Journal Jots – Blog

“For if we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord.

So then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s.”

—Romans 14:8

I gotta tell you — this has been one rugged week, which is why I am late with this Jot. As I write this, I am sitting in a hospital room with my precious Aunt Julie who has literally been on a roller-coaster with death since late Wednesday night when she went to the emergency room, unable to keep food down.

She looked awful when we arrived in the ER—pale, breathing rapidly and eyes glazed. As the responsible party, let me tell you that I quaked in my sandals when the ER doctor told me our only option might be a feeding tube inserted in her stomach, something my aunt most adamantly specified in her end-of-life dictates that she did NOT want. They finally settled her in a room at 2:00 AM, and my husband and I left exhausted, weighed down by the decision that loomed before us.

The next day, AJ was sitting up in bed comfortably and looked like a million bucks, bolting down breakfast and most of her lunch like a college football player. I exhaled a HUGE sigh of relief and felt almost giddy when the doc said she should be able to go home in a day or two.

And then her heart rate went crazy and her blood pressure plummeted, and two different doctors and two different nurses told us to prepare for the end because her organs were shutting down.

Frantic, I called my cousin in Kansas City and told her to come, then notified the rest of the family. The next day, doctors’ jaws were dropping (literally!!) when they stared at Aunt Julie while she plowed through huge mounds of pureed lunch like a farmer after a hunger strike. One doc just shook his head and said he didn’t know what to say. But I did—PRAISE GOD!!!

The next morning, she took a turn for the worse, and they feared she would die in hours. That was yesterday. Today, she is still chowing down tons of food and the kidney failure is reversing and she looks like a million bucks again.

That’s my Aunt Julie—resilient, stubborn, spunky and never say die!  Sounds like the perfect romance heroine, doesn’t it???

I gotta tell you—I have NEVER liked roller-coasters, EVER, because a CDQ like me just doesn’t handle the ups and downs all that well, which is a good thing I guess, because it means I cling to God all the more. Whether I am rejoicing during the giddy highs or careening down at breakneck speed to what I am sure will be my sudden death, HE is the only thing that brings stability and peace and hope, no matter the highs or lows, no matter the laughing or the mourning. Because the bottom line in life or death is the truth of the Scripture above. “Whether we live or whether we die … we are the Lord’s,” and never have I been happier to know that than now.

Your prayers for my Aunt Julie and me and my family are greatly appreciated, no matter where God takes this, no matter what His decision may be. I cannot thank you enough for your friendship … and she and I can’t thank you enough for your prayers!

Hugs,

Julie

NOTE: THE FOLLOWING GIVEAWAY ENDS TODAY (SATURDAY NIGHT, 8/25) AT MIDNIGHT!!!

THREE CHANCES TO WIN!!! Win your choice of any of my books INCLUDING A Love Surrendered or A Light in the Window: An Irish Christmas Love Story (e-book only) at INKSPIRATIONAL MESSAGES BLOG. Hope to see you there! Here’s the link:

 http://inkspirationalmessages.com/2012/08/welcome-julie-lessman/

 

“His breathing was ragged like hers, warm and sweet

with the faint scent of chocolate from his chocolate cream pie, and when his gaze

lowered to her lips, heat coiled through her so strong,

it sapped all moisture from her throat.

—A Light in the Window: An Irish Christmas Love Story

—by Julie Lessman

Okay, okay, I have an addiction to romance, but thankfully, only the kind with God in the middle. And guess what I’ve learned through 34 years of marriage?? Passion for romance is not only what God wants for us, but also what He wants from us—passion in our romance with Him that leaves us breathless and cherished and oh, SO very grateful for His hand in our lives.

As a matter of fact, I’m pretty crazy about passion in any form, be it spiritually or romantically, which is why I am SO excited about my upcoming Christmas e-book, A Light in the Window: An Irish Christmas Love Story. Not only was I passionate about writing this prequel to Marcy and Patrick’s story in the first place, but I’m passionate about the cover my talented artist husband created (which features my daughter Amy holding a snow globe that is part of the story) AND the story itself!

