Cover Reveal!

Hello my dear reader friends! I am so sorry it has been so long since you’ve heard from me in this space. I have been most active over on my Instagram account. So, if you want to hear more from me, make sure you’re following me there!

But, I had to dust off ye olde blog to share some crazy exciting news with you–the cover to my debut novel, A Dance in Donegal!

But first, here’s a little bit about the book:

All of her life, Irish-American Moira Doherty has relished her Irish mother’s descriptions of her homeland. When her mother dies unexpectedly in the summer of 1920, Moira accepts the challenge to fulfill her mother’s wish that she become the teacher in Ballymann, the homeland village in Donegal, Ireland.

After an arduous voyage, Moira arrives to a new home and a new job in an ancient country. Though a few locals offer a warm welcome, others are distanced by superstition and suspicion. Rumors about Moira’s mother are unspoken in her presence, but threaten to derail everything she’s journeyed to Ballymann to do.Moira must rely on the kindness of a handful of friends—and the strength of an unsettlingly handsome thatcher who keeps popping up unannounced. While Moira learns to trust Sean and his intentions, she struggles to navigate a life she’d never dreamed of . . . but perhaps was meant to live.

I cannot believe what a phenomenal job the design team at Revell did with this cover. They took my ideas and ran with them, and came up with something better than I could have envisioned. I hope you enjoy it, too!

Without further ado, I present to you the cover of A Dance in Donegal:

A Dance in Donegal releases February 2, but is available for pre-order now! Don’t miss out! When you pre-order, your book ships as soon as it’s available, and in some cases you get it even before release date!

Preorder at any of these places:

Amazonhttps://www.amazon.com/dp/0800738411

Baker Book Househttps://bakerbookhouse.com/products/235823

Books-a-Millionhttps://www.booksamillion.com/p/Dance-Donegal/Jennifer-Deibel/9780800738419?id=7932129264040&_ga=2.52288044.465696534.1593212930-125113959.1593212930#

IndieBoundhttps://www.indiebound.org/book/9780800738419

More ordering sites to come!

And if a new book isn’t in your budget right now, ask your library to order it! 🙂

I can’t wait for you to journey to the wilds of Donegal with Moira and the gang!

The Curse of Misty Wayfair — Review, Excerpt, and Giveaway!

If you follow me at all on social media, then you know I have an obsession with Jaime Jo Wright and everything she writes. Her first two books, The House on Foster Hill and The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond, are on my Top Ten All Time Favorite Reads List. The list of awards for The House of Foster Hill just keeps growing, and I cannot find adequate words to express how much of loved her latest release, The Curse of Misty Wayfair.

I honestly don’t know how Jaime Jo Wright does it. The three books I have read by her have all been excellent–each one better than the last, in fact. And each one with its own distinct style, tone, and message.

The Curse of Misty Wayfair is a haunting, intense journey exploring identity, grace, and the stigma surrounding mental illness. Wright expertly and sensitively navigates the ragged history of mental illness care and “treatment,” while keeping the integrity of the truth.

The Curse of Misty Wayfair is dark and creepy, yet laced with hope and grace. Definitely creepier than her previous two novels, it is not so dark as to lose the strong element of faith that ties both timelines together.

When I had to tear myself away from this book to tend to my responsibilities, I found myself aching to return to the story–as if by my presence I could protect Heidi and Thea from the haunting and mystery shrouding their lives as they fight to uncover the truth–the truth they aren’t sure they truly want to know.

I cannot recommend this book highly enough. Wright is a master storyteller with honest and flawed characters that display God’s grace and compassion through their imperfect search for purpose and identity.

Now, I have something very special for you. I used my super-secret, marketing savvy and was able to get my hands on an excerpt just for you guys! And by super-secret marketing savvy, I mean…the publishers made it available and I jumped at the chance to share it with you. 🙂
Just click here to get access to it. You’ll be hooked and need to run right out and buy it because you’re going to love it so much!

