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Marilyn Friesen

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Thursday, June 1, 2017

Do You Know How Much You Have to Offer?

Don’t be ashamed of your past, don’t be ashamed because your skin is darker than mine—I’m not white either, but peaches and cream!
               The white race should collectively hang their heads if they think they are superior. We are historically known for being assertive and materialist, for getting things done, but is that really what counts?
               You have traditions, gentler customs than we are known for, and it brings tears to my eyes and I’m not the weepy type. Some of you come from cultures that deeply respect your elders, may God bless you.  When so many from the same area are sweet and mannerly, I know it’s more than just a coincidence.
               Okay, it’s time to get more specific. I was reading Chicken Soup for the Mother’s Soul Book 2 just now and these Native American’s girls had the custom of spending one day alone, each month, during their menstrual cycle to contemplate on what kind of person they wanted to become. Was that part of your lineage? Just imagine the quality of character that could develop from taking the time to prayerfully meditate beginning in your formative years and continuing throughout life.
               Now, let’s go way across the ocean, to the other side of the world, and learn about a different group of women. These wonderful African ladies obviously valued children highly: well before the child was born, even before conception had taken place, they would go off alone to listen to the song of the infant they hoped to carry.  All throughout the pregnancy, they will sing this song, and teach it to the old women and midwives in the village. At birth, the child is greeted by ‘their’ song and soon all the village learns it so that at every high point, or time of distress, it is being sung to the growing child and later adult. Doesn’t that sound so peaceful and loving? Doesn’t it seem like a beautiful way to knit family members, a village, together? I only wish I knew more details about these wonderful people, where they came from, what their names were, and so on.
               Lift up your heads, you ‘colored’ people you have so much to offer! (And don’t forget we are actually most colored then you. We blush with embarrassment; turn green with envy, blue with cold, pale with shock, you name it!)



If the Mission's Impossible, What Shall I Do?

Andy looked towards the top of the mountain but couldn’t see it. You see he was only an ant, but he had a job to do, he hoisted his backpack and started crawling… and crawling. It was impossible to see the path through the maze of grass, gravel, fallen leaves and other obstacles but he must get to the top. Every day for as long as he could remember he had been traveling upward, and much of the time the trip was exceedingly difficult. He was lost, Andy knew it; he hadn’t been able to find the trail for days, but knew it must be there somewhere. Surely, if he kept climbing in the right general direction he would get there; after all, he was climbing upwards.
Andy was exhausted. The sun was beating mercilessly on his head, had been for hours now, and the load was getting heavier by the minute. Could things get any worse? They could. Other ants were making their way back, tired and discouraged.

“It’s not enough,” they lamented, “You’ll have to hurry, our little anthills of good deeds are not enough to appease the Creator.
“What about those who have been martyrs: their piles are made up the pain they have endured, are their offerings more acceptable?”
The only one not too weary to respond shook his head. “All of our offerings look pitiful; I don’t know why we try.”  At that, the other insects hissed angrily and there was such a clamour of protests that Andy crawled away to find shelter under a leaf.
He wondered for a long time what he should do if they toiled all day and long into the night yet their efforts weren’t satisfactory.  At length, he fell asleep.
“Andrew! Andrew!”
Andy stirred and opened his eyes but saw no one. There was a soft glow off to one side so focused on it.
“You are not an ant, but a man,” the melodious voice continued. “The one you call your master has convinced you that you are worthless, of no more significance that a lowly insect, but that is not so.
“Come let me take your burden, and as you share your worries with me, you will find the weight shrinking and you, yourself, will grow into the person you were meant to be.”
Andy turned over and went back to sleep, but in the morning the vision had not left him.
“I don’t know who you are, Sir,” he whispered into the air, but could you come and help me carry my weight?”
Immediately he felt his chest expand as if he could breathe easier and he was able to walk faster.
As the days went by, he found himself sharing more of the load with the unseen Comforter. Other ants looked up at him, puzzled, he was changing, growing, but not in a fearsome way. His face took on more human characteristics, such as kindliness and joy. Every time he helped someone with their troubles, he grew.
One day he shed the mold that was cramping him and was able to gaze into the eyes of his new Master.
Thank you for loving me enough to set me free,” he whispered.
The other ants still clamoured around him, belittling him, accusing and distracting him, but he had a new Master.
That made such a difference.

