Holly Michael's Writing Straight

~ Connecting and Inspiring Along Life's Crooked Lines by Author Holly Michael

Holly Michael's Writing Straight

Category Archives: India

Tsunami 2004 Book for Free!

08 Friday May 2015

Posted by Holly Michael in Books, India, tsunami 2004

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Author Holly Michael, Bishop Leo Michael, Free, Free on Kindle, Holly Michael, Kindle, Leo Michael, Tsunami, tsunami 2004, Tsunami Still Wading through Waves of Hope, Tsunami stories

For a short time, I’m offering a FREE Kindle eBook: Tsunami 2004 – Still Wading Through Waves of Hope to those who sign up for my Author Newsletter – occasional brief news about new releases and sales.

Click Here to sign up http://eepurl.com/5vTLP

(The woman to my right is the girl on the cover. Her "then and now" story is one of many in the book.)

(The woman to my right is the girl on the cover. Her “then and now” story is one of many in the book.)

Here’s an excerpt from Tsunami 2004 – Still Wading Through Waves of Hope

Chapter 1
Send Us

January 2005, just after tsunami

“Send us to the most devastated, remote villages where no one else has gone.”

My husband’s zeal was admirable, but concern reared its head in me. I glanced at Vicky, our parish member who volunteered to join us on the mission. She leaned forward in her seat, eyes bright with anticipation.

Brave soul, even the lizard on the wall didn’t faze her. But this was her first trip to India. Lizards would be the least of our difficulties.

Chennai’s sea breeze wafted through Father Michael Vyakulam’s open office window at St. Bede’s Orphanage and School. My husband (Anglican priest) and Father Vyakulam (Roman Catholic priest) faced each other from across a desk.

Nearly three decades ago, the elder led a vocations camp for boys interested in Holy Orders. He recommended Leo Michael, a zealous thirteen-year-old, for the junior seminary. The two clerics remained dear friends, regardless of their divergent paths.

Father Vyakulam glanced heavenward. Was he consulting God in some silent prayer for wisdom or asking forgiveness for where he was about to send us?

I breathed in the tangy air and hushed my fears. God wouldn’t let us down. He’d guided us from the moment we received the news that a major tsunami roared onto the shores of South India.

Ten days earlier, in a frantic but familiar Indian accent, the news came to us through the phone like headlines.

“Thousands feared dead. Seaside villages wiped out.”

I bolted upright.

My husband of two years put his hand over the receiver. “It’s Decruz. Turn on the news. Something terrible has happened back home.”

I grabbed the remote off the nightstand, then checked the clock. We had collapsed in bed only an hour earlier, exhausted after the busy Christmas season ended with the last Mass at a nursing home, followed by Holy Communion offered to a homebound member.

At the same time—given a twelve-hour time zone difference, making it Christmas Day evening—those in India were waking up to a catastrophic nightmare.

TV headlines matched my brother-in-law’s report. An earthquake in the early hours of the morning, near the Indonesian islands of Sumatra, caused a tsunami that had slammed the southern peninsular coast of India on Sunday morning.

Due to no warning system, many were feared dead.

Some of my husband’s family lived in Bangalore, Karnataka; others lived in a Tamil Nadu hill station. Neither locale was coastal. Our relatives were safe. Thank God. We said good-bye to Decruz and planted ourselves before the TV.

Just a few years earlier, my husband had lived and served as a Catholic priest to schools and orphanages in the affected coastal region. His shoulders slumped with each rising death count. Fellow clergy, friends, and children he’d cared for likely would have been among the casualties.

The next day, a local Northwest Arkansas newspaper reporter phoned. “Father Leo, is your family okay?”

A few hours later, in the reporter’s office, my husband shared his knowledge of the tsunami-affected area in South India. “Houses made of mud walls and thatched coconut leaf roofs would be decimated.

“Men would have been out fishing. Wives would be waiting for their husbands’ return to take the fish to market. Children would have been sleeping or playing along the seashore.” He lowered his head. “So many would have been caught unawares.”

“How would you help the victims?”

I think the reporter meant, how would a person help? In general or hypothetically—like, how would you like to help? But my husband accepted the question as a challenge. He leaned forward.

“We will begin a fundraiser.” He patted my knee. “We will go to any length, do whatever it takes to raise money, then we will go to India and personally take money to those most affected.”

*****

TEN days later, trekking into impassable villages and decimated shorelines, my husband devised an amazing plan to help widows and orphans and those most affected by the tsunami. TEN years later, we returned to the same villages and encountered surprising changes and a life-threatening situation.

Sign up here and I will gift you a FREE Kindle e-copy of Tsunami 2004. To purchase a print version of TSUNAMI 2004 for $6.99 click here.

Thanks!!

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Choices? Choose the Empowering Way!

13 Monday Apr 2015

Posted by Holly Michael in Books, Christianity, India, India's Crown

≈ 2 Comments

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Christian Authors, ICICLE, India, Kim Galgano

Win a copy of this excellent book on www.indiascrown.com.

chancetochoose-300x253Great interview by Kim Galgano. India’s Crown is a website Caryl McAdoo and I developed to connect Christian Authors with Christian readers in India. We have a Facebook page, too. We are growing with a good number of followers here in the US, and in India and other countries, too. Check out the blog and Facebook page. And if you are a Christian Author, contact us about getting the news about your book to readers in India.

