I love my little book. Everything about it. Alan Larus took the cover shot and he lives in Norway, so the scene is from far away, but it is radiantly beautiful and just right to symbolize the title and subtitle.

This morning I drank a cup of tea and reread the book for the umpteenth time. Oh, yes, I love it that much. It speaks to me of love between the lines, between health and sickness, between tears and laughter. I lived much of it between the cracks, feeling stuff that was indecipherable in words.

My tall, strong husband (he was 6 ft. 4) became my child towards the end of his illness. I, who had been a southern belle of sorts, now became a preview of coming attractions, a steel magnolia in the making. I, who had been a diligent spiritual student, now became the path itself. No choice in any of this, I might add. It was a grueling, choiceless experience.

These days I am enjoying “having written.” Deep within my soul I am sprouting hope and joy, something I went without like a camel in the desert. These seeds will bear fruit in time. All I have to do is let the light shine. And between the rows of hope and I joy I wander down the page. I turn them one at a time, savoring the connection I have now made with readers. They know me like the back of their hand, because my story is theirs as well.

If you haven’t read it yet, perhaps you will want to read about how I went from sorrow to sunlight once again. It was an arduous journey, one made in heartache and futility. Letting go was not an option; it was written in the stars. Now they wink again with light. That is how it is and how it happened.