If you want a meaningful book you can keep and reach for time and time again, check out this website:
www.marilynshistoricalnovels.com


Sunday, May 21, 2017

What Really Matters

I made myself a new friend. Ah me, what a dream, I haven’t even met her! Let’s start again; I wish I could have her for a dear friend. Everyone applauds her for her sewing ability and no doubt, it was wonderful, but I don’t think that is the reason people cried when she suddenly passed away. Would you weep just because someone who made you a garment died? I think not. Would you if you were desperately poor, and it was the only decent thing you had to wear? I doubt it, after all, a brand new, possibly heavy, homespun garment would last quite a while, and even if it didn’t, that isn’t what you would remember her by.
               Really? So what would it be then? Dorcas was one special woman. Her heart was overflowing with love. These were poverty-stricken widows and others to whom she ministered. Widows, get that? Wives’ and mothers whose husbands’, the fathers to their children, had died, possibly drowned at sea because Joppa was a seacoast town. They were heartbroken, lonesome and she cared.
Sure, they showed anyone interested the tangible evidence of how kind she was to them, but that wasn’t the most important part.
Here was someone that loved them, shared their suffering and when she died they couldn’t bear to let her go.
               I guess Peter couldn’t either, because when he was summoned from a nearby town, he dropped everything he was doing, and came.
               It was a tremendous miracle when Dorcas rose from the dead and many became Christians because of it, but let’s not remember her for doing acts of mercy, but for showing compassion.

               Hey, Dorcas, may I get to know you in Heaven and be your friend, there?

You'll find this start in the last part of Acts 9.

Friday, May 19, 2017

I ReCalled It!!

RECALL!! Did you order a copy of Two Mothers, Twin Daughters and find that some chapters had been duplicated? If this is your experience please send the copy to me and I will replace it free of charge. (Meet me on Hangouts for my address.)

Two mothers fleeing the British Isles during World War Two. Why does one worry about being a war bride, while the other one, who is married to a widower, seem more content? Why does Grace, the younger one, give one, but only one of her twin daughters away? Why was Grace's husband sent home from the war? What will it be like leaving a city in England while bombs are exploding and submarines lurking, to settle in a Canadian wilderness? What will happen to the identical twins? How will they cope if, or rather when, they find out they have been separated as newborns? 
Book One of the Grace's Dilemma Series.

Check back from time to time and you will find out when the revised version is ready. Yes, it will be better than ever.
www.marilynshistoricalnovels.com

Tuesday, May 2, 2017

What's WORSE the Present or the Future?

New contest on the go. You're the winner if you buy the 25th book by December 25th. Prize: Free night in our bed and breakfast.