Choices? Choose the Empowering Way!.

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Still Wading through Waves of Hope

03 Tuesday Feb 2015

Posted by Holly Michael in Books, India

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Still Wading through Waves of Hope.

Wonderfully done blog by Silvia Villalobos about our 2004 Tsunami visits and what happened ten years later, returning to Nagapattinam.

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DEC 26th NEW RELEASE: TSUNAMI 2004 – Still Wading Through Waves of Hope

25 Thursday Dec 2014

Posted by Holly Michael in Books, Holly Michael's New Releases, Holy Catholic Church - Anglican Rite, India

≈ 1 Comment

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Bay of Bengal, Bishop Leo Michael, Books about the tsunami, Holly Michael, India, nagapattinam, nonfiction, Novel, South India, Tamil Nadu, Tsunami, tsunami 2004, Tsunami 2004 Still Wading Through Waves of Hope, tsunami 2014, tsunami anniversary, tsunami ten years later

Beautiful beach and sea“Send us to the most devastated remote villages where no one else has gone.”

My husband’s request diverted my attention from the lizards on the wall. Those creepy-crawlies and India’s lack of toilet paper would be the least of my worries during this trip to India, just ten days after the 2004 Tsunami.

When the 2004 Tsunami roared onto the shores of the Bay of Bengal, my husband Bishop Leo Michael, spearheaded a very successful national fundraising event. He promised to take 100% of the contributions to the most affected tsunami victims in the worst decimated areas around Nagapattinam, South India.

photo by Holly Michael

photo by Holly Michael

Children of Akkarapettai photo by Holly Michael

Children of Akkarapettai photo by Holly Michael

A pastor and native of South India, he had worked around the affected coastal region for more than twenty years. He understood the living conditions of the fisherfolk and could well imagine the horrible aftermath of the monster wave that took the lives of tens of thousands.

Being a former journalist, and current freelance magazine writer on assignment, I geared up to trek into impassable villages with my husband where the dead still washed up on the shoreline and massive cremation fires still burned.

photo by Holly Michael

photo by Holly Michael

Surveying each village and coordinating with the local headmen, priests, and one amazing school headmaster, my husband devised unique plans to help each community.

Giving bank certificate of deposits to the orphans of each community was one part of our help that paid back in greater dividends later.

photo by Bishop Leo Michael

photo by Bishop Leo Michael

Prior to the anniversary of the tsunami, in December 2014, we returned to the same villages and met the same orphans who would cash in their CD’s days later.

We encountered surprising changes, gleaned  deeper insight into the lives of the fisherfolk and tsunami survivors, and got slammed with an unexpected life-threatening situation.

Follow our journey in my THEN and NOW nonfiction book, TSUNAMI 2004 – Still Wading Through Waves of Hope published today on the tsunami anniversary, December 26, 2014 and available on Kindle. CLICK HERE $2.99 LINK Available in paperback soon!

Like Fiction?

bookMy debut novel, CROOKED LINES, inspired by both my husband and my experiences in India, is now on sale at Amazon for a limited time at $2.99.

Back cover blurb: On the shores of Lake Michigan, Rebecca Meyer seeks escape. Guilt-ridden over her little sister’s death, she sets her heart on India, a symbol of peace. Across the ocean in South India, Sagai Raj leaves his tranquil hill station home and impoverished family to answer a higher calling. Pushing through diverse cultural and religious milieus, he labors toward his goals, while wrong turns and bad choices block Rebecca from hers. Traveling similar paths and bridged across oceans through a priest, the two desire peace and their divine destiny. But vows and blind obedience at all costs must be weighed…and buried memories, unearthed.

Crooked Lines, a beautifully crafted debut novel, threads the lives of two determined souls from different continents and cultures. Compelling characters struggle with spirituality through despair and deceptions in search of truth. Crooked Lines has already reached #1 in Inspirational Fiction Category on Amazon.

Coming up by Holly Michael:

CROSSED LINES, a sequel to Crooked Lines, is slated for a June release. (Fiction)

FIRST AND GOAL: What Football Taught Me About Never Giving UP. My son (NFL player with type one diabetes) and I co-authored this devotional, published by Harvest House Publishers, and scheduled to be released in the fall of 2015.

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One Day Deal: Be Inspired For a Cause!

17 Friday Oct 2014

Posted by Holly Michael in Crooked Lines, India, Inspiration

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Anglican Bishop, anniversary of tsunami 2004, Author Holly Michael, Bishop Leo Michael, Crooked Lines, Holly Michael, Holy Catholic Church Anglican Rite, India, nagapattinam, Read for a Cause, South India, Tamil Nadu, tsunami 2004

Super “one day” deal for a cause. Just for today, Saturday, October 18th, CROOKED LINES is on sale (kindle version) for only $2.99!

Crooked3 (1)

And guess what? For just $2.99 you support our Nagapattinam Mission Project and get a deal on a great book. (Crooked Lines reached #1 in inspirational fiction category and is getting awesome five star reviews).

