On a snowy, icy day this past February, I was ecstatic to have finished my first novel. I closed my computer and allowed myself to feel some great satisfaction. Some of you who have followed my writing know that I’ve also written ten nonfiction books over the years published by pretty big religious publishers like Word Books, Bethany House, and Zondervan. I had some good luck in those early years–1980s. Herald Press (Mennonite publisher) was also very generous in publishing several of my books. Publishing has changed hugely since then, I’ve found out.
I have also written small pieces of fiction over the years, and started various novels. My short stories were sometimes published in small magazines but basically, I wrote just because I enjoy writing.
But what really got me going was some 20-30 years ago when my oldest daughter—who also loves writing (and she’s probably a better writer than I am)—asked me, “Why don’t you write what people like to read—fiction!”
Well, a lot of people also like nonfiction but I decided to pursue her challenge in 2024, and resumed writing in earnest.
It is now a gorgeous day in September, 2025, and I am both relieved but also a bit nostalgic that I don’t have a book project to complete or go over. The tentative title, unless you talk me out of it, is “A Place in the Fold.” It is a faith-related book.
The thing I discovered was that writing fiction was fun! I could make things up as I went: conversations, work in memories from my own growing up years, and just plain enjoyment. I had written lots of articles, scripts, and done research for books that were nonfiction, but this was different. (I did have to be more careful and do some research when it came to writing about medical stuff and doctors and so on. But with our age group, we have friends and relatives where I hear plenty of doctor-related conversations I could work into the book, not a big part of the book).
If you are wondering what it’s about, here’s a quick peek at the back cover copy:
“Who would drive away from a beloved spouse the day before Christmas? Monica Sue Herald did, and untold drama followed. Her husband Timothy, is a well-liked pastor but she cringes every time he uses her for a personal story when preaching. His father is also a pastor several hours away, but they don’t always get along like they should. And what is the secret that Monica’s mother holds in her heart for nearly 30 years, and why?
The novel is placed in the 1990s, before the days of almost everyone having cell phones, which might have changed the outcome of this tale. This book will induce tears of sadness and also joy for many, and also help couples with their precious and loving relationships.”
Does this sound interesting to you?
Most of us old married folks (and younger ones too) deal with marital squabbles and if we’re lucky, we keep going, keep loving, keep hanging on to our mates.
Later on, I will let you know where and when the book is available—I hope in time for Christmas!
Will there ever be another one? Time will tell. It just feels good to have reached this goal. And to have taken on my daughter’s challenge.
Have you tried something new you never did before?
What was your outcome?
Enjoyable or not?
Thanks for reading this and commenting if you feel like it!
I’ve written about the things we enjoyed on our trip to Montana, which we had looked forward to for over a year. My husband especially was looking forward to the long train ride from South Bend, Indiana to Chicago and on to Glacier Park—through Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, North Dakota, and finally Montana. I had never been to North Dakota, and Montana was new for him.
But I heard my husband mumble “never again” after the 30-hour train trip that turned into 37 hours. We both tried to sleep in our seats (which were roomy and fairly new), but still it was hard sleeping sitting up, or laying heads on each other.
That night – after many delays and stops (there was a small tornado, leaving tree limbs on the tracks that workers had to remove, plus frequent waits for freight cars to pass), we were delighted when a head honcho of Amtrak apparently told our train personnel to offer all passengers in the coach cars two free pieces of pizza (sleeping car passengers get free meals anyway, or rather, it’s included in their overall cost). After all the waiting, the pizza was a sweet and appreciated surprise—and it was even a good and somewhat warm pizza!
Eventually, instead of arriving at our destination at the hour of 8 p.m., we got to our lodge in Montana about 3 a.m. Not much fun.
The bedrooms in the huge and ancient Lodge (circa 1913) were large enough—except for the bathrooms, where I had to hold the shower curtain for my husband to keep it and the water from billowing out. The sink was as tiny as the toy sink we have in our kids’ and grandkids’ playhouse.
Finally towards evening, we secured two tables for all of eight of us traveling together in the Observation car, and played our family’s silly but fun dice game, “Greedy.” We had some great laughs.