A Light in the Window: An Irish Christmas Love Story begins in 1895 following a decade of explosive industrial growth and immigration that Mark Twain called America’s “Gilded Age,” when the nation plummets into the worst economic depression at that time.

Marceline O’Connor and her best friend Julie O’Rourke have been selected to assist Sister Mary Frances with the Christmas play fundraiser for the St. Mary’s parish soup kitchen. The play is called A Light in the Window, based on the Irish custom of placing a candle in the window on Christmas Eve to welcome strangers as if welcoming the Holy Family.

One of the reasons I am so passionate about this story is because of the poignant message behind this beautiful Irish custom, a message driven home by the play itself and Marcy’s grandmother Mima when she arrives for Christmas. Mima cautions Marcy to guard her heart for the type of man who will respond to the “light in the window,” meaning the message of Christ in her heart. Marcy soon discovers that although two men have professed their undying love for her, only one has responded to “the light in the window.” This is a message I learned myself as a young woman and a message I long to pass on.

And so, in honor of the release of my final cover, I thought it fitting to give you another sneak peek at this very special story, which will be available for pre-order SOON (as an e-book only, although I will have some contests where I will send a printed ms. out to the winner if need be).

But before I do, here are a few opportunities for you to win a copy of it or any of my books, including A Love Surrendered.

 

GIVEAWAYS!!!

HURRY!! THE FOLLOWING GIVEAWAY ENDS TODAY, FRIDAY, 8/17, AT 5:00 PM CENTRAL TIME!!

Join me for my Seeker post entitled “Kiss-ology 101: Warming up the Pages with Romantic Tension.” I’ll include plenty of excerpts from upcoming books and have a giveaway of any of my books including A Love Surrendered or A Light in the Window, so hope to see you there!

http://seekerville.blogspot.com/2012/08/kiss-ology-101-warming-up-pages-with.html

AUGUST 17-22, 2012:

Win your choice of any of my books INCLUDING A Love Surrendered or A Light in the Window: An Irish Christmas Love Story (e-book only) at HARDCOVER FEEDBACK BLOG. Hope to see you there! Here’s the link:

http://hardcoverfeedback.blogspot.com/2012/08/julie-lessman-interview-and-giveaway.html

AUGUST 24 – 25, 2012:

THREE CHANCES TO WIN!!! Win your choice of any of my books INCLUDING A Love Surrendered or A Light in the Window: An Irish Christmas Love Story (e-book only) at INKSPIRATIONAL MESSAGES BLOG. Hope to see you there! Here’s the link:

 http://inkspirationalmessages.com/

And now, without further ado, here is a sneak peek at a scene from A Light in the Window: An Irish Christmas Love Story where Marcy and Patrick are doing dishes at the St. Mary’s soup kitchen where they both volunteer, following a very serious discussion about Marcy and her romantic relationship with Sam O’Rourke.

 

A Light in the Window: An Irish Christmas Love Story

One Woman. Two Men.

One stirs her pulse and the other her faith.

But who will win her heart?

“Shall we toss to see who mops the floor?” she asked, forcing a levity to her tone she didn’t quite feel.

He slipped the now damp dishtowel over a brass hook bolted to the side of the cabinet and turned, a glimmer of tease invading his serious gaze. “Odd, I wouldn’t have pegged you for a gambling woman, Miss Murphy.” He slanted against the counter, arms folded.

She flipped a stray curl over her shoulders and sashayed into the kitchen, dishrag in hand and a smirk on her face. “Of course I am, Mr. O’Connor—I gambled on friendship with you, didn’t I?”

Fishing a coin from his pocket, he shot her a grin. “That was a matter of intelligence, not risk.” He lobbed a nickel at her and she caught it one-handed, coaxing a throaty chuckle from his lips. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve done this before, Marceline?”