About the Nagapattinam Project: Nearly ten years ago, Christmas Day evening, the phone rang. My husband’s brother DeCruze, calling from India. A Tsunami struck the coastline. Thousands were feared dead (Thank God, our family living inland were all okay).

The next day, a local newspaper reporter who knew my husband was from India called for an interview.

“What would you like to do?” the reporter asked.

“Raise funds, go to India, and help. Every penny given will go directly to the victims.”

My husband has a heart for the Lord, but sometimes his zeal means that I need to gear up for what might come next. Walking out of the newspaper office, I questioned my husband, “Do you know what you just committed to?”

He did and meant every word. The church flew into fundraising-mode. The community and beyond opened their hearts and purses. More than seventy thousand dollars was raised.

Ten days after the tsunami we were in Nagapatinnam, Tamil Nadu, South India. My husband said to our contact, “Send us to the worst affected areas, the poorest, most remote villages, where there’s been no help.”

Weary from nearly thirty hours of travel, again, I mentally geared up for what would come next. My husband, having lived and worked in the affected region for many years, explained that the poor fishing villages—huts with thatched coconut leaf roofs—would be wiped out. Many lives would be lost. The survivors would need a lot of help. Helping, doing some good, always makes the challenges easier.

Photo by Holly Michael

Bishop Leo Michael counsels Photo by Holly Michael

My husband’s predictions rang true and I had no idea how difficult, yet fulfilling, this experience would be.

As a freelancer for a Guideposts magazine, I had an assignment to cover the story of a teenage survivor, Tamalarisa, below.

Photo by Holly Michael, Tamilarisa in the remains of her home

Photo by Holly Michael, Tamilarisa in the remains of her home

We provided immediate assistance and helped many tsunami orphans. We arranged for the village headman to bring the children to the local bank where we identified them and put funds in CD’s to be collected ten years later (2014). This would give them money to begin their lives as adults. We also provided a couple of fishing boats for the villages, as their boats were destroyed, and fishing was their only livelihood.

Photo by Holly Michael

Photo by Holly Michael

Orphaned by the 2004 Tsunami, photo by Holly Michael

Orphaned by the 2004 Tsunami, photo by Holly Michael

We returned a year later and offered more help.

Nearly ten years later, we are preparing to return to Nagapattinam for a follow-up visit. On the ten-year anniversary, December 26th, 2014, I’ll publish, Tsunami 2004: Then and Now. Devastation from the Sea. Help from Beyond. (Working Title).

I’m excited to return and see how the children–now adults–are doing and discover their future plans. I’m also curious to see how the once decimated villages have recovered. We want to show them we still care.

This past July, I released Crooked Lines, my debut novel. It threads the lives of two determined souls from different continents and cultures. They struggle with spirituality through despair and deceptions in search of truth.

Here’s my back cover blurb: On the shores of Lake Michigan, Rebecca Meyer seeks escape. Guilt-ridden over her little sister’s death, she sets her heart on India, a symbol of peace. Across the ocean in South India, Sagai Raj leaves his tranquil hill station home and impoverished family to answer a higher calling. Pushing through diverse cultural and religious milieus, he labors toward his goals, while wrong turns and bad choices block Rebecca from hers. Traveling similar paths and bridged across oceans through a priest, the two desire peace and their divine destiny. But vows and blind obedience at all costs must be weighed…and buried memories, unearthed.

Please take advantage of today’s sale and purchase Crooked Lines for $2.99 to support our Nagapattinam Project and help us on this Mission Trip. If you don’t have a Kindle, consider purchasing a print version of the book. Or you can download a Kindle app for free for your smart phone, tablet, or PC. Gift a copy to a friend. It all helps, and I hope to show this results of this help in the book to be published on the anniversary of the tsunami.

Click here to purchase Crooked Lines

Other ways you can help:

1. Please click to share below, twitter, Facebook, etc.

2. Sign up for my newsletter for further news on my books: releases, news, etc. Click Here

3.  Visit my Facebook page and share from there: Click Here

Thanks for your support! Gotta go pack now!! Please keep us in your prayers!

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First newsletter…and guess what? Some BIG news!

13 Monday Oct 2014

Posted by Holly Michael in Books, Crooked Lines, India, Journeys: In Writing and Life, Travel

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

anniversary of tsunami 2004, Author Holly Michael, Bestseller, Blog, books, Crooked Lines, Holly Michael, Mission trip, nagapattinam, South India, tsunami 2004, www.writingstraight.com

Just published my very first Mail Chimp newsletter. Huge challenge for my non-techy-hate-learning-new-stuff-brain, but I got ‘er done! Still trying to figure out how to add a sign-up form on my blog and website, but, for now and for those who haven’t signed up for my newsletter, here’s my exciting news in old school cut and paste method from the newsletter (and a link below to get future issues of the real thing).

First, the banner of the newsletter. It doesn’t have a fancy newsletter name, but oh well.