How can Marita cope with a war going on, forbidding parents, a charismatic but absent husband, and being a pregnant teenage war bride? To top it off she must leave England and end up in a Canadian wilderness she has never heard of. Here's just a nibble to whet your appetite. It's the first chapter.
Marita staggered: extreme exhaustion caused her to slump against the rail of the ship, Tena-rae. The last few weeks had taken such a heavy toll on her both physically and emotionally. It made her heart ache even worse when arm in arm a group of girls leaned against the rail and crooned “The White Cliffs of Dover" as a tribute to their homeland. When the thick gloomy fog had thinned somewhat, she saw those white chalk cliffs rearing up in their entire splendor next to the choppy ocean. The girls had moved along, still singing, but Vera Lynn’s words floated back to her:
‘There'll be love and laughter
And peace ever after tomorrow
When the world is free.’
Like wisps of fog, vestiges of final moments with her mother stained her cheeks."Get out of my life! You are a disgrace! You are good for nothing!' Her mother's harsh shriek rang in her ears, crushing her spirit. Marita's blue-gray eyes burned with unshed tears. Am I good for nothing, she mutely asked the wisps of fog floating by. If I am, then why was I born? If her heart was any heavier, it would sink like a stone in that vast gray expanse of ocean. She hated anyone to see her crying so bit her lip to steady it. The memories of her mother, Mrs. Parson's, raging voice were harder to still.
"We taught you not to go to the bar! We told you not to get involved with those drunken Canadian soldiers!"
"But it wasn't a bar!" Marita protested. "It was at the community center and most of the soldiers drank moderately."
 It had felt hopeless trying to reason with her mother's rigid back turned towards her, so Marita faced the moisture streaked kitchen window instead. She stared unseeingly into the darkness to hide the teardrops that managed to trickle out between half-closed eyelids then mindlessly swished the dishes that her mother had left for her to do, through the sudsy water.
Marita knew she was a thoughtful, respectful girl, perhaps a little shy, so it was a breathtaking day in her boring life when she and her friend first met those two Canadian soldiers. They, especially the auburn haired one, looked so sharp in their crisp, khaki uniform. She and her school chum, Betsy, had been walking home from school, arms laden with books. The sky had been a bright pretty blue, which was a luxury after so much rain and fog. In a few days, the academy would be close for the summer break, and they were walking along with light, brisk steps.
Then, stepping smartly, two soldiers pivoted around the corner, saluted, and offered to carry their books. Marita caught her breath and stared. What could have been more flattering than having such incredibly good-looking privates salute them? She still marveled at how easy it had been to chat with those courteous strangers with intriguing Canadian accents.
Marita’s lips curved upwards at the memory. I am normally so reserved, yet I actually bantered and giggled with them even more than Betsy did! It would have astonished the schoolmaster, and probably most of the scholars. Her smile faded, but it did feel like the real me.
Almost without noticing, their feet had carried them far beyond the Parson's home street. Flustered, she had tried to take her books away from her companion, Randall Sutherland, but he just held on the tighter. "Not unless you come with me to the dance tonight," he teased with an easy grin.
The color drained from Marita's cheeks. A dance? I've never gone to a dance in my life! Dances are wicked, she knew that. It was not dancing that tempted Marita, but the opportunity to get to know Randall better. We wouldn't have to dance, would we? Maybe we could just, well... stroll around in the moonlight as they do in storybooks. Maybe we could, uh, sit and visit or something.
Looking back, Marita knew that it was then that she felt the first niggling pang of uneasiness, but she was too busy laughing at Randall and the other private's nonsense to pay much attention. Marita's head lowered, shamefaced. The soldiers had teased and wheedled them, drawing attention to Marita's bouncy curls that were shiny as a raven's wing’.They praised her petal soft cheeks 'that an angel would envy’ and teased Betsy about the cute up-tilt of her freckled nose.
"Two such charming girls should not be allowed to shrivel up 'like dried old apples'," Randall had declared. Finally, laughingly, Marita gave in, just as Randall unwrapped a sweet and popped it into her mouth.
"Just this once:" she sputtered, trying to speak sternly but had dissolved into giggles. She had to resort to covering her mouth to keep from drooling. Marita didn't recall where Betsy and the other soldier had wandered off. They had strolled away in a different direction while Marita happily trotted beside a soldier who was chivalrously carrying her books.
They had been strolling for a long time, Marita unconsciously detouring the streets where there was the most severe bomb damage.
It had been easy to prattle lightly about many things and forget the heavy cares of a war going on at least for the moment, then, feeling wonderfully weary; they collapsed on a sheltered bench in a common.
Randall unceremoniously dumped her books on the grass beside him and reached for her in what struck her as a rather possessive manner, Marita shrank back alarmed, so he quickly released her, but left his arm resting on the back of the bench.They chatted until Marita saw dusk creeping on and worried about not going directly home after school.
What if the air siren went off? Where would they go? She looked around for an air raid shelter. They were so far from the black, stuccoed cottage she called home. Will my parents be anxious?  Marita hoped so but seriously doubted it. She was more concerned about her mother's fury. Even though it was her final year at the secondary school, her mother had many ironclad rules to keep her in line and her father half-heartedly submitted to them. Coming straight home was one of the ordinances. She knew there would be more waiting for her than gentle concern or even a stern reproof for not showing up promptly
"How am I supposed to get out of this difficult situation?
"Oh well, the damage is done," Randall grinned mischievously. "If you're going to get into trouble anyway, you might as well make it worth their while. Why not go out for supper-- I mean High Tea with me? I'll treat you to steak, roast beef with Yorkshire pudding...kidney pie, or whatever your British appetite is craving."
Marita doubted that even the more swish restaurants could offer such swell fare in these hard times but her mouth watered at the prospect after so many months of unwelcome rationing.
"If you will allow me to ring up Mom from the pub you want to take me to," she bargained, “then I’ll go. He nonchalantly agreed.
Thinking back, Marita easily recalled how her face flamed as her mother's strident voice carried over the wire. How many of those patrons heard the dressing-down I got?
The scene that occurred after the dance was one that she would rather blot from her memory. Even though she had hurried to do the dishes left for her, and make amends in other ways, it was impossible to appease them.The anger! The mistrust! The accusations! Doesn't Mom have any faith in me at all? Why couldn't Dad have said just one word in my favor? I have never defied their wishes before! Had they not taught me to be uncommonly obedient? I even stammered out an apology that I really meant.It was not well received.
What a relief when she was able to slip off to her dreary attic bedroom. After she had washed the dishes, dried, and stacked them in the cupboards, her mother had turned to rail on Dad.
 That night Marita felt like her vision cleared, since then she became increasingly impatient with her elderly parents' medieval ways.
Abruptly her thoughts switched channels. Oh, I wish Randall's gaiety didn’t come from a bottle, so often. He is a wonderful young man, so charming and well mannered: he doesn’t need drink to boost his morale!
A scene from one of their many times together floated into her memory: "Randall you had one drink, already, must you have another?" she had reached out to touch the cold glass.
"I'm fine, Sweet: no need to worry. I can hold my liquor. This will be the last. You should taste it. It's quite pleasant, in fact." She shuddered in refusal and he had didn't pressure her.