The worst rattling moments though on the final leg home was when we had to sit in the very first seats at the head of the train from Chicago to South Bend, on top of what Stuart says is the truck/boogie. It jiggled us enough to rock us off balance (certainly) and even in the seat, it was rough. The engineers were in a hurry too, sometimes going what felt like 80-85 mph.
You just have to expect unpleasantries when travelling anywhere, right?
We are so grateful, though, for this trip and the adventures we enjoyed, some great food and fun, especially our trip to the “Going to the Sun” road. As they say, trips like this make great memories, especially when travelling with family members you don’t see that often. And memorable happenings. And, we eventually caught up with our loss of sleep!
Sharing meals around two tables — one in the Lodge and one in the dining car of the train.
Have you had a trip experience to share?
I’d love to hear from what you like or don’t like!
We have a lovely long porch on the front of our house, which in summer is graced by seven pots hung there with metal S-curve hangars, like you buy at a hardware store. I usually have four fern pots and three flower pots there. “Grace” may be a strong word for our simple porch but I like it, and the flowers and ferns.
Of course they need watering, which is a bit of a chore, but very doable, and this summer we’ve had plenty of rain so sometimes I didn’t even need to water them with a breeze from the west streaming rain our way.
However, some adult birds also think the pots are just lovely to plant their eggs in the middle, and birth their babies. I love babies—and birds as much as anybody BUT when the baby birds are born they present a problem. Of course. How do I water my plants when little birdlings are growing?
Well, not much. So I pretty much let them go, especially if a bird chooses one of the ferns to lay eggs. The ferns survive pretty well without much, especially if I just put a little water along the edges of the pot, not the middle where the babies grow.
This summer a lovely serene dove made her home in one fern pot. I saw her sitting there, day after day, minding her little ones. I groaned a little about not being able to water it, but the fern seemed to flourish anyway.
I was out on the porch stringing beans one morning when I decided to try getting a picture of the mother bird. I sneaked up, but of course the bird had a side eye, and when I got too close for her comfort, she steamed out of the pot. Irate, of course. I couldn’t blame her. Nosey me, who had to get a picture.
She returned later, thankfully, but fledging day came shortly. I noticed one little bird out on the edge of our pasture, struggling in the grass as she practiced flying a bit. Our dog saw it roughly at the same time, and before I could yell “stop” she had the poor birdie in her mouth, and began savoring the taste.
Oh I was mad at myself, the dog, and my curiosity that had led me to take the pictures. I’m not sure what happened to the other baby birds as they tried their wings, I hope one or more made it.
Such is life—whether you are a bird or a human being. We make mistakes, and someone or something loses. Dies. I was sad and vowed not to get too close to bird nests in the future. That was a needless loss. Dumb Mel.
***
A week or two later, we saw a hummingbird flitting himself around the ceiling since we often keep the garage door open in summer. Oh he was a strong one, and furiously flew around the garage for hours. At least 5 hours, that we witnessed. I tried seeking information online and was told to try chasing it gently with a broom to encourage it to leave. Which I did. He didn’t leave. I was disheartened. Would we have another dead bird—especially a lovely hummingbird on our hands? I fussed at my husband to do something, and finally he decided to tie up our glass bird feeder on a strong string on the garage door. It was worth a try. I praised him for trying, not sure it would do any good. A couple hours went by.
After supper, we went out in the garage and couldn’t see the hummingbird anywhere. Not fallen, or hiding. Had it survived? We took down the bird feeder and put in back on the deck where we usually kept it.
By Sunday morning we were convinced we were seeing the hummingbird back on the feeder. He had a tan coat rather than the bright blue or even reddish colors of the other birds who frequented it. At least we think that he survived. We kept the dog out of the garage, and the cat, pretty much.
Happily. We think.
***
What do you think?
What bird – or other animal or life lessons have you learned?
Okay, I’ve never been a prairie dog but I learned to be one on our trip to Glacier National Park earlier in August. Among many other surprises.