About The Curse of Misty Wayfair:

Left at an orphanage as a child, Thea Reed vowed to find her mother someday. Now grown, her search takes her to Pleasant Valley, Wisconsin, in 1908. When clues lead her to a mental asylum, Thea uses her experience as a post-mortem photographer to gain access and assist groundskeeper Simeon Coyle in photographing the patients and uncovering the secrets within. However, she never expected her personal quest would reawaken the legend of Misty Wayfair, a murdered woman who allegedly haunts the area and whose appearance portends death.

A century later, Heidi Lane receives a troubling letter from her mother—who is battling dementia—compelling her to travel to Pleasant Valley for answers to her own questions of identity. When she catches sight of a ghostly woman who haunts the asylum ruins in the woods, the long-standing story of Misty Wayfair returns—and with it, Heidi’s fear for her own life.

As two women across time seek answers about their identities and heritage, can they overcome the threat of the mysterious curse that has them inextricably intertwined?

About Jaime Jo Wright:

Professional coffee drinker & Daphne du Maurier and Christy Award Winning author, Jaime Jo Wright resides in the hills of Wisconsin writing spirited romantic suspense stained with the shadows of history. Coffee fuels her snarky personality. She lives in Neverland with her Cap’n Hook who stole her heart and will not give it back, their little fairy Tinkerbell, and a very mischievous Peter Pan. The foursome embark on scores of adventure that only make her fall more wildly in love with romance and intrigue. Jaime lives in dreamland, exists in reality, and invites you to join her adventures atjaimejowright.com

 

Now you can enter to win your very own copy of The Curse of Misty Wayfair!

Just comment on this blog post and let me know if your favorite genre to read, and your drink/snack of choice while reading. That’s it! I will randomly choose a winner from the commenters on Saturday, February 9.

***Giveaway open to U.S. Residents only.***

When You’re Due for a Reckoning – {GIVEAWAY!}

Ok, guys. Brace yourselves. I am so beyond super excited to be bringing this post to you. Author Jaime Jo Wright has done it again with her second novel, and I just couldn’t help but share it with you. If you follow me on Facebook, you’ve seen me post about this book and pre-ordering it. But today, y’all are in for a real treat. I have an actual excerpt from the book for you! If this sneak peak doesn’t whet your appetite and make you run right over and order it, we need to check your pulse.

I have had the pleasure of meeting Jaime in person, and she is kind, compassionate, hilarious, and a coffee lover—which y’all know I’m all about! Not only is she one of the kindest, most genuine people you could ever hope to meet, she’s a kick-booty writer. I could NOT put her first book down, and her latest—which releases July 3—isn’t any different. So, ladies and gents, enjoy your sneak peak at The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond. Keep reading and you can enter to win your very own copy!!

Chapter 9

Libby

A low fog settled over the grassy lawn by Gossamer Pond, with the moon a half slit in the sky. Within a few days it would be a moonless sky, like the pall the funeral earlier that day had left over the town. The evening breeze sent a chill through Libby as she paused. The outline of a large tented structure rose alongside the pond, its frame imposing and new. Dusk outlined the rectangular tent, its canvas a dark gray with the front doors pulled wide and fastened back to invite souls inside. Ropes stretched from the corners and midpoints of the structure to wrap around metal posts hammered into the ground. It was almost like a circus tent, only this wasn’t the Big Top, and the entertainment was a different kind of show. It was spiritual.

Residents of Gossamer Grove lined up their various forms of transportation in the field just west of the tent. Motorcars, wagons, carriages, and some lone horses. Men, women, and children alike all gravitated toward the tent’s entrance. Libby knew they were a mixture of curiosity, faith, and trepidation. Tent revivals had been sweeping the nation the last few years and had finally made their way to Gossamer Grove in the form of Jedidiah and Jacobus Corbin. Since the mid-nineteenth century, people such as D. L. Moody and Billy Sunday had been shaking up people’s eternal security. Some, like Moody, seemed well received, with church revival spreading rampantly. Others, like Sunday, were stirring controversy with unscripted tirades from a mouth straight from the baseball field instead of the seminary.