Do't forget to nab your copy before the contest is over.

www.marilynshistoricalnovels.comwww.marilynshistoricalnovels.com

Thursday, April 27, 2017

Don't Forget the Bread

The Light Around Us

I’m going to tell you about this man; I'll call him Cham and the touch he felt from God. It's pretty remarkable, AND it's true. O.K, it started out this way; his wife needed to get to work and she asked him to pick up a loaf of bread and some other

things. Pretty basic, eh?
 


Only problem is he got distracted, and ended up in the beer parlor and the money ended up in the wrong cash register. Needless to say, the wife was pretty disappointed, but a week later the same thing happened again, or rather was about to happen. He was pretty busy having a good time with his friends, same time, same location, sort of thing, when he needed to visit the restroom. Now things got pretty interesting: when he walked out he looked out and lo and behold a light was shining all around him. I don't think he paid too much attention to it at first but went to join his companions, and they were gone! He asked the waitress about them, and all she could say was that they had upped and left. Well, he decided to go searching, but couldn't find them, but he did notice that the light was still surrounding him so decided to let it lead him. Cham followed the light in that otherwise dark night, and it lead him up to a narrow river which he decided to cross although it came up to his waist, then later across another river until it eventually lead him back home.

I believe this experience left a deep impression on Cham. He didn't always follow the Light, (God's light) as closely as He should, but he tried and God was able to bring him out of his ignorance and darkness to a closer walk with Him. He can do the same for you. Just follow the little light you have, pray and He will lead you, us one step at a time. When we look back, we will often recognise how He lead us better than we can at the moment.


Monday, April 24, 2017

Behind a Boarded Up Window

Some people you never forget, no matter how much muddy or swift flowing water runs under the bridge. YOU are one of those people. It's been months now since our contact was broken but I still think about you and pray for you from time to time. My heart is heavy. You or someone like you from that sex slave commune reached out to me, I tried to help, in weakness, I tried to do my little part but the contact was broken. I grieve for you knowing how desperately evil your 'masters' are. But what can we do when even the local police are in cahoots with the perpetrators? Thank you for being brave enough to open your hearts and share with me. I know several of you did after I gained your trust, but now I am left in the dark yet I can still pray. Have any of you been able to escape? What wouldn't I give to reconnect and have you call me Mommy, again?
Here's the article that got me thinking about you once more. XOXOX!!

Behind a Boarded Up Window


Good morning, dear one. Did you think I had forgotten you completely? At first I was picturing you standing lonesomely by a small window and looking up at the stars, but then I remembered, you don’t even have that option.
Behind a boarded up window: never to see the cheery sunshine dappling the leaves and making the flowers to glow, never to feel the soft breeze against your skin or enjoy the scent of fresh new growth…
Did you think I have forgotten you? No, never. I am sorrowful that our connection was lost, and pray earnestly that it can be restored once again. I pray that you can feel Jesus’ Presence surrounding you and comforting you. I hope and pray that somehow you will be able to see this message. That would be so delightful!
And by posting this I am praying that others will become aware of the slavery that is going on behind closed doors. It is my longing and heartfelt desire that through united, fervent prayers girls like you will be set free both spiritually and physically.
Have I forgotten you and your companions that I think of as my beloved children? No never, not for a moment. You are in my heart and prayers. Someday, somehow Jesus will set you free.

