Holly Michael's Writing Straight

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

Holly Michael's Writing Straight

Tag Archives: India

My Amazing Connection to Author Jan Pierce: What I Wish all Parents Knew

05 Tuesday May 2015

Posted by Holly Michael in Books, Christianity, Guest Author, Guest Blogger, Inspiration

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Tags

2015 Wold Book Day, Angels, Best book to help children learn to read, Bestseller, bestselling Author Jan Pierce, Children, Help a child learn to read, Helping Kids Read, Holly Michael, Homegrown Readers, India, Jan Pierce, Miracles, reading, Roger Pierce, Simple Ways to Help Your Child Learn to Read, Tsunami, tsunami 2004

Alone in a foreign country, with my husband in a third world ICU suffering multiple organ failure, God summoned his angels. They are the Pierces: Jan and Roger.

Homegrown Readers coverToday, Jan Pierce is a guest on my blog. She will share her secrets about inspiring children to love to read. Jan is a retired teacher and freelance writer who specializes in writing about education, parenting and family life topics. She is the author of the newly-released book, Homegrown Readers: Simple Ways to Help Your Child Learn to Read

Last November, when my husband contracted dengue fever from a mosquito bite, I’d only known Jan vaguely as an author friend on Facebook. During our crisis in India, my only means of communication was via a hospital computer. I got on Facebook and asked for prayers.

Jan Pierce saw my message. Her husband Roger was in India, in Bengaluru, where we were. Deciphering my sporadic messages, the couple discovered our location.

A few days later, Roger stepped into the hospital room. With happy tears upon seeing my husband alive and well, he told us that God had prompted him to pray with fervency. He’d spent countless hours interceding before the Lord for us. Roger had never met us before, but we all held hands and prayed in that hospital room, so far from home. We were all overwhelmed at this amazing connection…

Because of God…

Because of prayers…

Because of…yes, Facebook…

…my husband recovered and I am able to introduce Jan Pierce to you, a wonderful talented compassionate author with a heart for India and a heart for helping kids learn to read.

I’m handing over my blog to Jan. And what’s really cool about her post today is that today March 5th, is UNESCO’s World Book Day. A celebration that encourages children to read. To celebrate, Here’s JAN!!!!!

Thanks, Holly. God is amazing and I am grateful for your husband’s recovery and for your welcoming me here today to talk about What I Wish All Parents Knew…

Jan-137acrop1

Today’s busy families are hard pressed to give their children everything they need. Schedules are packed. Kids join soccer and T-ball teams. Families enjoy the outdoors together camping and hiking. Parents take time to teach their children basic kindness and manners, but they often wait to get into that book learning, the reading and writing stuff, until their children enter school.

But here’s the thing. Reading is really important. Virtually all learning takes place through the written word. Children who haven’t been read to, who haven’t listened to fairy tales, poems, tales of curious monkeys and books about real animals, kids who aren’t familiar with books and what’s inside them–these kids are at a disadvantage when they go to school.

The solution is simple. Read to your children. Even if you had unhappy experiences in your own learning to read years, the price of entering school without lots of experience with books is too high. Kids soon learn that the other children know what’s going on. They don’t. They’ve just begun their school career and already feel like a failure.

Reading aloud to children is, ideally, a wonderful thing. It can be the ritual before naps and bedtimes. It can be what the family does on Saturday mornings while they eat their pancakes. Sharing favorite stories should be a positive experience for the whole family. If that isn’t the case, something needs to change. If reading isn’t enjoyable to you as the parent, suck it up and do it anyway. (You’ll change your mind.)

Regular read aloud times should be part of the family schedule. Let children choose some of the titles. Read a variety of fiction and non-fiction books and don’t forget that maps, comic books, the Sunday comic strips and even instruction manuals are all reading materials. It’s never too late to start because it’s just that important to success in school.

When your children enter kindergarten let them be the kids who have heard at least five hundred stories. Let them be the ones who understand that stories have characters and settings and plots. Let them know which way is up on a page and that writing goes from left to right. Teach them to love books and reading. Your reward? A happy, successful reader.

Holly: Thanks for that message Jan, could you share a little more about your background.

Sure, I’m a wife, mother and grandma to three terrific grandsons. I retired eight years ago from a long career in education. I taught all grades from kindergarten through fourth grade, but mainly taught first and second grade, so I had ample time to teach children to read. I earned a reading endorsement when I got my Master’s degree because I wanted to understand more about the nuts and bolts of reading. I spent the last two years of my career as a reading specialist.

When I retired, I determined to stay active and soon realized I had two new “jobs.” One involves Teams India, the NGO my husband and I founded to do missions work in India. The second is I became a freelance writer. I’d never published a thing before 2007, but soon found that I love the challenge and everything related to the writer’s life.