Hollybanner (1) Ok…here’s the news:

Nagapattinam: Ten Years after the Tsunami

“Send us to the worst affected areas, the poorest, most remote villages, where there’s been no help.” ~ Bishop Leo Michael

My husband spoke those words nearly ten years ago when we landed in South India, just days after the 2004 tsunami. He had once lived and worked in the region and knew of the fisher-folk’s living conditions and the havoc a gigantic wave could wreak on a village with homes built of sticks and coconut-thatched roofs.

I mentally geared up for mission work, but had no idea how difficult, yet fulfilling, the experience would prove to be.

Holly2

Now, ten years later, we are preparing to leave for South India for a follow-up visit to the places and people helped from the generosity of America, after a 2004 major fundraising event. (I gotta pack soon).

Funds were used to help rebuild the villages and to provide many orphans with local bank CD’s (to mature in ten years).

Now, the children are ready to collect their money and begin their adult lives. I’m so excited to go back and meet these young people and write their stories. I’ll compile a “then and now” short book (with photos) and release it on the anniversary of the tsunami: December 26, 2014. (Tsunami 2004: Then and Now. Devastation from the Sea. Help from Beyond. – Working Title).

10388652_10154343931780635_7186550705922152135_n

Though both Crooked Lines and the sequel include experiences in the Nagapattinam seaside villages and some life experiences of mine and my husbands, both are works of fiction. Release date for the sequel is planned for February 2015, hopefully Valentines Day.

Here’s the first paragraph of the sequel to Crooked Lines. (Crossed Lines-working title…do you like that title? Let me know in the comments.): Like swirls of smoke from incense, smoldering heaps sent the remains of the dead up to God. I turned away from the distant piles of burning bodies. Nagapattinam, two weeks after the tsunami, wasn’t the India I’d been imagining for the past twenty years. Yet, every storm that swept into my life since I was a teenager had prepared me for this time and place. 

photo by Holly Michael

And in case you haven’t gotten Crooked Lines (reached #1 spot in inspirational fiction on Amazon) here’s the back-cover blurb: On the shores of Lake Michigan, Rebecca Meyer seeks escape. Guilt-ridden over her little sister’s death, she sets her heart on India, a symbol of peace. Across the ocean in South India, Sagai Raj leaves his tranquil hill station home and impoverished family to answer a higher calling. Pushing through diverse cultural and religious milieus, he labors toward his goals, while wrong turns and bad choices block Rebecca from hers. Traveling similar paths and bridged across oceans through a priest, the two desire peace and their divine destiny. But vows and blind obedience at all costs must be weighed…and buried memories, unearthed.

Crooked3 (1)So…for occasional brief and newsy updates about book release dates, sales, etc., here’s the link to sign up for my newsletter: CLICK HERE. Why not?

Thanks! AND, HERE’S HOW YOU CAN HELP: PURCHASE CROOKED LINES NOW AND PROCEEDS FROM SALES FOR THE REST OF OCTOBER AND ALL OF NOVEMBER WILL HELP FUND THE ONGOING PROJECT. THE NEED FOR HELP IS ALWAYS GREAT IN THE POOR FISHING VILLAGES IN NAGAPATTINAM. Click HERE to purchase Crooked Lines

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The Crooked Lines of Life

04 Saturday Oct 2014

Posted by Holly Michael in India

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Author Holly Michael, Bishop Leo Michael, Crooked Lines, Holly Michael, India, interview, nagapattinam, South India, Sylvia Villalobos, Tsunami, tsunami 2004

A great look at the past, what’s new, and what’s to come in my life. Amazingly, they all tie in together. Going to be a great rest of 2014 and an amazing 2015! So excited! Thanks for the interview, Sylvia!

Silvia Writes

Holly1

After the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, Holly Michael of Wisconsin traveled to South India with her husband and joined hands with the army of volunteers to help in the recovery efforts. Holly’s husband is Bishop Leo Michael, a native of India, whom Holly met when asked to do an interview on the success of a small parish.

Two people from two different cultures, raised on two opposite ends of the world, found they are not so different when linked in the common goal of helping others. We need more like them in the world.

This is the story of Holly Michael, journalist, author, and to me: cherished critique partner. If ever there were a book that embodied love and compassion, a story written in such luminous, deeply personal prose, Crooked Lines is it.

Here is Holly sharing the inspiration behind her story — a short narrative complemented by photos.

Holly4 From…

View original post 465 more words

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Need Inspiration? First Chapter Challenge

03 Wednesday Sep 2014

Posted by Holly Michael in Books, Crooked Lines, India, Inspiration

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

Amazon, America, Australia, Barnes and Noble, best selling inspirational novel, Bestseller, bestselling inspirational novel, book, Christian Fiction, Crooked Lines, fiction, FlipKart, Google Play, Holly Michael, India, Inspiration, Inspirational novel, Kobo, Kobo Australia Inspirational Fiction, Literary Fiction, Novel

Need Inspiration? Last week, Crooked Lines reached #1 on Amazon in an inspirational category. Take my first chapter challenge: Read the first chapter of Crooked Lines. If you like it, click the appropriate link to read on. Happy reading 🙂
Crooked3 (1)Crooked Lines, Chapter One

Rebecca Meyer White Gull Bay, Wisconsin, Summer 1985

It didn’t occur to me at the edge of the pond that I’d broken the sixth commandment, actually committed murder. I was busy working out a deal with God, swearing to Jesus I’d become a nun if He helped me breathe life back into my baby sister’s limp body. At the time, it didn’t matter that I wasn’t Catholic.