“Because I have,” she said with a cocky smile, feeling a bit reckless. She strutted over and fisted her hand, thumb tucked and dishrag dangling while she positioned the coin on top. “Julie and I used to toss to see who got to read a book first, you know.”

His teeth gleamed white. “How decadent.”

Her smile was smug. “No, Mr. Wiseacre, ‘decadent’ will be me enjoying an oatmeal cookie at the table with feet propped while you mop the floor.” She arched a brow. “Ready?” With practiced dexterity, she popped her thumb beneath the nickel, and it launched in the air, her breathing suspended while the coin toppled over and over.

Plunk. With a devious smile, Patrick snatched it just inches from her hand and slapped it on top of his. “Call it.”

She pursed her lips, eyes squinted as she tried to visualize which side of the coin it might be. “Heads,” she said with a confident hike of her chin, praying her intuition was correct.

His groan rose in the air when he lifted his palm. “I hate mopping the floor,” he muttered, slipping the nickel back in his pocket.

Giddy over her win, she giggled. “Don’t be a baby, Patrick, a little soapy water won’t hurt you.” Mischief bubbled up along with her laughter as she sloshed the rag in the sudsy dishwater and flicked it at him, intending only to splatter a few drops his way. She gasped when the rag accidentally flew from her hand. Eyes wide, her jaw dropped as it pelted him in the face and fell to the floor, leaving soapy water sluicing down his dark-bristled cheek. “Oh, P-patrick, I am so s-sorry …” Her voice trailed off into a fit of giggles she could no more stop than the water stains that dribbled down his trousers into a puddle at his feet.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have done that, darlin’ …” he said with a glint of retaliation. Whisking the sopping rag up off of the floor, he squeezed it with a lightning thrust of his arm, showering Marcy’s torso—and Miss Clara’s apron front—with soapy water.

Marcy shrieked and giggled, but not before dousing Patrick’s chest with a slash of her hand in the sink, slamming him with a wave of dirty dishwater before she darted away. Flushed with excitement, she felt like a little girl again, having a pillow fight with Julie. Adrenaline coursed while she scrambled to the other side of the table, her breathing hard and hands braced to a chair. “Come on, Patrick—truce,” she begged, tone breathless.

Dipping the dishrag into the dirty water once again, he casually tossed the sodden rag back and forth while he ambled toward the table with a wicked grin. “Sure, Marceline—right after I even the score.”

Her stomach skittered as she pleaded, eyes darting to the door and back with a nervous laugh. “Miss Clara will be back any minute, and she said not to start any trouble.”

Step by step, his grin never wavered as he rounded the table. “I didn’t.”

“Patrick, please—I’ll be good, I promise.” Her body pulsed with adrenaline as she skirted the table in the opposite direction, praying Miss Clara would return before she got soaked.

His husky chuckle sent goose bumps up her arms. “I know, Marcy—good and wet.”

With a wild shriek she made a break for the door, laughing so hard, she didn’t hear him coming until he whirled her around. Her laughter turned to squeals when she tried to get away, but he clamped a steel arm to her waist while he held the rag dangerously close to her neck. “Repeat after me, Marceline,” he whispered, eyes issuing a challenge. “Patrick, I’m a brat, I’m sorry, and I will never do this again.”

Pulse sprinting, she giggled, eyes flicking from him to the rag in his hand, weighing her options. “And if I don’t?”

One dark brow jutted high as his smile eased into a grin. “You won’t have to bathe tonight, darlin’.”

His words warmed both her cheeks and her temper. “You wouldn’t,” she dared.

“Only one way to find out.” There was a bit of the devil in his eye, the rag dangling precariously close to her neck

Marcy sucked in a deep breath. “All right, Patrick,” she said, skin tingling with mischief and eye on the rag, “I’m a brat, I’m sorry, and I … won’t promise—” Lunging, she whipped the rag from his hands so fast, he never saw it coming, christening him with dirty dishwater like Father Fitz christened babies in the back of the church.