Mitch had told her one paper he’d read said Sunday was so “raw” that they refused to print his words. He used language unfit for feminine dispositions, and even some men were so stricken by his preaching, they were taken from the tent on stretchers, having swooned like a female whose corset was tied too tight.

Libby narrowed her eyes, attempting to catch a glimpse of the Reverends Corbin through the bright lantern-lit inside of the meeting place. Supposedly, the twin brothers had traveled with Sunday for a while and now had struck out to evangelize on their own. Hopefully, tonight’s female attendees had loosened their corsets—assuming the Corbin brothers had picked up on Sunday’s bad habits.

The smell of kerosene from the lamps was pungent as she neared the meeting place. Libby searched for Mitch, but there were so many in attendance, she couldn’t find him. The message he’d left with Paul to have her join him at the tent revival meeting left her scrambling to help finish proofs on the articles going to press that night. She gave Paul a timid reminder to be prepared for Mitch to come busting through the doors at midnight with a special report on the revival. Paul’s sneer told Libby all she needed to know about how he felt about that.

Libby caught a glimpse of Old Man Whistler, the town drunk. She was taken aback that he would even be here, and yet it stood to reason, she supposed. The Corbin brothers were a curiosity.

Whistler brushed alongside her, his shaking elbow knocking into her arm as his knuckles gripped the bulbous end of his cane.

“Come to get yerself saved?” he cackled, and Libby tried to hide her repulsion toward the old man and his musty breath.

“I already am, thank you.” She moved a step away.

Old Man Whistler chuckled. “I’ve a feeling we all will be after tonight. Unless we want to hang along with Deacon Greenwood. Even the good can’t hide their sin forever, you know.”

The elderly man gave her a sideways glance before leaving her side. Libby swallowed hard. Hide their sin? She watched him wobble toward the tent’s doorway. Old Man Whistler probably should not be underestimated. He was a wanderer, and wanderers saw things—knew things. His remark struck close to the obituary’s heart. The insinuation of hidden sins. But, Deacon Greenwood’s slate was so clean, even Mitch had never been able to find a speck of dust on it.

Libby startled as a grating shriek erupted from inside the tent. Gracious, there was an organ! The music began to play, and the shivering tones and airy puffs from the pump organ blasted from the door. Row upon row of attendees lined two sides of the tent with an aisle down the middle covered in sawdust. Libby should have come earlier to find Mitch. There was no way she would now. She stretched up on her tiptoes, but the sea of bowler hats, feathers, bonnets, and bare heads made identifying anyone nearly impossible. The sun had almost completely gone down, and even now, little children were being shushed as ushers made their way up the aisle indicating they were not to disturb with whining and crying.

Libby moved to the other side of the tent, hoping she could edge her way inside and find an unobtrusive spot to stand along the canvas wall. It was hot inside the tent, stuffy with the smells of perfume, sweat, and fresh sawdust. She fumbled with the neckline of her blouse, tempted to remove the cameo brooch and unbutton the lace at her throat.

The organ music whined to a halt.

Silence.

Someone coughed. A child whimpered and was quickly shushed.

Libby strained to see the front. A modest stage, a pulpit, and . . .

“Sin!” The deep voice branded the atmosphere with authority. “It will deceive you. It will drag you to the depths of hell with the claws of demons leading the way.”

Libby froze. The vivid picture the Corbin brother drew had the entire meeting place holding their collective breath. Trepidation spread uninvited through the shelter.

Jedidiah Corbin was a man of medium height, with lamb-chop whiskers along his cheeks and wavy brown hair parted down the middle. He couldn’t be much older the Libby. His early thirties perhaps. The flyer advertising tonight’s event identified this twin as the eldest. His brother, Jacobus, was very obviously missing from attendance.

He stalked across the platform. “The darkness that festers in our souls is like a poison that, but for the grace of God, cannot be squeezed from our hearts.”