Now, a week after the funeral, Mama set me straight while flipping pancakes in the kitchen. “Daddy blames you for Kara’s death.” She said it like I’d let the milk spoil because I hadn’t put it back in the fridge, but the weight of her words cemented my bare feet to the green linoleum.

She reached for a platter and set it under the open window. The morning sun highlighted old stains, batter spills, and cracks on the brown laminate countertop. A cool morning draft rustled the faded yellow gingham curtains. Mama got a deal on that material from Woolworths before Kara was born. Along with curtains, she sewed four sundresses for each of my sisters and me. It wasn’t fair that the fabric was still with us, fluttering over the sink, yet Kara came and went as quickly as the wind.

Mama transferred pancakes to the plate.

My plan to breeze through the kitchen and escape the house unnoticed should have succeeded because for a week, I’d been a ghost. None of the people in the house—my parents or any of my brothers and sisters—spoke to me. I’d lived a cloistered existence with my blue notebook and unsettling thoughts.

Now, I only wanted to sit under the maple, read the Kara stories, and wind back time.

I tightened my arms around the notebook, holding it to my heart like a talisman, as if my words of love for my sister could erase the raw sting of truth in Mama’s words. Since that day at the pond, I’d been carrying that notebook everywhere, even sleeping with it. In my lake of sadness, in my whirling murky thoughts, those sacred pages had become my life preserver.

Mama snapped the griddle knob off and faced me. “We left her with you that morning. She was only seven.” Her words rushed out in a seething whisper. My shoulders fell and hope slid from them and disappeared out the kitchen window.

Only a month ago in my white cotton confirmation dress, I cited the Ten Commandments and professed my faith at St. Andrew’s Lutheran Church.

So confident. So holy. Mama baked a cake.

Now, because of me, Kara was dead. I tugged a loose string on the frayed edges of my cut-offs, then looked back up at Mama. Her short blonde hair was a tangled mess. Her red-streaked eyes shot angry darts laced with sadness. C’mon Mama. Don’t you get it? The deep muddy waters consumed Kara. She’s gone, but I’m here, still drowning.

I ran my big toe over a rip in the linoleum, wanting to bolt, take off and run as far and fast as my long legs would carry me, but Mama’s eyes told me she had more to dish out. I sucked in my breath, stuck out my chin, and met her stare, my five-foot eight-inch frame matching hers. I could take it.

But she walked away, left me standing there. Every fiber in my soul told me to run after her, beg forgiveness, and cling to her legs until she hugged me and told me everything would be okay. That’s what mothers were supposed to do. But no longer a child, those days were over. I winced when the slam of her bedroom door, like a gavel, sentenced me.

“Becca, bring the pancakes.” Tom rose from the dining room chair and waved his fork.

“Hurry up!” Bobby pounded a fist on the oak table. “I’m starved.”

At least one thing at home remained the same; after morning barn chores, my brothers only cared about food.

My limbs loosened. With shaking hands, I grabbed the platter, set it on the table, then tore up the stairs—two at a time. I didn’t look at my brothers. They probably blamed me, too.

In my bedroom, I kicked a pile of dirty clothes and hit something solid, a tennis shoe. I crouched and peeked under my bed. The other. Good.

I kissed the notebook, then stuck it under my pillow. I’d started writing Kara stories in it a week before she died—the funny and intuitive stuff she’d said and done. I even taped her photos inside the pages. How could I have known to do that right before she died?

Tugging on my shoes, I wondered if the Holy Spirit had prompted me to create the Kara notebook when I was still a child of God. He’d visited me once. I remembered Him, not ghostly and elusive, but someone so real. Someone who loved me.

When I was six, He came to me in the meadow. I danced and sang for Him. I couldn’t see Him, but He was there. In my yellow butterfly dress, I laughed and twirled with the dandelion seeds, my blond hair bouncing in the breeze as I basked in His immense love. I stretched my hands high and offered songs of thanks for the creator of the ladybugs, the zippy dragonflies, and the warm summer sun.

God knew me. I knew Him.

But that was then.

I rested my foot on the vanity bench, tied my laces, then looked into the mirror. Eyes dull and ringed by dark circles stared at me, not my bright green ones. Since that day at the pond, I slept in fitful interludes in the hallway in front of the door, me and the notebook with my pillow and a blanket.

I wanted to sleep in my bed, but Kara and I had shared the room since she was born. Every night she left her bed, crossed the room, stood beside me, and called my name until I woke and lifted the covers, inviting her in.

Standing outside the door each night, my fears would grow and shrink me from a teenager into a child, scared Kara’s ghost would come knocking.

What if she came to my bedside and called my name? Would her eyes have the same accusing stare as Mama’s had? Did she hate me, too?