At the quite ancient Lodge where we stayed in Montana, we first met Steven who introduced himself to all of us on his bus/truck that held 15 passengers, as a “nice guy.” Then he, fairly sternly, poured out some things he didn’t want us to do (in order to stay safe on our 8-hour expedition around Glacier Park). Our climax would be driving to the “Going to the Sun Road.”
As we took off, he told us a little about himself and where he grew up (in the Montana area, near the large Blackfeet Tribe reservation, where he associated with friends and even family members of the tribe). He shared his love for nature, wild animals, the beauty of the area, the magnificent trees, rivers, lakes and oh yes, MOUNTAINS that did seem to reach to the sun or even heaven. Do you catch the drift that Steven was a great guide, full of fun and knowledge and the geology of the area?
He also added there would be opportunities to get out, walk around, examine things closer up in short stops. He mentioned he would also stop occasionally to let us stand up with our heads out the roof so we could take photos (of course), with a line he called “Prairie Dogs, Up!” – a phase that would allow us to stand up. And we would stop and have lunch at a choice of several delicious mountainy cabin type restaurants.
Stuart is 5th person, standing the tallest with a hat on, and I’m close by behind another guy with a hat on. My siblings and spouses are behind us in the bus … We gave our phones to Steven to take photos for us.
Our transportation was in an old Ford red truck first made in the 1930s. The trucks were later refurbished for relatively modern day transportation around huge Glacier National Park (which reaches close to Canada.) The bus in itself was a pretty cool thing to be in, in terms of its noteworthy history.
Stuart asking a question to our guide, Steven. My head in foreground … don’t know where I was heading!
My husband often dozes off during the day while watching TV or YouTube, but, unlike some of the other men (and women, I might add) who took some snoozes in the 8 hours we traveled together, Stuart did not doze off once. This guide was that good! My only regret on that score is that we didn’t have a recording that could help us remember some of what we heard and learned. He responded well to our questions, comments and things we pointed out on the journey, like the little brown bear we spotted on a distant cliff.
At the top of the Going to the Sun Road, with cars all over. Many visitors get up very early (5 a.m.) to be able to do this drive … and then find parking.
And no, I don’t think we saw any for real prairie dogs.
But we did see a small brown bear walking below the long stone. See him?
And enjoyed the rhapsody of this gorgeous clear blue water.
[By the way, I’m still having terrible problems with Word Press, see the bottom photo where some AI thing gave a caption which I did not write, and cannot fix, nor did I want that photo so big. Oh well.]
My two older sisters, Nancy (nurse), Linda (nicknamed Pert), plus my baby brother Terry [we loved it so much when a baby brother was born!] all got together and with Pert’s great planning and travel expertise, got us on an Amtrak train in South Bend, Ind. (We grew up not far from there in Middlebury, Ind., but now live in four different states: Virginia, North Carolina, Florida and Indiana).
It was the first time us four siblings and spouses planned a trip together without any children. I must add that in 1964, our farmer dad and mom who loved travelling, planned a wonderful 6-week western trip in a very small travel trailer for our family of six. (Dad would send some hogs to market to pay for the long trip. He rented the trailer for $2 a day!) We hit many National Parks and in later years Dad and Mom planned and paid some expenses for family trips every other summer to gather in places like lovely Destin Beach in north Florida, cabins in West Virginia, Rocky Mountain, Colorado, and several times near Cherokee, North Carolina.
So, fancy cowboy hats adorning the women (compliments of sister-in-law Debbe who shared leftover hats from their granddaughter’s recent wedding), with excitement we boarded Amtrak and landed in Chicago’s huge Union Station in time for lunch (most of us munching on Chic-Fil-A goodies). From there we traveled 37 or so hours all the way to Glacier Park in western Montana, (about 30 miles near the Canadian border). Our train adventure was supposed to be 30 hours but storms and leftover debris on tracks etc. caused many stoppages, including waiting for commercial rail cars carrying the goods that serve all of us throughout the year (which have first rights to tracks, Amtrak is secondary).
