Journal Jots – Blog
Welcome to my Journal Jots blog! This is a broad mix of what’s on my mind, allowing me to feel a little bit closer to some of the most important people in my life—YOU! From news on sales, freebies, giveaways, new releases, and excerpts from works in progress … to my thoughts on my walk with God, daily devotionals, or photos of my family, this is where you’ll find the most current glimpse into my books and my life. I invite you to subscribe in the “subscribe” box on the right side of this page to automatically receive an email whenever I post a blog. Till then, God bless and HAPPY READING!
Friday, April 1, 2016
“We are all fools in love.”
— Jane Austen
HAPPY APRIL FOOL’S DAY!!
And trust me — if ever there was a “fool” for love, it would be yours truly. From the moment I could read, I was a fool for romance, devouring the maximum ten books per bookmobile visit every two weeks. I used to laugh because my ten books were always romance, and my best friend’s ten books (she ended up being a doctor) were always science and mysteries.
And then I read Gone With the Wind at the tender age of 12, and BOOM! This “fool’s” romance-writing career began with a 150-single-spaced manuscript called When Tomorrow Comes, which eventually became my debut novel, A Passion Most Pure. Would you believe I still have that manuscript that I typed on a Remington Electric Typewriter? Yep, and it’s pretty sad looking, I’ll tell you, typed on thin paper that is now in tatters along the edges.
Obviously When Tomorrow Comes was about the O’Connors of Boston, and most of the characters’ names and love triangle were still the same (Faith, Patrick, Marcy; but Charity was Delatha, Mitch was Reed, and Collin was … wince … Bart, since I was a fan of the TV show Maverick back then!). The locales were the same as well, with the story playing out in both Boston and Dublin, Ireland. But … there was one VERY big difference between that initial manuscript and the final for A Passion Most Pure, and the first lines of each tell it all. Now please keep in mine that the first line for When Tomorrow Comes was written by a 12-year-old, so a little grace, please! 😉
When Tomorrow Comes:
Patrick O’Connor was dead.
Yet the sky hadn’t altered it’s azure hue
nor had the birds retired their chant
so familiar to the city in the spring.
A Passion Most Pure:
Sisters are overrated, she decided.
Not all of them, of course,
only the beautiful ones who never let you forget it.
I don’t know about you, but I am SURE glad I didn’t kill Patrick off on the first page, but that first line DID inspire his demise mid-book, so that helped give me the extra twist I was looking for. 🙂
So since this is April Fool’s Day, I guess I would have to agree with old Jane in some ways — “we are all fools in love.” Because real love makes us give of ourselves in ways we wouldn’t normally do, like I wrote about in my Seeker blog entitled “Stupid in Love” where I asked hubby one day why he puts up with me. “I don’t know,” he said with a quick kiss, “I guess I’m just stupid in love.”
But … I would disagree with Jane in one regard, and that is that true love is never foolish or stupid. It is giving of yourself until it hurts, like Jesus did for us. Loving us enough to die for us and teach us the true meaning of love — GOD! And let’s face it — love is the thing that every person on this planet is looking for, right? And if they aren’t? Who’s the fool?
Hugs and HAPPY FOOL’S DAY!
Julie
Friday, March 25, 2016
As far as the east is from the west,
so far has He removed our transgressions from us.
— Psalm 103:12
I know this may surprise some people, but to me, Easter is my favorite day of the year. Yes, Christmas is nice with all the magic of Christ’s birth, Christmas carols and cookies, the scent of pine and cinnamon, family and snow. But there is just something SO holy and SO special about Easter, you know? I guess because it helps me to remember all that Christ did for me—a sinner who never did and does not now—deserve either His grace or His shed Blood.
And yet I have both—a miracle that never fails to bring tears to my eyes. Why? Because I flat-out don’t deserve it. Yes, I’m a nice person who loves to encourage and love on people and seeks after God with all of my heart, but I am also flesh. And in my mind that flesh—be it impatience over someone driving too slow or butting heads with a restaurant owner (don’t ask!)—negates any goodness I may think I have. “
For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God,” Romans 3:23.
Yes, “fallen short” … and continue to do so every day of my life.
Which is EXACTLY why Easter is so important to me. To remember that despite a mountain of sins that seem to grow taller everyday, I am forgiven, washed clean by the Blood of Christ, prostrate and sobbing in the rain at the foot of the cross. No matter the wounds I inflicted on Christ’s broken body this very week alone, Easter looms—a beacon of hope that God loves me no matter what I do, say or am because the truth is I am His and with the mere utterance of my sorrow from a truly repentant heart, I am free. Free!! From myself and the guilt that constrains, free to be all He’s called me to be—a child of the King, cloaked in the holy warmth of God’s forgiveness, mercy and love. OH, what a joyous day!!