Chills tickled the back of my neck. I yanked the other shoestring tight, then fled downstairs and out the front door. At the end of the driveway, I turned and ran past the silos toward Lake Michigan. Tears blurred my vision as I ran past fields and farmhouses, cows and cornfields, apple orchards and cherry trees. I ran past evergreens, Indian Paintbrushes, Queen Anne’s Lace, and Black-eyed Susans. Fuzzy cattails poked from marshy lowlands.

Miles later, when grassy ditches turned sandy and the scent of pine replaced the earthy smell of cow manure, I slowed. At Evergreen Lane, I shoved the bad stuff out of my head, leaned against the weathered fence post, and kicked off my shoes.

Summer bungalows loomed over the tops of cedars on both sides of the gravel pathway that allowed public access to the beach. A few silhouettes—like mannequins in store-fronts—faced the lake. Who were they? What did they think? And where would they fly back to before the first flakes of winter fell. Those lucky visitors came to the peninsula of White Gull Bay to escape from places I’d never been, places I’d always longed to run to.

The whoosh and trickle of the whispering waves beckoned me to the shoreline. Gulls screeched and circled around dead glittering minnows. Chilly water rolled over my feet and lapped my ankles.

I scanned the beach for glass stones, bent over and picked up a round flat black one. I tried to skip it, but it sailed straight into a small cresting wave. No luck today.

A long ship crept across the horizon, cutting a path between the cerulean sky and the blue-green lake. Next week, Daddy would be out there sailing on one of those iron-ore freighters. He only came home when November gales churned the icy waters and during spring planting and fall harvest—and for a death.

I watched the vessel disappear until guilt rode on the waves like bobbing driftwood and landed on the shore before me. Daddy would miss Kara sitting on his lap on the John Deere. I didn’t blame him for hating me. I didn’t blame Mama. Kara was the baby, the ninth. I was the seventh. Seven wasn’t a lucky number.

My legs quivered. I sat, hugging my knees. Tears plopped tiny craters in the sand. I was guilty. A sinner with no hope because it was worse than anyone knew. I couldn’t admit to anyone all that had happened at the edge of the pond. How could I say I knew Kara would die that day and I did nothing to stop it? How could I talk about the way I freaked out and ran away when I saw her form in the murky water, even though I knew I’d find her there?

My childhood was over.

“Where do I go from here?” A wave rolled in and nearly swallowed my small voice.

Ignoring the plaintive cries from the screeching gulls, I stood, straightened my shoulders and looked to the horizon. Only two more years of high school. I’d plan. Work hard. I had one thing going for myself. Everyone considered me the smart one because I got good grades and read a gazillion books. Yes, I was smart, smart enough to figure out my escape. I’d find a place of peace, far from White Gull Bay and the awful stuff I’d done.

Then, I’d find someone, somewhere, who’d love me.

***

Sagai Raj, Sheveroy Hills, Tamil Nadu, South India, Summer 1985

“Sagai, wake up. It’s time.”

He opened his eyes. His father, kneeling on the dirt floor beside his reed mat, held out a small tin cup. Sagai reached for the milky sweet coffee. In the soft glow of the hurricane lamp, he sat, sipped, and glanced around the room at the curled, sleeping forms.

His father struggled to his feet with a grunt. Limping since last year’s bicycle accident at Little Lake, he hobbled toward the door, lifted the metal latch, and disappeared into the predawn darkness. Sagai admired the elder man’s quiet noble manners, his wise words, and the kindness he showed toward everyone. Had he caused his worry?

He slid his hand under his mat and pulled out the invitation. After a month at camp, he’d been chosen. He’d been carrying the postcard around for a week, praying his father would give his blessings. Time was running out, school would begin soon, and his destiny did not lie in Sheveroy Hills.

Soft snores from his mother and siblings filled the room. He stepped around them, kissed his fingertips, then touched the Sacred Heart of Jesus picture on the wall by the doorway, as he did every day.

In the small courtyard, the cow mooed and shifted, full with milk. “Don’t worry Muttura Madu, you’ll be milked soon.”

He stepped beside his father, almost shoulder to shoulder now. Appa heaved a deep sigh, then turned and faced him with an outstretched palm.

“Appa?” Sagai rested his hand on top, then his father covered it. An unspoken message of love. Top hand covering and protecting, the bottom holding and supporting.

“You’re my seventh child. Seven is a good number, a heavenly number. My hope was that you, the smart one, could become a doctor and help the family—”

“But—”

Appa raised a finger. “—but God has a different plan.” His tone sounded peaceful, accepting. “Now, run along.”

He let go of the breath he was holding. “I may go? Truly?”

“Yes, son. You may go. You will leave on Saturday.”

Sagai bent down and touched Appa’s cracked calloused feet. He pressed the postcard to his pounding chest, then returned to the house and tucked it in the edge of the framed picture of Jesus. He rushed outside, said goodbye to his father, and stepped onto the narrow cobblestone road. Unable to hold back any longer, bubbling laughter rose from his chest and escaped into the misty morning air. He raised his arms toward heaven as he ran, thanking God for this true blessing.

For the past eight years, God’s love had pulsed through his soul, fueling his zeal as he ran the four miles each way, every morning. God’s love came with the morning’s rays, His kiss in the whisper of a breeze on hot afternoons, His presence in the mist that settled over the Tamil Nadu hill station at dusk. And as Sagai sloshed through pounding rains during monsoon season on roads reduced to muddy footpaths, the Lord never left his side.