Libby scanned the crowd around her, twisting the material of her dress in her hands. Running was implausible, but preferable to being here. There was no comfort—no conviction—in the words. Merely impending doom and destruction. Jedidiah Corbin might as well have combined his message with Edgar Allan Poe’s poetry, and the congregation would have barely been able to tell the difference.

She jumped as Corbin’s foot stomped on the platform.

“But the grace of God is real!” Corbin’s gravelly voice rose with intensity, and he flung his arm forward as if throwing a baseball. “It is the damnable misrepresentation of theology that allows us to sin and wait until we lay on our deathbeds, gasping for our last breaths, to lay penitent before the Lord. That a whore can continue in her sin with a backward confession to cover the last evening’s errancy. That a drunkard may swallow his liquor along with a prayer. That a thief can pocket coins from the offering plate while admitting other sins to his priest. This hypocrisy is from the pit of the lake of fire and must cease before we hang ourselves from the rafters of a house built on lies!”

An audible gasp arose from the crowd. Whether from the language of curses and vulgar frankness mixed with grace or the reference to hanging, Libby wasn’t sure. Murmurs and heads turned toward each other. Libby’s throat closed with the claustrophobic reality that Reverend Jedidiah Corbin danced on the circumstances of Deacon Greenwood’s death.

“May we not die a sinful wretch unforgiven!”

No more. Please, no more.

Libby shoved through the people toward the tent opening. Her breaths came in short, suffocating gasps. The black sky outside, with only the tiny shaft of moon to light the banks of the pond, held little escape from this sense of being squeezed. She hurried to the pond’s bank, staring into glowing waters.

“Libby.”

She shrieked. Spinning around, her arms wrapped across her chest, she squinted in the darkness at the form that had come up behind her. She glanced toward the pond, a deep gray reflection rippling in the water. Being trapped between the water and the shadowy form was intimidating.

The man tipped his head, and as he did, his face turned into the shaft of moonlight.

“It’s you.” Libby’s breath released in a whoosh. She stepped toward him, away from the bank.

“Who did you think it was?” Elijah frowned. “I was almost certain you intended to launch yourself into the pond.”

“The thought did cross my mind, but of course that would be nonsensical, and it wouldn’t help a soul.” Libby abruptly ended her nervous chatter. Her skin had broken out into little bumps.

“I noticed you escaped the revival.” Elijah looked back toward the tent. “I had to as well.”

Libby nodded. “It was quite . . . well, I wasn’t finding myself drawn to salvation. Maybe if I’d stayed I would have. I mean, it’s not that I’m not saved as it is, but if I weren’t—if I didn’t believe in God—I mean, the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ—then I would be going to hell, I suppose.” She stumbled to a halt. Elijah was not standing before her to inquire about the state of her eternal soul.

“Why are you here?” She sought for an avenue of escape from her scattered thoughts.

Elijah took a step closer to the pond, and he watched its dark outline for a moment. “My father was to give the closing prayer.” His quiet voice, so matter-of-fact, explained why a grieving son would attend a revival meeting on the day of his father’s funeral. Not that it would have been enough of a reason to give Libby the compulsion to attend, but Elijah was, after all, a Greenwood. They stood on principle, not feelings.

“Elijah—”

“Don’t, Libby.” His voice dropped an octave, thick with memories and truths long buried between them. Elijah turned to her. His dark eyes were troubled, his newsboy cap tugged down over his hair. “I need to clean up after my father’s affairs. To take over the mill and get it in order. I cannot—” He seemed to struggle to find words. “I cannot pick at an open wound with suggestions of foul play over my father’s own cowardice toward life.”

“That’s unfair,” Libby dared reprimand him. Elijah gave her a sharp look. “One never knows why a person determines to end his life before God chooses. Perhaps there was heartbreak, a sense of lost direction, or maybe—maybe—burdens weighted him down. You mustn’t speak with such judgment toward your father.”

She floundered. But it hadn’t been suicide, had it? She knew it. So, if he were honest with himself, did Elijah.