And so I remember. Remember not just what He did for me, but what He continues to do in the life of this staunch Christian who just can’t seem to get it right. I remember—with painful gratitude—that because He died, I live.
Remembering.
It’s what it’s all about for me at Easter. Remembering—really remembering—how He took me from the darkness into His glorious light. Remembering that without Him, I would be lost. But on Easter—oh, precious Easter—I am miraculously found!!!
One of my favorite spiritual scenes in all of my books depicts this miraculous essence of Easter, so I wanted to share the clip with you. It’s a scene from book 3 in The Daughters of Boston series, A Passion Denied. You see, in this book, the hero, John Brady, is a Billy Graham-type Christian on fire for God, to whom everyone goes for spiritual advice. Everybody thinks Brady has arrived at that Mother Teresa state where he lives and breathes for God alone and never fails.
Wrong.
We all fail. And that, my friends, is the beauty of Easter—every failure, every transgression—are all forgiven at the foot of the cross, where Jesus’ precious Blood has “removed” them “as far as the east is from the west.” This is a concept John Brady was familiar with and preached to everyone who came to him for advice. But ironically, it was this wonderful aspect of Easter—total redemption and forgiveness—that even John Brady failed to “remember.”
And so, may each and every one of us take the time to remember this Easter and be found anew, resting in the arms of a gracious Savior and a truly glorious God.
Hugs,
Julie
A Scene From A Passion Denied
The bathroom door creaked open, and their heads jerked up. They stared, still as stone as Brady walked into the kitchen, coffee cup limp in his hand. His hygiene was considerably improved, clean-shaven and hair slicked back, but his eyes were still red and glassy. Dead and lifeless, Collin thought, and his stomach twisted. He jumped to his feet. “I have eggs and toast in the oven. More coffee?”
“No,” Brady muttered and dropped into a chair. His eyes trained on the empty cup in his hand.
Collin ignored him and filled his cup before topping both his and Father Mac’s. He plunked a plate of eggs and toast onto the table, along with plates and utensils. “Eat,” he said.
Brady continued to stare, his bleary gaze lost in a sea of bitter coffee. “I’m not hungry.”
“Yeah, well you need a little something other than vodka to sustain that thick head of yours.”
That woke him up. His head shot up, and the red in his eyes singed like fire. “Go to the devil, Collin. As if I didn’t pull your head out of the latrine more times than I can count.”
Collin eased back into his chair, all humor depleted. “That’s right, John, you did. Which makes this all the more upsetting. What’s going on?”
Brady closed his eyes and ran a shaky hand over his face. “I can’t tell you.”
“Why? From the very beginning, you’ve known everything about me—my past, my present, what I think, what I feel. The best of friends, closer than brothers. Don’t you think I deserve the same?”
Brady lowered his head. “You do, but I can’t tell you.”
Collin’s jaw tightened. “Why?”
“Because I’m not ready.”
Collin slammed his fist on the table. “Not ready for what? To be a friend?”
Brady’s head lunged up, his eyes swimming with pain. “No, Collin, not ready to lose one.”
Collin blinked. He swallowed the emotion lumped in his throat and nodded. “If I leave, will you promise to talk to Father Mac?”
Brady nodded slowly, his eyes dull.
Collin stood. He glanced at Father Mac. “Can you try to get him to eat? I want him healthy at work tomorrow.” Collin gave Brady’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’m tired of carrying him.” He started for the door.
“Collin?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ll have half of day’s work done before you even shadow the door.”
Collin turned, hand poised on the knob. His throat tightened. “I want you to know, John, whatever you did, no matter how bad you think it may be, I will stand by you. I’m proud to call you my friend, because I know who you are—a man of integrity, honor and passion for God. And nothing—nothing—you can say will ever change that for me. I love you like a brother, John, and always will. See you tomorrow.” The door clicked softly behind him.
Brady drew in a deep breath and avoided Matt’s gaze. Tears filled his eyes. “Like a brother,” he whispered. “That doesn’t sound so good right about now.”
Father Mac leveled beefy arms on the table and leaned in. His tone was quiet. “Worse than you thought?”
Brady’s laughter held no mirth. “Yeah. Not only was I a child drunk, but apparently I was depraved enough to sleep with my father’s wife.”
He heard Father Mac flinch, the faint intake of breath piercing Brady’s consciousness anew. He was an infidel. A lost soul. A man who committed incest and adultery to gratify his own flesh.