Now, Sagai’s smile wrapped around his heart and traveled to his feet, hastening his momentum. The five o’clock Muslim call for prayer reverberated in the hills when the road became packed dirt. The chants, low and monotone, interrupted the lulling crickets and broke the sleepy quietness of the night. He ran over another hill, then down, leaping over slushy mud holes in low areas.

A cock crowed. Another answered, encouraging dawn to break. They always crowed right before his half-way point—the Hindu shrine. At the base of the huge Banyan tree with its intertwining aerial root vines dwelled a Hindu deity, a huge cobra coiled in a snake pit. A shock of hair tacked to the tree indicated a recent exorcism. Instead of speeding past in fear of the snake striking his legs, Sagai stopped. At age fifteen, about to leave home forever, he shouldn’t shake like a small child at this place.

Today, he would defeat his fear. Under the dim streetlamp, he forced his gaze into the ebony eyes of one of the two angry soldier statues that guarded their deity. A tongue sticking out from the huge oblong face challenged him.

Frowning, he looked from one statue to the other. “You two aren’t so frightful.”

A rustling in the bushes shot a jolt of fear through him that rattled his bones and made his heart nearly thump out of his chest. He tore past the shrine, made the sign of the cross and sent a flying prayer to Jesus. On the way back, in daylight, he’d look those horrible fellows in the eye and tell them he wasn’t frightened of them or the snake.

Alongside the old stone fence dripping with purple bougainvillea, he ran. Tamil hymns blasted from homes and out of church doors. “O Jesus you are my all. O what a joy…” Only the Protestants could shower the streets with their hymns like that. The tune stuck in his head all the way to Little Lake, where dawn had painted a pale orange streak over the calm surface.

Fascination and fear of Little Lake slowed his pace. Last month his cousin happened upon a dead body floating in the water. The source of life-giving water lured suicidal villagers as well as recreation seeking Brits and rich Indians who came to Sheveroy Hills for holiday. Their grand bungalows stood like jewels around the lake.

He often wondered what their eyes beheld when they looked out from their fancy homes. Did they see his cousin, the boatman who offered a leisurely ride for two rupees? Did they notice Sagai and his brothers catching fish for Amma’s curry? Where did these visitors return to when God breathed His peace into them from this fertile hill station of monasteries, convents, and spirituality centers?

Bells chimed from the tower of the Catholic mission church, alerting Sagai. Six chimes meant he must arrive at the silver Mahatma Gandhi statue in the town center. He ran…one…two…three…faster…four…five…and six. Gandhi came into sight.

He ran past the statue, past Jack fruit trees, past cypress entwined with pepper vines, and orange groves. A grey stone fence, now speckled with tiny blue flowers continued to snake along the curvy pebbly road. At Pullathachimedu, Pregnant Ladies Hill, he sped by the resting stone. No time to rest. The bell at the novitiate gonged. Fifteen minutes to go. The white steeple spiked over the top of the umbrella trees, sliced with morning sunbeams and decorated with bright orange flowers.

Reaching the wicket gate just in time, he witnessed nearly one hundred novices in habits, slightly bowing and silently processing, two by two, into the church. He slipped in after them. Mosaic tiles cooled his tired bare feet. Thanks to God and his landmarks, he’d made it on time to assist Father Louis at Mass.

In the sacristy, Sagai tightened the cincture rope around the red cassock, then pulled on his white surplice. When a very small boy, he had held mock Mass at home. Amma would pin one towel to his front and one to his back—his chasuble. Circles cut from cardboard served as the host, fruit juice as wine. He’d light two candles and arrange everything on a small table. Vijay, his younger brother, acted as altar server. By age six, he had memorized all of the prayers of the Mass.

Now, ready for the real service, Sagai knelt before the crucifix and promised to stay on his path toward holiness and keep all of God’s commandments. He rose when Father Louis arrived to vest, and handed the priest his cincture, stole, and chasuble.

After the service, Sagai shuffled his bare feet in the dirt at the wicket gate, watching the retinue of nuns file into the refectory. Waiting made him feel like a beggar. If he left, Sister Mercy would think her daily offering of a few slices of bread was not appreciated.

Peals of laughter drew his attention across the road. The private school had already begun their quarter. Two enormous lion statues guarded the compound beside the white pillars that shot up to a high arch where St. Alban watched over the village hill station atop a golden dome. Fenced in by black wrought iron, school children—Brits and rich Indians—in suit jackets, ties and long pants, trickled out of the dormitory for breakfast.

Sagai slid his hand inside his shirt where the two buttons were missing, then tugged the frayed edges of his faded shorts, patched in the back. Sometimes after serving at Mass he’d watch the boys put on leg pads and knee guards, and use real bats on their lush green field. At his school, on the other side of the village, they used a flat stick and played cricket barefoot on a rocky uneven patch.

Hoofs tapped the hard packed dirt road. A cow plodded past.

Sagai rubbed his rumbling stomach and returned to the wicket gate. He was tempted to pluck fruit from the guava tree, or at least pick up one of the many that lay on the ground rotting, but that would be stealing. A sin. The cow, not knowing better, could eat the fallen fruit. He should not.