Elijah’s jaw worked back and forth in the darkness. She could see the sharp outline of his chin, the cleft there, and the sad lack of joy at the corners of his eyes. Libby tried again, mustering the courage to confront the man she far preferred to stay in the shadow of.

“The obituary—”

“No.” Elijah held up his hand.

“But, you cannot discount it!” Libby insisted. “Why would you want to discount it? If it means your father’s life was taken against his will—if someone determined to remove him from this world for feelings of ill will or perhaps a personal vendetta?”

“Oh, the questions! Don’t forget, Libby, what of the note? In the straw? Did my father have secrets? What man doesn’t, I ask? Must he die for them? Or take his own life for them?” Elijah’s voice rose, and he stifled his outburst by running his palm across his mouth and looking beyond Libby toward something unseen. Finally, he met her eyes, the moonlight reflecting in his pupils. “I’m not in a place where I can—where I can contemplate it.”

How very selfish! Libby swallowed back her ire and tried to temper her voice. The words came in a nervous stutter. “W-why ever not? You’re willing to risk another life if they were to strike again by pretending your father’s death was not by another’s hand?”

Elijah tugged his hat down and sniffed. An awful silence was covered by the sound of the impassioned speech of Corbin in the distance and frogs peeping their night song at the pond’s edge. Then the organ started playing, its shaky tones wafting eerily over the night sky with the confessional tune of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

She wished Elijah would say something—anything. But he pushed his hands in his trouser pockets instead. Libby couldn’t read his face in the darkness of the night. His shoulders were tense, but finally he drew a deep breath in through his nose and let it out through his mouth. His words were grave, his tone deep, telling, and all too knowing.

“When, dear Libby, have you ever been concerned how others’ lives may be affected by another’s choice?”

It was an unfair question. Hurtful. But burdened with truth all at the same time. Elijah leaned forward, his breath against her face, and his mouth inches from her nose.

“This is what we do. We continue on. We forget what has happened and look toward the future.”

“This is . . . is, well, it’s murder. That’s what it is! To pretend it’s nothing is cowardice!” Libby knew she should not have said the words the moment they filtered from her lips.

Elijah’s eyebrows shot upward. His hand lifted, and he brushed the back of her cheek with his knuckles. “And we both know that you and I are the worst sort of cowards.”

His whispered words hung between them, bringing the horrid truth into the moment and damning their souls in the echoes of the tent revival.

 

Click here to enter the giveaway!

And if you just can’t wait, click here to order The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond from your favorite retailer.

Full Bio: Professional coffee drinker & ECPA/Publisher’s Weekly best-selling author, Jaime Jo Wright resides in the hills of Wisconsin writing spirited romantic suspense stained with the shadows of history. Coffee fuels her snarky personality. She lives in Neverland with her Cap’n Hook who stole her heart and will not give it back, their little fairy Tinkerbell, and a very mischievous Peter Pan. The foursome embark on scores of adventure that only make her fall more wildly in love with romance and intrigue. Jaime lives in dreamland, exists in reality, and invites you to join her adventures at jaimejowright.com

If you love Jaime as much as I do, you’ll want to follow her! You can do that at these places:

Web site

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

Instagram

Goodreads

Amazon

For When You Want Help for Your Blog

I know so many of you that hang out here with me are bloggers as well. Many of us are “smaller” bloggers, who make very little income (or no income at all) from our blogging. Others of us are bigger and are able to support their family fairly well. And many of us are somewhere in between. I myself have been blogging for over six years, but just now wading into the waters of trying to earn an income from what I do here with us.

Finding a balance is certainly proving to be tricky!

But if you’re like me, there’s no question about it: you want your blog to be even better.

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Honestly, this bundle could not have come at a better time for me! These are the exact things I’m trying to figure out as I work to take this website—and our community here—to the next level.