He hooked her waist before she could escape, and her high-pitch giggles merged with his husky laughter as she flailed in his arms, a death grip on the soppy rag thrashing over their heads. Dishwater flew every which way while he tried to reclaim it, but Marcy hid it behind her back with squeals of laughter. Locking her to his chest with one arm, he circled her waist with his other, his breath warm on her cheek as he grappled to claim the win.

“Give … it … up … Patrick,” she breathed, her words punctuated by shrieks and shallow rasps as she tried to wrestle free, “you will … never win …”

Her words seemed to paralyze him, and in a single heave of her breath, his body stilled against hers. She could feel the ragged rise and fall of his chest, the hot press of his arm at the small of her back, the wild hammering of her pulse in her ears. All at once, she was painfully aware of his nearness, bare inches away from the dark stubble that peppered his jaw. His hard-muscled chest was so close she could almost feel the dampness of his shirt while the familiar scent of spices and pine whirled her senses. His breathing was ragged like hers, warm and sweet with the faint scent of chocolate from his chocolate cream pie, and when his gaze lowered to her lips, heat coiled through her so strong, it sapped all moisture from her throat.

The silence was deafening as he stared, a battle waging in eyes that eclipsed to a dark fervor, shocking her when they quivered her belly. “I will never give up, Marceline,” he whispered, his words a tender caress. His lips parted to emit shallow breaths, and fire singed when his glance flickered to her mouth once again.

“T-take it …” she whispered, alarm curling in her stomach. Dear Lord, had he meant to kiss me? Prodding the rag to his chest, she pushed him away while heat throbbed in her cheeks. She took an awkward step back, gaze on the floor as she buffed at her arms with brisk motion. “Goodness, Miss Clara will have our hides,” she said with nervous chuckle, unable to look at him even yet. “You win, Patrick—I surrender.” She forced a casual tone and attempted to side-step him on her way to the broom closet.

Her heart seized when he halted her with a gentle hand. “Marcy …” His voice was somber and steeped with regret. “Please forgive me …”

 “For what?” A deep voice sounded from the door, shattering what was left of Marcy’s calm.

You’re the Father to the fatherless,

the answer to my dreams 

—Glory to the King by Hillsong

One of my very favorite songs by Hillsong is Glory to the King, and yes, it’s true—I tear up whenever I listen to this song on the treadmill, just like this morning. The two lines that choke me up every single time are those in our quote above because you see, I’ve been an orphan since the age of twenty-three, and to be honest, I think I was an orphan long before that, at least in my heart. Motherless from sixteen years of age, I never felt loved or close to my mom once in all that time, something I look forward to God correcting someday on streets of gold.

But for some reason, it’s the loss of my father—whom we all called “Daddy”— at the age of twenty-three that rips me up the most when I hear the lines above because you see, my dad died right after I became a Christian … BUT not before God gave me the precious gift of reconciliation.

My dad was an eye surgeon and one of the best ophthalmologists in St. Louis, but I’ll be honest—he was a bit quirky, especially after he became a widower. He was a no-nonsense, bottom-line type of guy who had a charming personality but was really a recluse deep down inside. He’d do crazy things like throw string over the telephone wire outside his bedroom window to see which way the wind was blowing rather than break down and buy a weather vane. His television chair faced away from the door, so he bolted a really ugly wood-framed mirror catty-corner to the wall and to my mother’s intricately carved antique hutch so he could see anybody walking up behind him.

I won’t sugarcoat it here—I hated him. The man kicked me out of the house at 10:00 p.m. one night because I gave him a dirty look when he ordered me to make his bed. And trust me, you did not give my dad any sass or dirty looks or you found yourself on the floor. But I was twenty-one and a bit of a rebel, so when he lunged at me, I tried to ward him off with a kick in the stomach and some choice words. Needless to say, I found myself out on the streets late at night, along with my little sister, Katie, who insisted on coming with me.