He knelt and picked up a small round stone and rolled it in his hand. Perfect ammunition. Those pesky monkeys, now awake and watchful, were known thieves. Would knocking one of those screeching troublemakers out of a tree be a sin? Before he could ponder further, a young novice approached, smiling.

“For you.” She smiled and handed him a package.

“Thank you.” An entire loaf of bread. Enough to share with all at home. Sister Mercy must have asked her to give it to him. The novice bowed, nodded, and walked away.

Before he could run, Sister Mercy marched toward him. She eyed the loaf tucked under his arm. Her nostrils flared. Smack. Her palm cracked against his cheek.

“Thief!”

“No, Sister.” He pointed, blinking back tears. “That novice gave it to me.”

Sister Mercy wagged her finger. “Even so, you know that I usually give you bread. You should not have accepted it.” She snatched the loaf from Sagai and thrust her slices at him.

He turned and ran all the way to Little Lake without stopping, horrified he’d be branded a thief. Would his future lie in jeopardy?

On the grass beside the water, he stared at the bread. He never went to church to get free bread. He went to serve. He rubbed his cheek. A monkey eyed him from a rock. Sagai tossed the bread. “Have it. I don’t want it.”

He wouldn’t mention the incident to anyone. He prayed that Sister Mercy wouldn’t report it to Father Louis.

A flat black stone caught Sagai’s eye. He skipped it on the lake. One, two, three, four times it bounced before sinking. Lucky day. He leapt to his feet and ran toward home. God would make sure his dream came true. He’d been chosen. He would go to seminary and become a priest. His older brothers and sisters dropped out of school by seventh standard, but surely Vijay would do the needful—finish school, and go to college. He must. Someone had to take care of the family. His place was no longer in Sheveroy Hills.

Want to read the rest? Crooked Lines is available at these places:

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Hope you enjoy!

 

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Crooked Lines: From America to India Along Life’s Crooked Lines

28 Monday Jul 2014

Posted by Holly Michael in Books, Christianity, Crooked Lines, India, Inspiration, Photography, Writing

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

America, Author Holly Michael, Bishop Leo Michael, Christian Fiction, Crooked Lines, Darjeeling, Faith, fiction, Goa, Holly Michael, India, India to America, Mumbai, Novel, Spirituality, Tamil Nadu

My novel, Crooked Lines, is featured on India’s Crown, a premier site linking American authors to Indian Readers. Find out some fascinating facts about Crooked Lines and some awesome pictures of India, too! Read on!!

India's Crown in Christian Literature Excellence - ICICLE

104 (2)

I’m so pleased to introduce my debut novel, CROOKED LINES, on our premier site, India’s Crown. It’s been such a pleasure launching this site with talented and acclaimed author Caryl McAdoo. We’ve also added new talent from India to our team, lovely blogger and social media expert, Natasha Lopez from the Mumbai area.

Like INDIA’S CROWN, CROOKED LINES–a novel set partly in India and partly in American–blends two cultures. Here’s my answers to a few of our interview questions.

How do you suppose a reader living in a different culture—such as India—will relate to your book?

Crooked3 (1)CROOKED LINES was inspired from stories of my husband and clergy friends who came of age in a religious order in India in the mid-1980s. Their tales as young seminarians (80s and into the 1990s and beyond) fascinated me—serving in a Mumbai slum, meeting Mother Teresa, freeing “untouchables” from bonded labor situations, rescuing youth out of radical communist situations, working in orphanages.

I also laughed with them at…

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Crooked Lines: From America to India Along Life’s Crooked Lines

28 Monday Jul 2014

Posted by Holly Michael in Crooked Lines, India, India's Crown

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

America, America to India, American, Author Holly Michael, big dreams, Bishop Leo Michael, Christian Fiction, Christianity in India, Crooked Lines, Crooked Lines A Novel, Darjeeling, debut novel, Faith, fiction, Goa, Holly Michael, Hope, India, Novel, Religious Fiction, Spirituality, Tamil Nadu, West Bengal, www.indiascrown.com, www.writingstraight.com

Crooked Lines: From America to India Along Life’s Crooked Lines. India’s Crown (ICICLE) symbolicea premier site linking American Authors to India Readers featured my novel, Crooked Lines! Read for a fascinating look at how Crooked Lines came to be and a photos from India.

Also, a chance to win a free signed copy of Crooked Lines!

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Done this: Regular freelance ghostwriter and online editor for Guideposts for Teens/Sweet 16 Magazine, creator/editor of a magazine for Wal-Mart Corp., journalist, newspaper features writer, published in a variety of national magazines and local newspapers, script writing/editing for corporations. Doing this now: author of fiction and nonfiction, blogger, and editor of Koinonia Magazine. I’m the wife of Rt. Rev. Leo Michael, an Anglican Bishop in the Holy Catholic Church-Anglican Rite. Mom to three great kids: Nick (#81 Rajin Cajuns), Betsy (Super cute professor) and Jake (T1D & NFL player) Also, enjoy my travels extensively across the United States and internationally.

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