He staggered to his feet, suddenly craving the numbing effect of the bottles he’d stolen from Michael’s stash. “I’d rather you leave, Matt. I feel sick and need to lie down.”
A firm grip fisted his arm. “No, John, we need to deal with this now. Once and for all.”
Brady jerked away, his eyes itching with tension. “And how do you propose to do that, Matt? What exactly do you have? A potion or magic formula that will make it all go away?”
Father Mac stared. The brown of his eyes deepened with intensity in a face that radiated pure peace and calm. “No potion, John, and no formula. Just the saving blood of Jesus Christ.”
The impact of Matt’s words pierced his heart. He looked away. “Maybe that’s not enough this time.”
“It’s always enough, John.” Father Mac pulled out a chair. “Sit. Please?”
Brady hesitated, then did as he asked, slowly sinking into the chair. He leaned his elbows on the table and put his face in his hands. “How can God forgive something like this? Adultery, incest?”
Father Mac exhaled and sat down beside him. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “He does it all the time. I know a man who committed adultery and then murdered his lover’s husband, but God forgave him.”
Brady looked up with shock in his eyes.
A faint smile shadowed Matt’s lips. “In fact, he called him a man after his own heart.”
“King David?”
Father Mac nodded. He removed his hand from Brady’s shoulder and took a drink of his coffee. He wrinkled his nose. “Cold. Want me to warm it up?”
Father Mac didn’t wait for his answer, but dumped both cups and replaced them with hot. He set them on the table and sat back down. “King David was an unusual character. Loved God with all of his heart, but had this unfortunate flaw.” Father Mac paused to taste his coffee, then quirked his lips. “He was human. For instance, one day he’s dancing before the Lord in a linen ephod, not giving a whit that his wife thinks he’s making a fool of himself. Then down the road a bit, he’s lusting after a married woman he sees taking a bath on the roof of her house. And what does he do, this man who loves God with all of his heart? He takes her to his bed, then has her husband sent to the battlefront to be killed.”
Father Mac leaned in, his gaze intent. “He committed adultery and murder, yet he’s still the only man in the Bible God refers to as ‘a man after His own heart.’ Now why is that, I wonder? I’ll tell you why. Because David was a man who had a love affair with God. Imagine that—emotionally involved with the God of the Universe. Trusted Him, worshiped him, sought after him—and all without restraint. Did he mess up? You bet. Did he repent? With all of his heart, aching inside whenever he offended his God. Why? Because he had a Father-son relationship with him, loved him and wanted to please him.” Father Mac hesitated, slowly tracing his finger along the rim of his cup. He finally raised his eyes to capture Brady with a fixed stare. “Just like you, John.”
Brady looked away, swallowing the emotion trapped in his throat. “Cursed be he that lieth with his father’s wife. Deuteronomy 27:20.” His voice was flat. “How do you respond to that?”
“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us … and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. 1 John 1:9.”
Brady peered through slitted lids. “And you believe that? For something as vile as this?”
“God is not a man, that he should lie. Numbers 23:19.”
A ghost of a smile flickered on Brady’s lips. “Since when do you have scripture down cold?”
Father Mac leaned back in the chair and pushed up the sleeves of his cassock. A hint of a smile appeared. “Since I began butting heads with you.”
“I know the scriptures, Matt. It’s just that when it comes to me, I have trouble believing they could apply.” He expelled a slow, jagged breath. “But you’re saying that if I confess right now … my sins with Lucille … they’re over with? Gone?”
“Cast into the depths of the sea. Micah 7:19.”
Brady closed his eyes, feeling the first glimmer of hope he’d felt in a long, long while. Over with. Gone. Miles away from guilty. As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.
He looked up at the touch of Father Mac’s hand on his arm. “You ready?” Father Mac asked, the hope in his friend’s eyes enough to stir his own.
Brady nodded, exhaling softly. He gripped Father Mac’s hand like a lifeline, a man desperate for absolution. “More than ready,” he whispered. He drew in a deep breath and made the sign of the cross, then bowed his head. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned …”
Thursday, March 17, 2016
The older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune.
–Irish Proverb
Welllllllll … I’m not all that sure THIS Irish proverb is true when it comes to people, because trust me, this old fiddle has seen a lot of wear and tear!
BUT … I will attest that I am “sweeter” on St. Pat’s Day, one of my favorite days of the year. I wonder why???
I suppose it could be because I am one quarter Irish myself (my best quarter, I like to say) and because I first fell in love with everything Irish after I read Gone With the Wind with the O’Hara family.
AND now … to celebrate St. Pat’s AND the FREE DOWNLOAD of A Hope Undaunted, here’s my favorite excerpt from that book!