History: we siblings all remember Dad telling many stories of his assignments and challenge during World War 2 at Glacier Park, sawing lumber, cleaning up grounds, trying out for smoke jumping (he was not selected), fishing, spotting bear, bighorn and goats. He, having quit school after 8th grade (like many other farm boys of the time) also learned from his colleagues and visiting speakers and leaders at the camp, all serving as conscientious objectors. (Fittingly, the northern edge of the park was founded as the International Peace Park in 1932 by the Canadian Parliament and U.S. President Roosevelt’s proclamation.)
While the train travel (adventure) was pretty miserable at first, when we finally snatched two sets of tables the next evening for all eight of us in the “observation car” (with open seating) to play the “Greedy” dice game we all had played umpteen times at various family get togethers, the fun and laughter began. Mom and Dad used to play it with all of us and I for one had a laugh I had not experienced in many months, if not years (I couldn’t even talk, it had me bent over on the table!). We also remembered Mom’s laugh and Dad’s smiles when dicing without worrying about cards, winning, or life.
More stuff on my next post about the trip. Hang on for the ride.
***
Do you like traveling? Or not?
Our financial advisor always says travel while you can. What advice do you give?
(P.S. Sorry for the long delay on posts, I was having computer problems …)
Scenic view of Glacier Park, showcasing vibrant flora and the majestic mountains in the background.
I’m going to keep trying, of course. I’m going to keep writing. I can do better when I’m writing than when I’m thinking.
Last night I had one of the most horrible dreams I’ve had for a long while. I think it was probably related to this, maybe. We’ve been having some stress in terms of helping grandsons while their parents work—in the summertime, when they are not quite old enough to take care of themselves at home. I don’t know exactly that I dreamed about, but when I woke up at 2 and realized I had been dreaming wildly and in frustration, I think some of my dream was connected to this stuff.
Of course the kids can’t drive. And they need to stay busy and involved in camps and swimming and playing games. They bicker, they shout, they love each other, but that’s life, eh?
And day after day of temps in the 80s and 90s and higher, and rain are not helping any of this. What happened to lovely days in the 75 degree range??
But we have beautiful gorgeous countryside and green green corn growing in the fields. It is amazing. I love the beauty. I have not seen so much green corn in Virginia, in this part of the U.S. that I remember. It is stunning. And TALL! I would love to share a photo of this green green Virginia but that will have to wait until I figure something else out!
Also, my laptop was dropped and broken. Someone else did it but that happens. I’m using my husband’s laptop and this is working but there has been a learning curve for me. Trying to get back to my Word Press blog right here is like finding myself again!!
****
Is this safe to share? Do you know anyone going through this phase of life? I know some of my friends will be kind of glad to find this blog again. I was thrilled when a new reader joined the Finding Harmony Blog today!
I’m happy, a little worried, but I’m going to keep plowing on.
Let me know what you’re experiencing and how you cope!
I love old stories (and this one is also a new story) but I’m curious if anyone else has had this kind of experience.
Ok, our evergreen bushes in the front of our house had gotten way too tall, and needed to be trimmed. On a recent Thursday, I was happy to finally dig into that project. Those bushes seem to love growing, and that’s fine, until it comes to trimming.
So, I got out my small trimming sheers that basically lets you snip snip snip one at a time, or maybe 4-6 small branches at a time. I was snipping away (while my husband was prepping wood stacking for the coming winter—don’t you love hot days for such projects?). Then I started remembering when I used to trim trees or bushes at a neighbor’s yard when we lived in north Florida, (between Marianna Florida and Mexico Beach Fl.) Fred was a divorced fellow at this time and also a very busy farmer, and my Dad also did farming adjacent to Fred’s acres. So we knew Fred pretty good, even though we’d only lived there one year at that point.
I was looking for a little summer work and before I got a summer job, our neighbor mentioned that he was looking for someone to trim his bushes in his front yard. Dad suggested me (I had just graduated from high school there) and so for a week or so I trimmed a bunch of bushes for Fred. He paid me well by local standards and I was happy to earn a little cash of course. I’m pretty sure I used an electric trimmer, hooked up to some electricity. Made the job easier. Less time consuming.
