The Truth About Book Three in the Welcome to Ruby Series

After some much needed time away from blogging, it’s great to be back with you! Recently, I shared some personal, behind-the-scenes truth regarding my Ozarks’ based Welcome to Ruby series.

If you’re a member of my newsletter family, you know this past year has challenged and changed me. It has left me a little ragged and raw around the edges.

As we continued to navigate a global pandemic, our family also faced loved ones’ back-to-back deaths. Two of those due to Covid.

Here’s the truth. I’m battle-worn.

We lost my dear mother-in-law in September 2020. In November, Covid claimed my precious Aunt Charlene. In December, another cruel blow—my beloved daddy. Oh my. I wondered if I’d make it through. At times, the grief overwhelmed me.

Honestly, on certain days—especially late at night when the house is quiet and the coyotes’ cries carry on the wind—I still feel that way.

Grief is like that. Given enough leeway, when wave after wave of horrid events come, it washes over you like the tsunami it is and drowns you.

There’s no magic pill, no perfect potion, no fantastical daydream to make it go away.

The only way to navigate grief, is to put mental oars to water and row through it. As a formal social worker, I know this.

It’s uncomfortable. It makes others uncomfortable, too.

Because we’re a live-in-the-moment society accustomed to quick fixes and feel goods, grief is, understandably, an unpleasant topic.

Rather than allowing folks to mourn according to their own timetable, we expect hurt to instantaneously evaporate.

But—again—another truth.

Placing expectations on the grief-stricken is unrealistic and apathetic.

For those who haven’t treaded sorrow’s dark waters, I understand. Inexperience in such matters doesn’t easily lend itself to empathy. It’s human nature to shy away from life’s chaos. It hurts.

Extending latitude and grace on both sides—to the unaffected and the hurting—is a delicate balance. We may not know what to say or how to act/react, but listening gives wings to healing.

We can’t reclaim what was lost. We can seek hope in good things ahead. This is my daily mantra.

Still, this season has sucker punched me. It has made me a bit—dare I say it—jaded. And ohh, how I regret that. I miss the old Cindy. I pray that one day I’ll find her again. New and improved, and healed to some degree, but always mindful of the beautiful souls here no more, the essence of their being forever imprinted on my spirit. I  want to make them proud.

Let it be so, dear God.

Perspective is everything.

To give you some background, for nine months, due to Covid lockdown and restrictions in Daddy’s care facility, I was unable to hold, touch, or kiss my father. For a brief time, staff allowed socially distanced, outdoor visits, but then, as Covid worsened, those eventually stopped. Window visits became the norm.

Those were happy days. Poignant days. Mediocre days. Days I railed against the travesty of it all.

And for lack of time today, we won’t even visit the abyss that is our long term care facility crisis. Suffice it to say, what our nation has witnessed in this arena is abhorrent. It should inspire a complete overhaul of a faulty, archaic system where accountability is at the forefront instead of mentioned as an afterthought.

But I digress.

Blessedly, despite Alzheimer’s firm grasp, Daddy still recognized Mama, my sister, and me. Though window visits weren’t ideal, for obvious reasons, we treasured each glimpse, each wave, and each conversation with Daddy, muted though it was because of the glass.

There’s so much that could be said here, and maybe one day, I’ll elaborate, but for now, I’ll simplify it.

When we were notified that Daddy had tested positive for Covid (and that he’d contracted it in the very facility that was supposed to be protecting him from it), my heart dropped. I knew. I knew he’d weaken quickly. I knew he’d never be the same. I knew the probability of what would happen.

Fast forward about ten days.

The probability became reality.

My world collapsed.

Before my father died, a nurse held the phone to Daddy’s ear so I could utter words that no child, no matter her age, can ever envision saying. I said a final goodbye.

“I love you, Daddy. I love you.”

In a half-crazed haze, I repeated it dozens of times. Over and over and over. On a phone. With my heart in my throat. Without my arms around him.

This is my last memory spent with my father—the one who, other than God, was my first love. My biggest cheerleader. My hero.

And life goes on.

Except when it doesn’t. But you know it must…because “under contract” is just that. You get ‘er done, regardless.

And so, during this whole, horrendous time, I wrote to deadline. The day Daddy died (I still can barely say the word), I think I cranked out one of my best chapters ever. I’m not sure how or why—but I have my suspicions.

Thank God, my editor extended my manuscript’s due date, to which I’ll always be grateful.

When I hit SEND on book three in the Welcome to Ruby series, I literally curled up in a fetal position and bawled.

This book was the bane. So awful, in fact, I dreaded hearing from my editor.

As each day slid by, I imagined the worst. One week. Two weeks. Three weeks. Almost four.

And then, ping. She e-mailed me.

As I shared on Facebook…

My  heart pounded.

“I seriously loved this book. I gave a happy sigh several times. I LOVED the parts about Clinton and xxxx.” (You’ll have to read the book to find out.)

My favorite part of my editor’s e-mail though?

“You’ve nailed this one big time!!”

Huh?

This, my friends, is THE BOOK. The one I finished as my precious daddy lay dying from Covid.

It gutted me. It sapped my energy and depleted my emotional reserves.

Want to know the ultimate irony?

The title of this book? The one I’ve had for well over a year? The BOOK that was supposed to be book # 2 in my series, but in her divine wisdom, my editor suggested it as book # 3 because it worked best in that order? The BOOK I started long before Covid and sickness and this gut-wrenching season?

Her Faith Restored. 

Yep. Can you believe it?

Gotta tell ya, the joke’s on me. Because somewhere in this labor-intensive process, I had to rely on the Holy Spirit to intercede for me. I couldn’t even pray. THAT’s what Covid stole from me. Thank God, he redeems beauty from ashes because about the middle of this book, that’s all I had left.

When I shared the essence of this e-mail with my mama, she cried.

Ohh, sweet Jesus! Now…on to copy edits, author note, AND endorsements!!!

Hallelujah!

For this happily-ever-after lovin’ gal, this great news rocked my world. Plus—I just received my copy edits. Seriously, the lightest copy edit I’ve ever had!

Other than an additional scene revision in the epilogue, edits are minor. *hold me* Squeeee!

I still experience low days, but I cling to this.

Daddy’s words, biased though they may be, bolster my deflated spirit. “Hey Hollywood, I believe in you. You’re going to hit.”

Oh, Daddy.

I’m not sure that’ll happen, but without your encouragement, I would never have written this series, much less finished this book.

Somehow, I have to believe it’s meant to be. Maybe someone, or lots of someones, will read it.

And maybe, just maybe, this heartwarming story will encourage others who’ve lost so much, but found redemption in the ashes.

♥♥♥

 

 

Grab it HERE

I have a few FREE Audible codes if you haven’t yet read Her Hope Discovered. Let me know if you’re interested!

 

 

PLEASE SHARE

Redeeming beauty from ashes in a season of grief. What Covid, loss, and writing taught me.

(Click-to-Tweet)

We can’t reclaim what was lost. We can seek hope in good things ahead. This is my daily mantra. Encouragement for those who grieve.

(Click-to-Tweet)

 

How has Covid affected you? 

What has this season taught you?

What positive changes have you experienced during a time of hardship?

♥♥♥

 

I’ll share the back cover copy for Her Faith Restored soon! Until then, love without boundaries, dearest! xo

Much Love and Many Blessings,