Moving slowly, Katie made her way to the time clock to punch out and then went to collect her purse from the drawer. Her mood was a little blue, and she wasn’t sure why. Outside the window, she spied Betty and Parker holding Gabe’s hand and swinging her high every few feet or so. Their laughter floated up, taunting her on a breeze. She sagged against the sill, wishing more than anything she were playing Pinochle with them tonight. She clutched her purse to her chest, suddenly missing them all.
With acute frustration, she threw back her shoulders and stood up straight, desperate to shake this unsettled feeling. “What’s the matter with me?” she muttered under her breath, completely baffled by her melancholy mood.
Could it be the weekend, she wondered, the fact that all of her friends would be out while she was confined? And yet, thoughts of Jack and the gang left her surprisingly cold. With a deep sigh, she pressed her forehead to the window screen and closed her eyes, reluctant to leave and go home. And then it came to her, as light and firm as the screen against her skin. She was lonely, she suddenly realized. Lonely for the closeness that Betty and Parker and Luke all shared, lonely for their friendship, for the sense of family they created . . . lonely for . . . Luke?
She sucked in a harsh breath, the thought seizing her with a cold wave of fear. No! She listed against the windowsill, her mind glazed with shock. Not him, please, God, no . . . It was just attraction and nothing more.
Isn’t it?
She closed her eyes and put her face in her hand, seeing beyond the handsome face and heart-melting grin. In one short month, the bane of her past had become the haunt of her present, drawing her to him like he drew everyone else. A magnet of a man who was warm and kind and giving . . . and, she swallowed hard . . . incredibly poor.
Her purse slipped to the floor, but Katie could only stand with her hand to her mouth while panic struck deep in the pit of her stomach. She bit her lip hard. She would not do this, she vowed. She would not fall in love with a man who was not part of her plan. She needed Jack—a man with ambition and political connections, someone who not only supported her dream of championing women’s causes, but whose wealth and family could help her achieve it. She put a shaky hand to her eyes and expelled a jagged breath, quite certain that would never be Luke—a man shackled to the streets and content to stay there.
___
“Katie, are you okay?” Luke loosened his tie and stared, concern creasing his brow as he watched her, her body slumped at the window with a hand to her eyes. She didn’t move, and the tightness in his gut increased. He approached quietly, afraid he would startle her. “Katie?”
“Oh!” She whirled around, staggering against the sill with a hand to her chest.
He clutched her arm to steady her, and the color drained from her cheeks. Softening his hold, he absently grazed her skin with his thumb, then ducked his head and smiled, eyes tender as he studied her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Are you all right?”
She nodded stiffly, her gaze glued to the massive hand on her arm.
Worry wrinkled the bridge of his nose and he braced both palms on her shoulders, convinced something was wrong. Her face was white and her breathing labored, and he could swear he felt a hint of a tremble. “No, I can feel it. Something’s bothering you.” He pressed his hand to her forehead. “Are you sick?”
She jerked back from his hold and butted up against the window, arms crossed and hugging her waist. “No!” she said too quickly to suit him, clearly avoiding his eyes. “I mean maybe a little dizzy, but nothing serious. I just need to go home . . .”
He shifted, suddenly concerned it had to do with him. He plunged his hands in his pockets and softened his tone. “Katie . . . is it me? Did I say or do something to upset you?”
She shook her head, gaze bonded to the floor. “No, Luke, really, please, I just need to—”
He nudged her chin up with his thumb, and her lips parted with a sharp intake of breath. And then he saw it. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, the soft rose in her cheeks, the skittish look in her eyes, flitting to his lips and then quickly away. Comprehension suddenly oozed through him like heated honey purling through his veins. Could it be? Was it possible that cold, callous Katie O’Connor was beginning to warm up? To him, of all people—Cluny McGee, the leper from her past? The thought sent warm ripples of shock through his body, thinning the air in his lungs. His gaze gentled, taking in the vulnerability in her eyes, the fear in her face, and all he wanted to do was hold her, reassure her.
As if under a spell, his gaze was drawn to her lips, parted and full, and the sound of her shallow breathing filled him with a fierce longing. “Oh, Katie,” he whispered, no power over the pull he was suddenly feeling. In slow motion, he bent toward her, closing his eyes to caress her mouth with his own. A weak gasp escaped her as she stiffened, but he couldn’t relent. The taste of her lips was far more than he bargained for, and he drew her close with a raspy groan. With a fierce hold, he cupped the back of her neck and kissed her deeply, gently, possessive in his touch. His fingers twined in her hair, desperate to explore.