Somehow things worked out, although I never attributed it to God. My orphan mentality extended to Him as well because I had two parents that professed to know Him while they emotionally abused each of their children and each other. My sister and I stayed with one of our married sisters for two nights before I was able to find a furnished flat and support both of us with my measly secretarial job. Dad never once called to see where or how we were, so I vowed I’d never go back …

And then I met the “Father to the fatherless,” a loving God who took me from the cold and bitter dark into the glorious light and I was no longer a rejected orphan but a child of the King, greatly loved. Talk about the “answer to my dreams,” Jesus Christ definitely was. He picked me up, dusted me off and replaced my heart of stone with a heart of flesh, just like He promised in His Word, and I have NEVER, EVER been the same!! Oh my, I would have gladly done anything for Him after that … or so I thought … until I got my very first marching orders. “Forgive and love your father,” He said, and as God is my witness, one long, agonizing groan trailed from my lips.

“But this is the guy who beat me with his belt, his shoe and a cat-of-nine-tails,” I’d argue to God, “the man who belittled me and demeaned me. He called me an angle-shooter and a whore, and finally turned me out to fend for myself.” Forgive him, the thought came, and love him. “But how?” I moaned. “Love is a decision,” my prayer partner Joy would say, “do it for God—for Him and through Him.” If you love me, keep my commands — John 14:15 and Anyone who loves me will obey my teaching” — John 14:23.

Heavy sigh. So, yep, that’s exactly what I did. First I repented for my bitterness toward my dad, then I prayed to forgive him and then I put feet to my decision, along with a lot of prayer. “Help me to love him, God,” I would pray, and He did. I was single at the time, so once a week I started going to see Daddy, which consisted of me bringing his favorite dish—homemade beef stew for him to enjoy later—and me watching TV with him while we only talked during commercials. At the end of the evening, we’d only said a handful of words all night, but at the door, I would always put my arms around him and tell him I loved him. Of course, he never hugged me nor said it back. But I can tell you right now that one of the most poignant memories of my entire life is the night many months later that I went to hug my father good night. Suddenly I felt the slow circle of his arms around my back, awkward and halting. “I love you, Daddy,” I whispered with tears in my eyes. “I love you, too,” came his gruff answer, and light years of healing took place in my heart in the single drop of a tear.

That was a turning point for my dad and me, a restoration for a rejected little girl and the bitter, angry man who never really knew the love of God in His life until an equally bitter daughter gave him a glimpse. My dad and I became very close after that until he died mere months later. But not before he gave me the greatest gift he ever could.

As some of you know, I grew up being ridiculed and made fun of by classmates and my own family (sound familiar with Katie O’Connor in A Hope Undaunted??) because I was skinny, had crooked teeth and psoriasis. Oh, and I was a major CDQ (caffeinated drama queen, only the caffeine was Dr. Pepper instead of coffee!), so I was easy to make fun of. Over the course of my teen years, I had at least five guys tell me I was ugly, so I never felt pretty or attractive until one miraculous day when I was showing my dad our family picture someone took at my sister’s wedding. “You’re the best-looking one in the bunch,” he said in his no-nonsense way, and my heart clutched in my chest while years of insecurity slowly crumbled away. His words may seem shallow to some, but to me they were the words of my Heavenly father spoken through the lips of my daddy on earth. “You are altogether beautiful, my darling; there is no flaw in you” — Song of Solomon 4:7.

And you know what? I am—through Him! And so are you!

Have a “beautiful” weekend!

GIVEAWAY!!! Join me this Monday, August 13-16 for my Seeker post entitled, “Kiss-ology 101: Warming up the Pages with Romantic Tension.” I’ll include plenty of excerpts from upcoming books and have a giveaway of any of my books including A Love Surrendered or A Light in the Window, so hope to see you there!

Hugs,

Julie