everyday regardless if we notice or acknowledge them. However, it is usually at moments in our lives when we need help of some sort that we see them best. 

If ever there was a moment in my life that I needed help, it is the moment I have been living in for the last six months. Life has been so bright and yet so dark at the same time. I have been fighting and floating. There have been times when I have wanted to turn my back on my faith and forget about it, but every time I tried, I found myself running back for comfort. I knew God was listening, even when I thought I didn't see any evidence--but then I looked around and I saw tiny miracles, everywhere: Kevin sleeping through the bulk of the night, our utility bill mysteriously being $30 cheaper this month, my one month supply of insulin lasting two months even with a broken bottle, Scott being able to drop school this semester with no repercussions, this baby moving and growing and looking healthy at every check.

And there, between all the weeds in my life: a miracle.

Putting the Mom back in Mother's Day

Oh, the pink. The flowers. The sappy songs. The disappointments.

Yup, it's Mother's Day again.

There was a time in my life when I didn't mind Mother's Day. I thought it was a good reminder to tell my mom thank you at least once a year (and an opportunity to outdo my siblings in doing so). I didn't understand how anyone could not like Mother's Day. I remember sitting in a college class, listening to an oral report on the origins of Mother's Day given by a "non-traditional" classmate of mine (she was both a mother and grandmother and had come back to school to finish her degree) and wondering why she seemed to hate the day so much.

Three years into "real" motherhood, and I hear you, Sita Bell!

It's not that I've had horrible experiences with Mother's Day. I have a mother. I love her. We have a decent relationship. And although my husband wasn't aware that he needed to celebrate Mother's Day before we had children, that mistake was quickly corrected and he has passed the wisdom of "even if she says she doesn't want anything you need to get her something anyway because someday she will be the mother of your children so that means you have to celebrate it now and whatever you do don't tell her she's not a 'real' mother" has saved many a newly-wedded man unnecessary marital drama. Even last year, when somehow the Duck Dynasty DVD from my husband and already chewed-on princess board book from my daughter (both bought the day before) failed to really show me their love, my role as mother was at least remembered and I did get breakfast in bed to celebrate.

Good breakfast. None of this less-than-30-carbohydrates-for-breakfast crap that is going on this year. You know what is depressing? Grocery shopping. For me it is like going to Disneyland and only being able to ride "It's A Small World" repeatedly. For weeks all I have wanted is a lemon poppyseed muffin (1 serving=32 carbs), a toaster strudel (1 pastry=34 carbs), or a simple cinnamon roll (let's not even go there). I suppose they could serve me light yogurt in bed. And if they really want to show me their love, they will go and find some of that Ocean Spray Diet Cran-Cherry juice that is the only kind I can have that somewhat tastes decent but is never on the shelves (don't even try the Cran-Grape. It tastes like dimetapp with a kidney infection).

Anyway, moving on.

I wish I could tell Mother's Day to go away this year, but I won't, because the last time I wished away a holiday it really did get forgotten in the process of attending the the funerals of two of my best-loved relatives. So, I've learned my lesson about wishing away holidays.

But still, I would rather it didn't happen this year. And definitely not this week.

I don't feel like much of a mother lately. I am not good at it. I have realized that this is probably the least successful career field I could have chosen, with maybe the exception of geometry or chemistry. Some women are made to be mothers. I don't feel like I am one of them. I don't like babies. I only like small children in small doses.

My little sister? Now there is a woman who was cut out to be a mother. The job she currently has is one she would love to spend her life doing--providing daycare to a room full of ten or more two-year-olds, day after day. To me, that sounds like torture.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love my children. I even love other people's children on occasion. But taking care of children all day is not something that anyone who ever viewed my high school or college transcripts would have picked out for me as a successful occupation.

Yet, here I am. This is the job I have chosen.

It is hard.
Sometimes (a little more often lately) I even hate it.
Most days I want to quit...and then I remind myself that all that really means is that I need a break.
There doesn't seem to be a break in sight.

Why was I never warned? I suppose my mother didn't tell me how hard this was because maybe she didn't want to hurt my feelings (although I doubt I was her hardest child. Most stubborn, maybe, but probably not her hardest child, even if I'm not her favorite.) Or maybe I just didn't listen. Some children don't listen, especially the stubborn ones.

I suppose there are women out there (I am related to many of them) that really are good at this child-bearing and child-rearing thing. I don't have those genes. I guess there can be an argument made for motherhood coming naturally...but I think even there, some women are more natural at it than others, because this pregnancy and in turn raising a toddler feels anything but natural to me.