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The Safety Net of Silence

This has always been a very safe place for us, friends, hasn’t it? We’ve always been able to talk freely, and be vulnerable with one another. We’ve talked about everything from parenting funnies to spiritual constipation to culture shock to hair styles. And we’ve always been there for one another, lifting each other up, encouraging one another.

That’s why I love it here so much; why I work so hard outside this space to connect with you whether it’s sharing snippets of life through photos, sharing incredible words from other amazing writers and leaders, or using humor through 149 character quips slightly dripping with the sarcasm I so freely offer.

my voice

Its also why it’s been such an odd time for me here lately. The last three years have been…a strain for our family. I’ve not known exactly how to convey the depth of our experiences, but also been afraid to say too much. Be too transparent. So I’ve opted, instead, for the safety net of silence. However, I fear that perhaps my lack of transparency has given the impression that the past three years have been spent in utter despair. When in truth, these years, while painful and raw in many ways, have also been beautiful, eye opening, and have lead us into a deeper understanding of the Truth, of the goodness of our Father.

I recently wrote about my journey as a writer – of finally being able to call myself Writer without feeling like a complete and total imposter. In that post, I asked you all to fill out a survey about what you’d like to see more of in this space. The survey is still open, so if you haven’t taken it yet, I’d love for you to! Your comments there have been so kind and encouraging to me. Thank you!

However, the results of that survey so far leave me at a bit of an impasse. Most of what you all say you’d like more of are more of my own spiritual journey, and more about my life as an expat.

The spiritual journey thing, that I can do. I simply need to put my big-girl pants on, sit down, and share.

However the expat part…I have spent over a decade either being an expat, or preparing to be one. A large part of what I have shared here has been our experiences of finding our way in the rushing waters of culture and language acquisition. And many you are here for that very reason – you, too, are in a land not your own, and there’s a camaraderie to be found among us.

But now, I find myself with the title of Former Expat, and I’m not sure what to do with that in this space. I hope to always be a source of encouragement and insight to those still living that gloriously chaotic lifestyle. However now, you will see our experiences of re-entry into our home culture. A lot has changed, you know!

My point to all of this is…I don’t know if I have approached our time of transition and loss the right way or not, in regards to this blog. However, I know many of you are also struggling with how much to say. How much truth do you truly share in the circle of chairs in Sunday School, or to the friend with the kind eyes over a cup of coffee.

My advice is this: you don’t have to go into nitty gritty details, but I’ve come to discover that community is planted in the midst of vulnerability, watered with the flow of conversation, and flourishes in the warmth of encouragement, support, and gentle admonishment.

But share, dear friends. Open your hearts to one another; to me. We have so much to learn from one another, and we were not meant to walk this journey of life and faith alone. Even Christ fueled up with intense time alone with the Father, and then joined the community he had painstakingly worked to build.

So, friends, I’m working to untangle myself from the safety net of silence, and rejoin the warm waters of community here. Are you with me?

Calling All Writers!

I only recently started owning the title of writer in my own heart and mind. And the more I talk with other writers, the more I realize the struggle to own that title is not one unique to me.

Earlier in the year, as a way to hone my skills and learn more about the art and business of writing, I took a six-week online course from Ann Swindell called Writing with Grace.

Writing With Grace

We met once a week for just over an hour (and the classes were recorded so you could watch later if you were unable to attend live for some reason) and learned about things like voice, tone, and how to write a good query letter.

There was one thing about the course that surprised me, though. And that was how closely I met Jesus each week. By the time the course was finished, I felt so encouraged and uplifted in my own spiritual walk.

I enrolled in the course to hone my craft and learn more about the business side of writing. But what I gained was so much more than practical tips and helps and valuable insights from professional editors – although those abounded. I gained a closer walk with God, and a deeper understanding of His desire to work through me and the passion for writing He has given me.

If you are looking for a way to better your writing, find your own voice, as well as depend and refresh your walk with God, Writing with Grace is for you. You don’t have to be a professional writer, or even a blogger.

And today through March 15th, registration is open for the next session of Writing With Grace! This will be the only other time she will offer this particular course in 2016, so take advantage of it now – I promise you won’t regret it!