And then all at once, beyond his comprehension, her body melded to his with an answering groan, and he was shocked when her mouth rivaled his with equal demand. Desire licked through him, searing his body and then his conscience. With a heated shudder, he gripped her arms and pushed her back, his breathing ragged as he held her at bay.
“We can’t do this,” he whispered. He dropped his hold and exhaled, gouging shaky fingers through disheveled hair. His gaze returned, capturing hers and riddled with regret. “Believe me, Katie, as much as I want to, I’ve learned the hard way to take things slow. I should have never started this, and I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”
___
Forgive him? She stared at him through glazed eyes, her pulse still pumping in her veins at a ridiculous rate. She never wanted this, couldn’t stand the sight of him, and now here she was, tingling from his touch and desperate for more. Addicted to the “King of Misery.” The very thought inflamed both fury and desire at the same time, muddling her mind. Dear Lord, she was torn between welding her lips to his or slapping him silly. With a tight press of her mouth, she opted for the second and smacked him clean across the face.
His jaw dropped a full inch, complemented nicely by a slash of red across his cheek.
Her chest was heaving, but at least it wasn’t from his touch. She narrowed her eyes and clutched her fists at her side, not all that sure she wouldn’t slap him again. “So help me, if you ever touch me again, you will be the sorriest person alive.”
He slowly rubbed his cheek with the side of his hand, exercising his jaw as if to make sure it still worked. His eyes glinted like blue glass, sharp and deadly. Even so, the swaggering smile of old eased across his face. He bent forward, his tall frame looming over her like a bad omen, and his voice held that cocky drawl so reminiscent of his past. “What’s the matter, Katie Rose,” he whispered, “does my touch make you nervous?”
The heat in her cheeks went straight to her temper. She iced him with a cool gaze. “Nervous? Around you? Hardly. You can dress up in a suit all you like, Luke McGee, but to me you’ll always be the same cocky street brat with a twang in your voice and grime on your face.”
She knew her words hit their mark when a red blotch crawled up the back of his neck like a rash gone awry. A nerve pulsed in his temple, but his smile never wavered despite the steel edge of his jaw. One blond brow jagged high in challenge. “Is that a fact? Well then, how about a little experiment? Kind of like when you were eleven and I bet you couldn’t be nice?” He leaned close, his voice as hard as his eyes. “What d’ya bet I can make you nervous now?”
She tried to shove him out of the way. “I’m going home.”
“Not yet,” he whispered, blocking her in with a push to the wall. His voice, like the dominance of his hold, was a force to be reckoned with. “You always packed a wallop for a little girl, Katydid, but this time you picked the wrong street brat. You can turn your nose up at me all you want, but we both know that slap wasn’t so much about an innocent kiss . . .” He bent close, his eyes on fire and the scent of peppermint hot against her face. “As how it made you feel.”
His words seemed to vibrate through her, low and thick in the air. She shuddered, and the force of his savage look trapped all protest in her throat.
“To you I’ll always be riffraff, something vulgar and crude. Well, welcome to my world, Miss O’Connor. And, please, let me show you how we do it on the ‘streets.’ Because if I’m going to take a beating, you can bet your bottom dollar on two things for sure. One—I’m going to get my money’s worth.” A dangerous smile surfaced as his gaze focused on her lips. “And two . . .” His mouth hovered just above hers while his voice trailed to a whisper. “I’m gonna make you real nervous in the process.”
In a catch of her breath, he took her mouth by force, his late-day beard rough against her skin. A faint moan escaped her lips and all resistance fled, burned away by the heat of his touch, leaving her weak and wanting. His mouth roamed at will, no longer gentle as he devoured her, ravenous against the smooth curve of her throat, the soft flesh of her ear. With a guttural groan, he jerked her close with powerful arms, consuming her mouth with a kiss surely driven by the sheer will to ravage.
And then in a frantic beat of her heart, he shoved her away. She gasped, numb as she thudded against the wall. His chest was heaving and his eyes were hard, focused on her with cool disregard. “There. Now that makes two of the sorriest people alive.” He grabbed her purse from the floor and threw it on her desk, then rubbed his mouth with the side of his hand. “Better run home, Katydid. God knows the riffraff that roam the street this time of night.”
He turned and walked into his office, slamming the door hard.
She stared, her body still quivering from his rage. Closing her eyes, she sagged against the wall, too stunned to move and too shaken to care. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, her lips swollen from the taste of him. She was doomed, she realized, and the thought shivered through her like a cold chill. She wanted a man she didn’t really want, and the very notion weakened her at the knees. He had called her one of the sorriest people alive. She grappled for her purse and put a hand to her eyes.
And God help her, she was.
Meet Julie