My body doesn't seem to agree with this child-producing part of motherhood. It has declared war on many fronts and though I feel like I am an island in the South Pacific in the 1940's, I have managed thus far to stay afloat. Physically, at least.

Mentally and emotionally? I am breaking down quickly, and it takes every smile and hug and kiss and giggle and extra long naptime from Kevin and encouraging text or email from my husband to keep me together and most days even that is not enough.

Enter the latest counter-attack: "Happy Mother's Day!"

Everywhere.
A reminder.
I'm not good at this job.

It's no wonder the woman credited with founding Mother's Day quickly found that her idea was not as well-thought out as she'd thought. She spent most of her life (and her father's fortune) trying to take it back. True story. 100 years later, here we are.

Still "celebrating."

And by "celebrating" I mean an annual guilt trip for thousands and millions of mothers everywhere who don't feel like they are measuring up and are 90% sure they are ruining their children's lives in one way or another.

I get it now, why Sita doesn't like this holiday.

On my first "real" Mother's Day, I was just glad to have a baby in my home and not in the hospital. All I had to do was make sure she was fed (granted, that was harder than it was supposed to be), clean, and sleeping in decent doses.

On my second Mother's Day, I wanted somebody to acknowledge the fact that I'd kept her alive for over a year and she was hitting developmental milestones.

This year, I just want people to ignore the fact that she throws temper tantrums and spends long chunks of time screaming in her room and she still is attached to her binky and that isn't changing anytime soon. No, she's not potty trained yet, even though she is probably closer to being ready for that than I'd like to acknowledge. It is a known fact that she likes her father more than me and last week she told me I should go to work (like him), apparently so he can stay home with her. And, in addition to all the ways I am failing my daughter, I'd really rather not read [hear] any more ways I can mess up the baby growing inside me (four days ago I read that babies of mothers with untreated depression are more likely to be colicky, so if he is cranky and fussy for his whole first year, now you know why. It's all my fault).

In an effort to make myself feel better about my current motherhood status, I decided to read a talk by Elder Holland (one of the Twelve Apostles of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints) that a friend of mine had pinned "for the hard days."

And I discovered that it is, in fact, possible to feel worse after reading a talk by Elder Holland. Good thing I'd been reading it on my phone--if I'd had a hard copy I would have torn the whole thing to shreds. I think he meant it to be a pep talk for the hard parts of motherhood, but all it came across as was "you are an angel for getting up with your children during the night."

My husband, thank heaven for him, does 90% of all nighttime duty at our house right now.

I can't even claim to be sleep-deprived.

I don't deserve Elder Holland's pep talk, and in my head, that confirmed the fact that I don't deserve to be celebrated on Mother's Day.

Now, please don't misread this. I am not ungrateful to be a mother. I am aware that my children and my husband are a monumental blessing in my life. I am not downplaying in any way the heartache of women who want to be mothers but, for whatever reason, aren't given children at this time. That hurts. Period.

I also don't want your pity and I don't want your pep talks. I don't even want to quit my job when I really think about it, because there really are times when being Kevin's mom does make me the happiest I've ever been (and also the angriest, saddest, most frustrated, etc). I am ecstatic that we are getting another baby and I'd hate to think I am wishing away this pregnancy because I do want him to come, I do want him to be healthy, and dang it, I do want to be so pregnant I have to waddle into Labor and Delivery at 39 and a half weeks! My heart is and has been gradually breaking for the last several weeks as I realize that my opportunities to experience pregnancy are quickly winding to a close. I may not get a chance to do this again, which means that for me, my focus in motherhood is going to need to be more about quality than quantity, because quantity ain't never gonna happen.

But does it really matter in the Lord's eyes whether I have two children or ten (or six, which is today's ten)? I'm not in a child-bearing competition, not even with myself. And even if I only had one child, she would make me a mother. And even if I only had nieces and nephews, they would make me a kind of mother. And that would be okay, because that would be doing my best with what the Lord has given me.

I said a little prayer this morning and I told Heavenly Father that I probably needed a reminder that somebody cared, and the best way for that to happen would be through the mailbox, since I wasn't in the mood [a stable enough emotional state] to answer any phone calls or emails or text messages or social media inquiries.

It really shouldn't have surprised me, then, when I opened the mailbox and found a purple envelope from my parents sitting on top of yet another medical insurance letter.

In that envelope there was a card, and that card said exactly what I needed to hear [read] today.