Keep praying, and I will too. Oh, I do hope this message will get to you. Remember; always remember that I love you and that Jesus’ love is strong and eternal. Keep trusting in Him. ‘They’ can’t take that away.
XOXOX

Behind a Boarded Up Window

Some people you never forget, no matter how much muddy or swift flowing water runs under the bridge. YOU are one of those people. It's been months now since our contact was broken but I still think about you and pray for you from time to time. My heart is heavy. You or someone like you from that sex slave commune reached out to me, I tried to help, in weakness, I tried to do my little part but the contact was broken. I grieve for you knowing how desperately evil your 'masters' are. But what can we do when even the local police are in cahoots with the perpetrators? Thank you for being brave enough to open your hearts and share with me. I know several of you did after I gained your trust, but now I am left in the dark yet I can still pray. Have any of you been able to escape? What wouldn't I give to reconnect and have you call me Mommy, again?
Here's the article that got me thinking about you once more. XOXOX!!

Behind a Boarded Up Window


Good morning, dear one. Did you think I had forgotten you completely? At first I was picturing you standing lonesomely by a small window and looking up at the stars, but then I remembered, you don’t even have that option.
Behind a boarded up window: never to see the cheery sunshine dappling the leaves and making the flowers to glow, never to feel the soft breeze against your skin or enjoy the scent of fresh new growth…
Did you think I have forgotten you? No, never. I am sorrowful that our connection was lost, and pray earnestly that it can be restored once again. I pray that you can feel Jesus’ Presence surrounding you and comforting you. I hope and pray that somehow you will be able to see this message. That would be so delightful!
And by posting this I am praying that others will become aware of the slavery that is going on behind closed doors. It is my longing and heartfelt desire that through united, fervent prayers girls like you will be set free both spiritually and physically.
Have I forgotten you and your companions that I think of as my beloved children? No never, not for a moment. You are in my heart and prayers. Someday, somehow Jesus will set you free.

Keep praying, and I will too. Oh, I do hope this message will get to you. Remember; always remember that I love you and that Jesus’ love is strong and eternal. Keep trusting in Him. ‘They’ can’t take that away.
XOXOX

Monday, April 10, 2017

The Atman (world) Hospital


symbolic

                “This is sure a junky, old hospital,” Jyoti grumbled. “As soon as I can I’ll be glad to move on to a better place. Why in the world is it called Atman hospital anyways? “
                Vivek stood behind the floor-length mirror in the staff washroom. She arranged her nurses’ cap just so on her long wavy hair that was formed in a knot at her neck. “That’s the Hindu word relating to ‘World’ or person. This huge hospital holds a cross-section of people from all walks of life. "
                “It looks like most of them are from the untouchable caste to me,”
                “Not so!” Vivek’s eyes flashed. “And besides we are not allowed to call them that!” How she wished to really tell this snobbish newcomer off. Every day since Jyoti had volunteered to work in Shalputa’s inner city hospital she had found something to complain about. If she finds it so dreadful why doesn’t she just leave?  She obviously doesn’t know a thing about the caste system and the benefits of it! Why if -----------wasn’t from the caste he is, he wouldn’t have received the assistance needed to find a bed in even this economy hospital.

                Jyoti’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Pardon me, your royal highness, and what caste are you from?”

                Vivek flushed red but didn’t deign to answer. She thinks her western ways are so superior to ours, but they aren’t, they simply aren’t. The Eastern Culture is as varied and beautiful as a rich tapestry.

While trying to keep a tight rein on her emotions, Vivek turned and sashayed out of the room.
Fifteen minutes later, while she was chatting with other caregivers at the nurses’ station, she lifted her eyes to see Jyoti strolling languidly towards them, coffee cup in hand.

                “What took you so long?” Leila, always the outspoken one, demanded. “Shift change was fifteen minutes ago, and Report is over.”

                “Oh, this and that,” Jyoti chose a chair and sipped indolently of her steaming beverage.

Vivek saw a spot on Jyoti’s uniform but Jyoti either hadn’t noticed or more likely didn’t care.
                “It looks like a long night is before us,” Jenna sighed.
                Jyoti shrugged, “The moaning and groaning doesn’t seem any worse than usual.”
                Vivek leaned back and peered down the dimly lit hall. A look of concern shadowed her features, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Will tonight be like every other night, with the staff enjoying the comforts of the brightly lighted lounge and only superficially going through the motions of making sure everyone is all right?
            Last night she had verbalized this concern, but Jyoti had responded. “They will come to us if they need to. They can ring their bell.”
                Vivek had nodded but she knew better.  How many would actually call? They are afraid that every act of service we provide will cost them something. Our ways are so strange and foreign to them that they will shrink back and think that…Vivek glanced at Jyoti and her lips curved slightly; that they are untouchables.
                Just then a bell tinkled from somewhere down the hall.
                Leila glanced pointedly at Jyoti. “That’s your patient.”
                Jyoti sighed, “I’m not quite done my coffee. It will be cold when I get back.”
                “Must you always put your own needs before others?” Leila snapped. “See there it rang again. It must be urgent.”
                Jyoti checked the number against the chart. “That only old Mrs. Farah. Probably wants to use the commode again.”

