While in India, I talk to Sandeep after church. He is happy to see me again after a year and a half, but disappointed Sir Chuck is not with me. I am, too. It's only been four days, but I miss hubby somethin' terrrible! Hopefully, I'll return home with a deeper commitment to our marriage than ever before. As they say, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." I tend to forget the little irritations that annoy me about him. Only the good qualities rise to the surface. If only I could tuck that bit of realization away for future reference, like when we are together again.

Sandeep's bright eyes shine as he talks to me. He is still the only convert in his Hindu family. We continue to pray for his wife, an architect, and his family that they will see his genuine faith and be moved by the Holy Spirit to receive Jesus as Savior. Sandeep is probably in his late 50s, but his faith is as fresh and real as a child's. In response to Pastor Sammi's sermon on faithfulness to the Lord, Sandeep tells me, "My Lord is loving me, even though I am a very naughty boy." He went on to say, "I was sitting this week and wondering how could I best show that I love the Lord; what would help me see that I truly do love Him? Then it came to me: Obedience. I must obey what He tells me." FULL POST

"I don't need to tell you Be Not Afraid is suspenseful. Just look at the cover. Neither do I need to tell you it carries a thread of hope and inspiration throughout the story. Just look at the title. Ms. Lynne has conceived a fascinating storyline that captured me at the very beginning. Our heroine, Samantha Cain, is the widow of a policeman. The entire 3rd Precinct where her late husband, Martin, worked blames her for his death. Now, her own life threatened by a serial killer who thinks she can identify him, Samantha is forced to rely on the protection of Detective Matthew Jefferies, who is not only from the 3rd Precinct but is her husband's former partner. How does conflict get any better than that?

The psychotic killer is not interested in doing away with Samantha immediately. He plays with her mind, wants her to know he can drop her at will and there's nothing she can do about it. Reminiscent of the movie Play Misty for Me, at every scene you're on the edge of your seat in anticipation of the next physical or psychological attack, wondering when he will make the final move of the game. Samantha leans on her faith to sustain her, as her trust in the police force is at an all-time low from the treatment she received after Martin's suicide. Matthew struggles with his own insecurities and prejudices as he protects Samantha and tries to track down the killer before he strikes again. And neither of them understand nor welcome a growing attraction they discover for each other. Ms. Lynne develops a great story culminating in an unexpected showdown scene between Samantha and the killer. She keeps the tension up throughout, but doesn't exhaust the reader—at least, not unduly. Good show, Deborah! FULL POST

For one very long semester, I worked as a substitute teacher. The phone would ring before the sun came up, and I got my assignment for the day. On a particularly cold morning, I found myself in a room with fifteen EBD (Emotionally and Behaviorally Disordered), elementary-aged students from around our school district. There was one other adult who served as an aide, but he left before attendance was taken to help find an EBD student who was a "runner." She had escaped immediately after arriving on the bus.

All was not chaos. The regular teacher had left instructions on his desk. I passed around nametags and markers, then set out to collect them.

One young man, a big sixth-grader, did not comply with my request to write his name. He watched as I neared him. "What's your deal?" he asked, spinning a thick book around the top of his desk.

"I'm the substitute," I said brightly.

"Yeah, I get that," he said. "What's your deal, though? Do you freak out if I just break my pencil in half, or does it take somebody throwing a chair at you?" FULL POST

My husband, Chuck, and I stepped into the waiting room. A middle-aged woman glanced at us from behind her magazine while an elderly gentleman studied the carpeted floor. The glass panel at the counter whooshed to the side. The receptionist invited us to sign the sheet and take a seat.

Annual blood work time. Three weeks prior, we'd tightened the reins on our already healthy diet in hopes of producing good results. Per typical, to stave off nerves, we joked with each other as we took our seats in the leather chairs.

To occupy time, I pulled out a New Testament from my purse and began flipping through the pages to 1 Peter 1:19. That morning at home and then in the car, Chuck and I had discussed the word "precious" in this book written by the fisherman and bold disciple.

I ran my finger down the page, stopping at verses 18 and 19. "Listen to this," I urged, continuing our devotional time as if we were the only two in the room, but also aware our exchange might scatter some spiritual seed. FULL POST

As winter began this year, my husband and I rented lodging on the far edge of the wild Olympic peninsula. No telephone, no television, no Internet. Out the window a few yards away, the boiling Pacific Ocean crashed onto the beach. We scanned the sculpted rocks and the writhing horizon that took away our breath with its beauty.

We stayed only a few days. To gain the full benefit, I think, one needs at least a week, preferably two or three. A couple of days passed before I accustomed myself to the rhythm of the place, before the thoughts began coming, the words forming.