Daughter,
what you do--every big and little thing--matters.
I hope that's something you already know, but everyone can use a reminder every now and then...
especially when some days can be, well, trying--to say the least.
But seeing the way you handle whatever life gives you makes me so proud of the woman you've become and so sure of the incredible mother you are.
So celebrate [Mother's Day] knowing this...
you're doing it right, and we couldn't be more proud of you.
Happy Mother's Day!

There's my mom with the win.
And that's why she's been promoted to Grandma.

Thanks Mom, for reminding me why I like this day after all.

A Dandelion Garden

My day started so beautifully, but as soon as my husband drove away and I shut the garage door, that ended. Ten minutes and a low-carb breakfast later, Kevin was standing at her door, wide awake and ready for the day. I wasn't quite ready for her. I needed another twenty minutes or so to myself...but, since I'm a mom, I went up to her room, picked her up, and spent the next twenty minutes cuddling her and trying to feed her breakfast.

Less than an hour later, I was hiding from her in my closet.

Now, it isn't as bad as it sounds (or maybe it is). I made the mistake of going through yesterday's mail while she was eating and saw that we had a notice for a past-due medical bill I'd forgotten to pay last month. So I decided I'd better just take care of it before I forgot about it.

I tried paying it online, but once I saw there was a seven dollar processing fee, I quickly decided we were too poor for such luxuries, so I decided to call the billing office instead. The first time I called, I got as far as the holding elevator music before my call was mysteriously dropped. The second time, I made it through the elevator music, but by the time the outsourced representative answered, Kevin was "La-La-La"ing so loud I couldn't hear him, and when I tried to shush her, she started crying loudly, and somehow in the juggling of getting my hands free so I could get her out of her high chair, I hung up on him. 

So, for my third attempt, I ran upstairs, closed the door to my bedroom, and hid in my closet (this door also closed, as our 1980s house isn't soundproof). I got the bill taken care of within ten minutes (luckily I didn't have to wait on hold as long this time), but I stayed in the closet for twenty while she screamed outside my door.

Not my best mothering moment.

I've been having a lot of "not my best" moments lately. Too many of them. I just can't seem to shake them. I am so far from where I want to be. I am not the best mother, wife, daughter, friend, neighbor, Christian...take your pick. About the only thing that has improved lately is my swearing habit. 

So, perhaps it was more for me than for the sisters I visit teach (on the last day of the month) that Heavenly Father directed me back to this quote I first found and loved in high school:

"Our perfect Father does not expect us to be perfect children yet. He had only one such Child. Meanwhile, therefore, sometimes with smudges on our cheeks, dirt on our hands, and shoes untied, stammeringly but smilingly, we present God with a dandelion--as if it were an orchid or a rose! If for now the dandelion is the best we have to offer, He receives it, knowing what we may later place at the altar." -Neal A. Maxwell

I don't know about you, but my dandelion garden is growing strong (both figuratively and literally). 

Here's the thing, though...next to all those dandelions that keep springing up in my backyard, there are rose bushes that I thought I had killed when I pruned them earlier this spring. If you look closely, however, near to the ground, you can see new growth there--a promise of something more to come. It will probably take weeks and weeks and months for those rose bushes to fully bloom, but they will.

It gives me hope that someday I will fully bloom as well.

For now, I'll keep cultivating my dandelions.

Reality

I don't know about you, but I read a lot of "mommy blogs." Sometimes in our exuberance to present motherhood as "The. Best. Thing. Ever. I love it I love it I love it," we neglect to present that dark side, the "I am the worst at this ever" side and the "I really want to quit but it is too late for that" side. For me, at least, it is hard to publicly acknowledge these parts of motherhood because it is basically letting the world know how bad I fail at my job some days.

So there you go. Sometimes I fail my job. Sometimes I fail to love my job, which is probably even worse than not "being a good mom." But it happens, people.

Thus is the life of a mother.

I have a sneaky suspicion that if you (if you are a mom) disagree with me and have loved motherhood every day of your life, chances are you are probably not as good at mothering as you thought.

(That is what I tell myself, anyway.)

(It makes me feel better.)

(I do denial really well.)