Fast forward about 55 years…. And all of a sudden I thought, hey, I think we still have an electric Sears trimmer in our basement. I was not at all sure that it would actually work, but I thought it was worth testing. I think my memory was frowning because I was pretty sure it had not worked the last time I tried to use it. And I had to snip snip snip one at a time. Not fun.
So I plugged it into one of our basement plug-ins. It did not turn on, not even try. I tried the other slot. Nope, nothing. But I thought it was worth at least checking with my husband to see if he thought he could find a plug to turn on the trimmer.
Eureka, he did, out on the porch and while there is one plug that does not work, most of the others on the porch do. So I put that old trimmer to work and halved my project time almost in half. On a hot day. Yay!
Dog happy to see the job done. And me too.
It doesn’t look too bad if I do say so myself. I finished in probably an hour. Yay.
You never know what will happen!
And my middle daughter reminded me that the old Sears trimmer was one we used at least 20-25 years ago at the house they grew up in, when we trimmed the bushes in front of that house. A pretty good machine, eh?
Joanie was in church the Sunday before she died. She was 79. Every child in our church (and usually adults too) over the 40 some years where she was a member, received her faithful birthday cards. Sent through our church’s mailboxes. [Goodness she couldn’t have afforded all those thousands of stamps if she had sent them through the mail! And sometimes she made her own with recycled cards.]
My heart was gladdened to learn that some of my grandsons immediately remembered Joanie’s joyous singing on a recent Easter Sunday morning when they were visiting us. When their mother told them Joanie had died, they talked about remembering her singing. Joanie had even asked others whether the “Every morning is Easter morning” song was listed in the bulletin—she was so anxious to sing it on Easter. Her actual words and communication were sometimes hard to understand or get—but she always sung with robust zip, but slightly behind most of us singing. Our grandsons, ages 11 and 9, had noticed her joy, and remembered her. (I thought that was kind of unusual for boys their age.)
Born with cerebral palsy (Joanie’s birth mother either couldn’t or wouldn’t care for her), but Joanie grew up to be a beloved friend, jokester, and lover of singing—her voice ringing out in the front row of our smallish congregation. On the day of her memorial service, her dozens of friends also sang with all the vigor they could muster. Some rocked continuously back and forth in their wheelchairs or chairs. Some moaned with joy or sadness, waiting for their own resurrections eventually.
Then remembrance stories began. She had become a bonafide member of our church, present in the front row almost every Sunday. She went through the typical training and teaching for membership before becoming a member. When she was finally asked to share her faith statement, hers was “Jesus loves me.” Who needs more than that?
And I’m sitting here weeping the morning after her service, knowing that Joanie knew things we didn’t know. She had proclaimed that there would be no wheelchairs in heaven, of that she was sure! That made me cry because that was the same thing my Dad had often said in his final years leading up to his passing. Not regarding wheelchairs, which he had to use for awhile, but then he graduated to just a cane. But eventually he was longing for the day when he would no longer even have to use his cane, the one that I now keep in our bathroom. I grabbed for my tissues again.
Some of us were quite happy to hear the history of one family, Harvey Yoder, who many of us knew from his long life as a pastor, counselor, and dear man. He reaches out to prisoners, to the lonely and hurting, to those needing help, to those who need to be prodded to join in caring for others. When Joanie was just 18 months old, Harvey’s parents (who were Amish), cared for Joanie (her given name was Janet Marie but for some reason she loved her name as “Joanie”). So she grew up to live a very long and decent life, volunteering for many helping jobs, despite her difficulties. She was a frequent guest in Harvey and Alma’s home at holidays, her birthday, and other events. Our church also cared for Joanie, helping her relish post-service snacks and pureed foods along with her coffee every Sunday she could be there.
One pastor who spoke at the memorial noted that Joanie taught us and didn’t leave barriers get in her way. For example, she was not able to get aboard the hay wagon for her group one Fall and asked to ride in the pastor’s golf cart. While they drove around the hayfield, she finally begged the pastor to let HER drive—and he let her, heading off one wacky and wild way and then another, and enjoying every minute. He shared her abundant zest for life, and she reminded others to not take life too seriously. This retired pastor recalled that frequently if he saw her somewhere she would put her arms and hands up like she was driving on a golf course. Even if they were both just waving hi.