I didn't miss the telephone (not even our cells worked) or the television. The Internet was the most difficult to do without. No checking on the weather two or three times a day. No news from the outside, which, these days, is perhaps a blessing.

I think what I came away with (along with a measure of deeper peace) is the sense of God's infinite diversity. Tides four times a day, but each different from the one before. Ceaseless waves, but each one, like a snowflake, different from any other. FULL POST

"Then Moses said, 'I pray You, show me Your glory!'" (Exodus 33:18 NASB)

Moses and the Israelites had been in the desert for a long time. They were all growing rather impatient...actually, they were all really sick to death of wandering in the hot sand and eating manna. The people complained incessantly to Moses; Moses complained to God. God listened. Luckily for the Israelites, Moses found favor with God, causing God to spare the Israelites...one more time. During one of the Tent Meetings (Exodus 33), God and Moses had a heart-to-heart conversation something like this:

GOD: Get these people out of here now. And I won't be going with you because they are driving me crazy. I just might destroy them all if I stay with you any longer.

MOSES: You told me to lead these people out of Egypt. And now we're wandering and you won't let me in on Your secrets about what comes next. These people are driving me crazy too! If you still love me and want me to lead them somewhere, do something about them. And let me in on your plans so they will know that you still love me and them. FULL POST

I'm not sure who exactly ended up with the hot dog bun and who, in shame, carried the hot dog wrapped in the last slice of stale bread. After sleeping through the alarm, scrounging up two socks that actually match, and a vicious fight over the remaining fruit roll up, we head to school in the rain.

The argument continues on the ride; making my morning even brighter and cheerier:

"Let me have it, I'm older and more mature. Besides, I will look like a freak with my hot dog wrapped in a slice of bread!"

"No! You already look like a freak, nobody will ever notice. Hey, isn't your shirt on inside out, Mr. Mature? Ugggg! You idiot! Momma, his shirt is on wrong!"

Then comes the old "Should I get out now? No, wait—it's too wet. It'll mess up my hair. Momma, pull up! No stop! Momma, you're embarrassing me! Pull up. No stop. Hold it!" FULL POST

Write what you know. Haven't we heard that pronouncement since our first class assignment, "How I Spent My Summer Vacation?" Naturally, there are those who can flaunt exceptions to every rule, and plenty of great works have been written from a terrific imagination. But try to describe the taste of pistachio ice cream when you've only tasted chocolate or Tutti Frutti. Could you convey the misery of feeling seasick if you've never experienced it? Okay, it's a lot like carsick, and a little like vertigo. It's awful.

Long before I tapped out the first words on my keyboard, I knew I couldn't write Discovering Imre—my just-released novel—until I'd stepped aboard a cruise liner myself. Even with the entire story a rough outline in my mind, I needed to feel the vibration of the ship's motor and struggle with straps and buckles on the life jacket at lifeboat drill. And nothing but a hands-on encounter could have prepared me for the excitement of some great shore excursions. I'd love to see the world from a hot air balloon. (Well, maybe next time.) FULL POST

She could be your daughter, your sister, or your niece. She is one of 3,000-5,000 children sold or lured into forced prostitution every day. She is raped repeatedly, beaten, drugged, and left for dead. Traded as a commodity on the black market, she is a victim of the sex industry, the second largest area of organized crime in the world.

When I was brainstorming characters and plot for my third novel, Chosen Ones, in the Born for India trilogy, my youngest daughter and her husband awakened me to the horrific crime of human trafficking. Up until that time I had no awareness that 27 million slaves existed in our world, generating $32 billion in revenue each year. I did not know that there are about two million women in prostitution in Asia and half of them children. I did not know that every minute, two people are trafficked across international borders, nor did I know that every year 200,000 American girls are at risk for sex trafficking. FULL POST

You don't believe that?

It's true.

The dictionary says rejection is "to refuse to accept or to repudiate." Repudiate? That's not about writing, that's personal.

When I started writing, I was doing a lot of writing and a lot of querying and submitting. Obviously heartless little slips were coming in right and left. I took them very personally. These people didn't know me, and they weren't reading enough of my writing to make fair judgments. I was incensed.

Then the statement I had just made hit home: They don't know me. If that's the case, how could it be personal? It couldn't. I realized that a response would be a rejection if they said I had body odor, my writing stunk, and my mother dressed me funny. I was the one making it personal, not them.

What were these funny little slips of paper if not rejections? I got to spend some time with well-known agent Donald Maass. I was involved with hosting him when he came to our writing conference as one of the faculty, so it was more than a ten-minute interview, it was hanging out for a couple of days. I did have an interview scheduled with him, and over the course of the evening the day before he told me how to find out if he handled works such as the one I was set to pitch. FULL POST