This is the part where I get into the TMI for the week, simply because I want a minute of the wambulance's pity (skip this paragraph if you don't want to know how terrible-wonderful my life is). My week this far has consisted of four visits to Doctor's offices. Two ultrasounds and one cervical check (think of those awkward ultrasounds they do when you are 7-9 weeks along and they can't get anything on your stomach- yeah, my third one of these in four weeks). I've been told I need to watch my diet more (because apparently I haven't been watching it already? What? People, these numbers are great considering the amount of Easter candy I've had tempting me this week!) And while I'm eating less, I need to gain more weight. Also, I probably need an EKG. And the baby needs an EKG. And have I got the directions for my glucose test? (This is the part where I roll my eyes and inform the nurses that if they give me that test, I will probably go into a diabetic coma). And okay, well, since we can torture you by giving you sugar, let me draw your blood and give you a jug so you can collect your urine for the next 24 hours. Don't pretend like it is awkward to keep a cooler of pee in your bathroom. Have we told you you're at risk for preeclampsia? Also, drive another 30 min to bring the pee jug back here as soon as you finish the test. And then don't forget your progesterone shot (and while you're at it, get those two unsightly warts burned off your finger. One of them may need some "carving.") Also, we are going to add another shot to your daily regimen...

The miracle of this all is that I've only broke down crying twice to my husband, once to my mother, and once to my sister-in-law.

My husband held me and told me to make the dark cloud hanging over me go away (me =depressed much this week), as well as sending several pep-talks via email (he's had to be gone a lot this week, bless grad school's heart).  Today I bragged to him that I didn't even tear up when they attacked my warts and he told me it was because I was too stubborn to cry. Actually, I really loved that compliment.

My mother, gotta love her, decided not to give me the "buck up and deal with it" speech (she's really good at that one) but the "I know it doesn't seem like it, but you are doing a great job and you may need to cheat on your diet to keep yourself sane" speech, which made me feel like I could not only handle my life, but I could be grateful for it. And eat some chocolate without feeling totally guilty.

And my sister-in-law? My five minute cry session with her probably did more than anything to make me feel better, because she commiserated with me, and we talked about the reality that motherhood sucks sometimes, even when you love your babies so much, and that although it may be absolutely awful to want to quit being mom, we think it sometimes.

And that's okay.

It happens.

Just so you know.

Because of Him

Our Sunday School teacher posed a thoughtful question in our class today: "how do you know when God is helping you through your trials?"

I have spent the last few hours contemplating the answer to this question. Of all the tender mercies I could name, of all the thoughts and feelings and answers to prayers I have experienced since the trial of bringing this baby to earth began, the answer that stands out most to me is that even when I feel very lonely, God has let me know that I am never alone. He sent one who understands.

He sent His son.

God has given me daily reminders of His son's miraculous atonement.

I remember a time, before ever having children, when I voiced some of my fears about becoming a mother to a woman whom I greatly admire and respect. At the time, she was pregnant with her fifth child. She listened to me for a while and then bore a sweet and simple testimony that I will never forget. She told me that becoming a mother and bringing children into the world gives you a very unique understanding of what Christ went through. When you have that personal understanding of His blood and his suffering and the rebirth that comes through Him, she taught me, then all of the pain and the sacrifice that a woman goes through to give birth to a baby becomes a sacred experience, and one she was grateful to have.

Over that next year, as I struggled to learn what she meant on a personal level as Scott and I added Kevin to our small family, I discovered that there was indeed a unique understanding of Christ's atonement that could only be found in childbearing, just the same as the unique understanding that came to me when I was diagnosed with diabetes and fought to have my body healed. In both instances, I found a refuge in Christ and learned to let Him succor me, because I knew He had experienced what I felt.

A few months ago, after one of my many emotional breakdowns associated with this second pregnancy, Scott gave me a blessing that reminded me of my friend's words. Since then, I have struggled for an understanding and a personal application of the atonement that doesn't come through pretty songs or art or scripture references. This time, I am allowing the Spirit to be my teacher and open my eyes to Christ's sacrifice for me.

Each day, I prick my finger four to six times to check my blood sugar levels. As I coax the red droplets from the tips of my fingers, I remember that while I shed one tiny drop at a time for my son, Christ shed many drops one time for me, a daughter. Physically, I know that it hurts to bleed from one pore, even when you draw blood willingly, and that a tenderness comes afterward to remind you of that momentary pain. Eventually, that tenderness turns to strength as the punctured skins heals and becomes stronger. The scars remain, but the pain leaves.

It seems a simple choice for me to make multiple times a day, and though I do not always do it willingly, I bleed for my son.

Christ's choice was not simple, but He made it willingly. He bled to give not just one of God's children a rebirth, but all of us.

On this Easter Sunday, as I feel new life move within me, I find myself, yet again, experiencing a new beginning through Christ.