And, for all my lovely readers out there, use code JENN10 when you register and receive 10% off your registration fee! (And when you use that code, I earn credit to use towards future classes and/or services with Ann! Win-win!!)

So, what are you waiting for? Head on over the register for Writing With Grace!

This Gal’s Journey – How I Got Here And Where I’m Going

Adrenaline coursed through my veins and my heart pounded in excitement as I read the professor’s notes on my assignment,

“Wow! Great use of detail and description. You should consider pursuing writing as your degree!”

The thought took my breath away and excited me. It also made me sad. I knew the chances of making a comfortable living as a writer were slim to none. So, I dismissed the idea altogether.

Even though I had had the same fleeting thought during a creative writing assignment in high school. And even though that one semester of creative writing I was required to take during my freshman year at university energized me more than any other class did, I convinced myself it wasn’t worth it to pursue a degree in English, writing or any of the other language or literary arts. Over the years I’ve wondered once or twice if I had missed my calling.

Having said all of that, I still believe I took the path I was meant to chart. I fully believe if God had wanted me to pursue full-time writing back then, He would have put it more strongly on my heart. I believe I was meant to spend the first three years of university studying exercise science; and I believe I was meant to change to an elementary education major during my junior year – a choice that is serving me well as I serve my family by homeschooling our children during this season of life.

I also believe that God was using those seemingly fleeting moments to plant the seed of a dream in my heart; to ignite a spark, small though it may have been, that He would later fan into a flame of passion for the written word. A deep love, and longing, to express my heart and soul on paper. A calling to encourage others with the same encouragement with which He has blessed me.

It is a dream that lay dormant for many years, drinking deep the waters of my soul and drawing strength from the journey upon which I needed to embark before it was ready to sprout.

The dream first began to shoot tiny, fragile seedlings when the idea for a story lodged itself in the recess of my mind in 2004 when we returned to America after studying abroad in Ireland for two years.

The tender shoots continued to grow in 2010 when I first learned of a new website that was looking for contributing writers. With a heart full of prayer and fingers shaking with fear, I applied and, to my shock and delight, I was accepted as a monthly contributor for The Better Mom. I started my own blog at the same time and those first tiny, fragile leaves unfurled a bit more in the unknown world of blogging and online writing.

Through all of this, I considered myself many things when it came to writing. I saw myself as a blogger, a contributor and scribbler of ideas in the stolen moments that come so few and far between in the life of a young mother with three children under the age of six. There was one title, however, which I revered so very highly that I was hesitant to use it to describe myself. I was afraid I wouldn’t do it justice because it is a title that deserves respect and honor, because with it comes great responsibility.

Over the past three years, as we’ve faced having to leave the home in Ireland we so dearly loved and then make a new home in Vienna, only to have to leave it as well, writing has had to take a back seat. The written word has given way for time to rest, pray, research, recover, relearn, navigate culture shock, navigate new language, and navigate reverse culture shock.

Now, however, I sense the Lord’s leading to once again put fingers to keys, words to paper. I sense Him re-awakening the dream. A dream I had feared was long gone and that would never return. Yet as the dream comes again with new branches, new ideas, and renewed calling, I’m taking time to consider what this space we’ve made here together should be. I’m also praying and mulling over what else He may be cultivating in me.

tyepwriter

There are two projects in particular that burn so strongly in my heart and mind that I must pay them heed. These projects may pull me away from other projects more bloggy in nature for a time, but I don’t want to abandon this place – this home, this community – we’ve worked so hard to build here together over the past five years.

This is where you come in.

I’d love to have your input on what brought you to this place; and what keeps you here. What feeds your soul when you come here with your cuppa and your heart open? I’ve put together a short survey I’d really love and value if you took the time to take for me. It only has 5 questions and should only take a minute or two. Simply click here and answer the questions. Thank you!!

In the mean time, I’d like to introduce myself:

Hi. My name is Jennifer, and I am a writer.