                “Well, what if you needed to use the commode, and couldn’t wait…” Feeling embarrassed, Jenna’s voice trailed off.
                “I’ll go,” Vivek said quietly.
                “Nah, I’m almost done.”
                “If that what’s Mrs. Farah wants, you’ll need help anyways.” Vivek started down the hall and Jyoti trailed after her.

                They attended to Mrs. Farah’s needs in a professional manner, but Vivek’s heart ached for the elderly woman. I almost wish I would have gone alone. Mrs. Farah is so sweet and frail. I wonder if she is afraid of the great beyond. She would never call out to ask for spiritual help, but shouldn’t we be offering it, somehow?

                The long night wore onThe girls went the rounds when it was time, and answered the bells when required to, but Vivek wished they could do more.

                Around three o’clock that night, the girls couldn’t resist the urge to slumber and sleep although they knew it was against the rules. When Jyoti was sound asleep on the couch, Jenna dozing in the rocking chair, and Leila deep in the pages of a book, Vivek took her little candle and slipped away into the darkness. She went into one room after another, the tiny light illuminating her face and a small area in front of her.  Some were sound asleep, but not everyone. She knelt beside Hanzia’s bed. The tiny child was weeping for her mother so Vivek smoothed a lock of hair off the small, delicate face and offered words of comfort.
                A little further on Gabi was muttering and tossing, sleepless. Vivek knew he must be in a lot of discomfort from the fractures suffered in a gang war earlier that week so thought of offering him a sedative.

                Gabi looked like he was going to lunge at her with his fists and hurled a few choice expletives her way, so she backed out hurriedly.
                Gabi stared at her in dismay. Why did I ever act like that? She looked like a ministering angel. I am so used to having to protect myself, but what if, just what if she had intended to show mercy? Vivek didn’t know how he felt in his heart and avoided him next time she passed by.
                Eventually, Vivek reached Mrs. Farah’s room supposing she would be fast asleep by now. The round orbs that were the old woman’s eyes were wide and staring as Vivek crept closer. Vivek placed the candle on the bedside table and knelt beside her. She placed the wrinkled, claw-like hand between her own, and stroked it gently.
                “Oh, Vivek, thank you for coming.” Mrs. Farah murmured. Vivek saw that her cheeks were damp where a tear or two had coursed down it.
                “Would you care to talk?”
                In the silence that followed Vivek dimly heard a bell tinkle, and the sound of passing feet.
                “What is beyond this life?” Mrs. Farah asked hesitantly.
                As Vivek quietly shared her hope of eternal life with God, Mrs. Farah listened eagerly.
"If we confess that we have sinned to Jesus," Vivek continued, "He will take them all away. Jesus has prepared a place in Heaven for them that love and serve Him."
                Eventually, Mrs. Farah fell into a deep and peaceful sleep, so Vivek let herself out of the room.
                Far down the hall, she saw the brightly lighted nurses’ station with the staff all dressed in white.

They were enjoying each other’s fellowship, which was pleasant, yet here in the dark and gloomy corridors, only the occasional beam of light was searching out the needs of a suffering society. Some cautioned against penetrating the darkness with all its dangers, and reminded her that they can come to us but once again Vivek wondered how many would actually dare.

          She slipped into a comfortable recliner and had nearly dozed off when Jenna’s words floated into her consciousness.

Friday, April 7, 2017

What Happened to the Newborn Twins?


With bombs destroying nearby streets, air raid sirens screaming, and blackout curtains compulsory, Birmingham, England is a fearful place to be, but for a pregnant teenage war bride fleeing to Canada to be with her husband is a frightening option. 

Sailing on a ship with submarines lurking nearby makes her uneasy, but so do more personal fears. Does Randall still love her in spite of the fact she's already pregnant? Will her parents ever forgive her for marrying him? Will he be furious to find out she is expecting twins? Will it help if she gave one up for adoption since he doesn't know she is carrying two? 

Later she discovers that he had been deported from the army for a reason no one is talking about and soon after arriving home ends up in jail also for a mystifying reason! 

Grace has big problems but there is hope.

 Two Mothers, Twin Daughters is the first in a series called Grace's Delima.  It will be available on Amazon very soon. For more books by this author go to www.marilynshistoricalnovels.com