As the year draws to an end, preparing to close its final chapter, I think of the beach.
It might seem perfectly normal to those of you living in sunny climates, or to snow bunnies hastening away from the cold. But to those of us in areas that have already seen our first snow, it might sound strange.
To me, beginnings and endings can be like the ocean.
Like a rushing tide, every New Year, we rush toward new goals and hopes.
Sometimes shrinking back in fear, or drifting away into distant doubts and difficult memories.
Sturdy ocean rocks, like strong foundations, enable us to stand secure. And even walk on water, like faithful friends that make us believe we can do the impossible.
Our footprints in the sand are washed away like our past failings and errors. While a merciful new year, grants us another chance at life.
The 1960s song, Try to Remember, written by Harvey Schmidt and Tom Jones, plays in my mind. Emotion tightens my throat. My heart forms a prayer for the coming year.
May no one weep. Not even the willow.
Veronica Jorge
See you next time on January 22, 2024!
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Olivia Carmichael couldn’t have wished for a better life. A beautiful home on her family’s estate. High society friends. And at age 19, the perfect fiancé. God is in His heaven smiling down at her and all is well.
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My father always said, “Know who you are. In whatever you do, do your best.” By his hard work and example, he instilled in me the importance of integrity and quality. This makes me scrutinize everything I say and write (sometimes to excess). But also causes me to dig a little deeper and write from the heart which makes for a satisfying journey.
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Hispanola, which means the “Spanish island,” became the first Spanish settlement in America. It is my mother’s native country and today we know the eastern section of the island as the Dominican Republic; a fertile land abundant in mines and minerals and rich in a great variety of fruits, vegetables, grains, and flowers, where the sun shines brightly year round.
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I killed one of the characters in my novel.
(It was more like two, but I have no qualms about the second one.)
I came up with a death scene I really liked and just had to use it, so someone had to “go.”
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Nineteen-year-old Helene languishes in a squalid French prison tormented by questions she cannot answer. Why was she arrested? Who could have made a wrongful accusation against her? And if so, why?
Nothing Found
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