It was Joanie’s resurrection day, the past was over and gone. “I belong to the Easter People! Life’s exciting to me” went the lyrics and indeed, she helped all of us be more compassionate for those with hurdles to jump.
Joanie, enjoy your new life in the heavens. God bless, and Jesus loves us all!
***
I’d love to hear your thoughts, your memories, your stories.
No, this is not “Strawberry Fields Forever,” (the Beatle’s song), but the berries I picked yesterday morning are in my hands now, and in the freezer, and in an awesome new strawberry pie for which I uncovered a recipe I had never noticed before.
The recipe book was one my mother’s generation made at North Goshen Mennonite Church in Indiana where I grew up. The names in this cookbook are special to me, conjuring up women who I had long ago forgotten. Erma Slabaugh. Pauline Beachy, Cleo Yoder, Nora Bender, Betty Stringfellow, Alma Yoder. Mary Mininger. These women, and a tribe of others, had brought me up, taught my Sunday School classes, saw me through MYF for three years of high school.
Oh my, wouldn’t they all love to see their names published on the Internet! (Ha!) I hope the recipe book still sits on a library shelf at North Goshen Church. (Someone tell me, yes!)
I’ll give you Erma Slabaugh’s interesting (and brief) recipe in a minute, but I hope you can be remembering more women—and a few men—who were excited to have their “receipts” in print (as some of them used to say. Google the truth of that).
More women who shared recipes back in the mid-60’s. “Phyllis Schrock. Ruth Swartzentruber. Alberta Troyer. Lizzie Weaver.” Oh my goodness, what memories. I won’t go on, but the yellowed “Fellowship Cooking,” compiled by North Goshen Ladies Fellowship, should follow me to my grave, I reckon.
We made the best Raised Doughnuts from recipes in the cookbook, one from Sue Christner. And I was super elated when my sweet wonderful daughters, some 13 years ago, surprised me by making a huge batch of Raised Donuts for my 60th birthday (instead of a cake), held in the fellowship hall (no not at North Goshen) but in Harrisonburg, Va. (In our Presbyterian church. Roll over my friends, yes, I turned Pressie, as my sister Pert would say about me and her other Presbyterian long time friend.)
Rich and tasty, this filled our tummies over a couple days.
Okay, here’s the “new” recipe I unearthed in the Pie section of Fellowship Cooking, meant to cover an etc. of fruits: Strawberry, Red Raspberry, Peach, according to Erma.
FRESH FRUIT PIES
2 c. fruit| 1/8th teas. salt| 1 c. sugar 4 Tab. flour
Mix together. Put in unbaked pie shell. Put on top your crust and bake in 425 degrees oven until done (NO!! My insertion here, see Below). For 9 inch pie. –Erma Slabaugh
***
My changes: Okay, all went well, but I took it upon myself to change the cooking temperature, and brought it down from 425 to 350 degrees after about 15 minutes in the oven. Erma never did give a cooking time, but I went with my tried and true 45-50 minutes for a pie like that, watching carefully.
My husband and I loved it, even though it looks different that way.
I always freeze strawberries that I wish to keep over fall/winter.
THEN I DISCOVERED WHERE THE OTHER STRAWBERRY PIE RECIPES COULD BE FOUND!
There are four in this cookbook, one pie with a pint of vanilla ice cream in it! In all 4, strawberry recipes for a cook’s sampling!
And just for the record, Erma Slabaugh was the mother of Rosemary who was a good friend of my oldest sister, Nancy. Rosemary’s father was Jacob and she loved swimming in our pond on Sunday afternoon. IF we didn’t get any blood suckers.
I think I’ll love strawberry pies forever!
A rainy stormy night left the strawberry field quite muddy. But I was glad when the owners said they would hold my box of strawberries, (I paid for them), and keep them in their fridge as I did a number of errands around town.
Yes, this photo is a bit far off but I didn’t want to do any close ups with the darling children I saw in the patch.
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