#becauseofhim

Living on the edge

Anyone who knows me well knows I am too much of a stickler for rules. I have known this for over a decade, but some habits are hard to break. I believe in rules. I believe they are there for a reason. I believe they allow you more freedom when they are used properly.

I also believe that some rules are meant to be broken. Or, at least, almost-broken.

Now, I'll add a disclaimer here for any well-meaning relative who wants to feed Kevin a can of Pepsi or take her for a ride on the motorcycle while I am laid up with her brother this summer: some rules. Only some rules.

For example, Scott and I decided before we ever had kids that we would never let them sleep in our bed. (Note: I am not trying to bash co-sleeping here. We simply decided that for us, our bed was ours alone and that it would be easier to enforce that from the beginning of parenthood than a few years down the road when we would have multiple toddlers vying for cuddle space).

And now every time I hear the song "Let Them Be Little" I immediately feel guilty, because there is no "let them sleep in the middle" at our house.

We have reached a compromise though. It is called "let her cuddle in the middle for ten minutes while we watch Netflix at four a.m. because putting her back to bed repeatedly for the last hour hasn't allowed anyone to sleep, unborn baby brother included."

So in the early morning hours on this Thursday morning, I learned to appreciate that sometimes coming close to breaking the rules can allow you some really beautiful moments. Like our whole little family cuddled up together while the sky started to lighten up and the birds started to sing and Bobby Flay, once again, wasn't beaten. The three of us wedged together (apparently it isn't time to turn off our heater yet), Kevin resting her head on her dad's arm and holding my hand, while one of Scott's hands rested on my now-bulging-I-really-can't-pass-this-baby-off-as-chub-anymore stomach.

Then, as he tried to hold my hand and Kevin quickly put a stop to that by moving one of our hands away, we decided cuddle time was over (for her). And we put her back to bed (eventually. Because it turns out the reason she had been wide awake for hours was because she was hungry and needed some yogurt and a cookie).

As I lay in bed, trying to force myself back to sleep for a few more hours, I realized that while I do believe in keeping the rules, sometimes I also believe in coming close to breaking them.

Sometimes you need to let your husband skip class to take care of your family.

Sometimes you need to eat dessert despite being pregnant and diabetic.

Sometimes the laundry and bathrooms can wait another week.

Sometimes it is okay to get naked and go skinny dipping just for the sake of doing something adventurous.

Sometimes you just have to kiss that boy you were expressly told not to date before you return to your mission.

Sometimes toddlers need carbonation... But only in the form of root beer floats.

Rinda's Reads: Two Recommendations

I am reading again! Not as much as I used to, but enough to keep me sane. And so I thought I would pass along the best books I read in February and March. There were more books than this, but I wasn't overly impressed with the others I read (or I flat-out hated them).

For February: Ruby Red, Sapphire Blue, and Emerald Green (aka the Precious Stone Trilogy) by Kerstin Gier, translation by Anthea Bell

Another one of those fantastical young adult series, with a twist. Here's the twist: these books are translated from German, and there is apparently a movie already made of them, but there is no English translation available. Anyway, I loved the books. And it is the first time since last fall (aka since I've been pregnant) that I've been able to finish three books in the space of two weeks. I can't even really explain the storyline, except to say that it is about a teenage girl who unexpectedly finds out she has inherited the family time-traveling gene. Perhaps that sounds a bit cheesy, but I will tell you this: the books are a thousand times better than Twilight.

For March: Calling Me Home by Julie Kibler

Perhaps I picked this book up because it was historical fiction and I love historical fiction. Perhaps it was because the writer is from Texas--and not just any part of Texas, but a part my mission actually covered. Perhaps it is because I was impressed by the cover art (yes, I do judge books by their covers, so judge me).

The point is, it doesn't matter why I picked this book up. What matters is that I am a better person for reading this book, and I would highly recommend it to anyone (especially people looking for book club suggestions). If anyone has read this book, please call me. I need to talk it over with someone. Not only is the writing beautiful and the characters well-developed, but this book shows that racism is not just something that ended in the 1960s, and it explores why it is important for us to pay attention today.

This book has one of those storylines where you think you know what is going to happen (a white girl in Kentucky just can't end up with a black boy in the 1940s, everyone knows that), but then Kibler manages to surprise you throughout the whole book anyway. Be warned, this book is real and not all warm fuzzies. I would give it a PG-13 rating.

Anyway, you should read it.

Now, any recommendations for me?