And getting involved in the writing life is what brought Jan and I together on Facebook. Isn’t this an amazing connection? And my blog is all about connections.

Holly: Before you go, Jan. I really want to stress the benefits a parent will get from reading your book? Can you tell us how it will help parents and their children?

Sure. Any parent who wants their child to gain reading skills in English will benefit from the information in this book. It’s important that parents understand English is not a highly phonetic language and because of that children need more than phonics to read well. They need to use thinking strategies to find the meaning in a text. If they read the words perfectly, but don’t understand the meaning, they haven’t really read. All the strategies they need to solve reading problems are found in Homegrown Readers.Homegrown Readers cover

And below are links to Jan’s site and to purchase her book: Homegrown Readers: Simple Ways to Help Your Child Learn to Read

CONNECT WITH JAN: Website: www.janpierce.net and www.onehandfulofrice.org / Facebook author page / Jan’s Amazon author page / Linked In / Pinterest

Amazon.com to buy Jan’s Book /  To purchase Jan’s Book from Barnes and Noble

Beautiful beach and seaHolly: If you’d like to hear more about our drama-filled visit to Tsunami-devastated Nagapattinam in our “then and now” book, Tsunami 2004 – Still Wading Through Waves of Hope, click here. The nonfiction book takes a look back at our visit ten years ago and our return trip this last November and the challenges and surprises we encountered. It also chronicles the lives of several orphans.

But, first, I urge you, parents, teachers, aunts, uncles grab Jan’s book from the links above. It’s a must for any one who cares about helping a child they love learn to read!

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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

Tags

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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The Devil Marked Him for Death…

07 Saturday Feb 2015

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

≈ 9 Comments

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Anglican, Bishop Leo Michael, dengue fever, Facebook, God, HCCAR, Heaven, Holly Michael, Holy Catholic Church Anglican Rite, India, Jesus Christ, Leo Michael, marked for death, Miracle, nagapattinam, South India, Tsunami, tsunami 2004, Tsunami 2004 Still Wading Through Waves of Hope

I haven’t yet blogged in detail about that one heart-wrenching experience during our return trip to the 2004 tsunami-ravaged villages in Nagapattinam, South India.

My husband and I encountered many difficult situations and joyous ones too, but I’m writing today about the one that still nearly buckles my knees when I continue to hear statements like…

“The devil marked him for death.”

Or when a doctor friend recently said, “It is a true miracle the he survived a multi-organ failure.”

Or the heart tugging statements, said in several different ways:

“I prayed fervently.”

“I shed so many tears.”

“The spirit led me to pray deeply, like I’d never prayed before.”

(statements by even those I hardly know)

It gives me goosebumps, even now, almost three months later, when I think about what happened…in the spiritual sense of it all.

So…going back to late November 2014

…after my husband got bit by an affected mosquito.

…after we finished our mission work in Nagapattinam (my husband growing weak and feverish toward the end.)

…after we rode a bus for 12 hours from the remote villages in Nagapattinam with my beloved nearly lethargic from a spiked fever.

…after we arrived in a Bangalore hospital, my husband dehydrated with 103 fever.

…after the diagnosis of Dengue Fever (my sister-in-law died from dengue fever two years earlier).

…after we were left alone in a room with very little care.

…after I continued my attempts to communicate with the hospital staff that I didn’t think it was normal that my husband had swung from extremely feverish to unresponsive and almost completely cold (and they insisted he was fine).

…after the admitting Hindu doctor woke up in the middle of the night from a dream worried about my husband (one of maybe 200 patients she’d admitted that day) and called the ICU doctor to check on him.

…after he was rushed to the ICU blood pressure dropping and multi-organ failure.

…after I was stopped at the double doors to the ICU by a guard.

….after I sat in the empty hospital room in South India, alone, unable to communicate properly with hospital staff and no phone or means of communicating with anyone but God.

….after I’d finally got onto a hospital computer and asked for prayers through Facebook.

Which leads me to what I believe…

I BELEIVE….

…the heavenly realm, which is all around us always, was busy that night.

…the Holy Spirit touched the hearts of many to pray fervently after hearing my plea on Facebook (as many have testified).

…the Devil had slated my husband (a Bishop in the Holy Catholic Church Anglican Rite) for death.

…the prayers of the saints and all of the faithful allow me now to praise God for his full healing.

…Facebook is awesome and faithful friends and family are amazing. (I love you all).

…God is great, all the time, always!

I chronicled this experience and so much more from our trip to South India in my book, TSUNAMI 2004 – Still Wading through Waves of Hope. I share about the people and villages we visited and those we helped after the  2004 Tsunami, and the experiences upon our return, ten years later.

Ten years ago, after a major fundraiser, we went to the most devastated impassable villages in South India. My husband had a fabulous idea of asking the village headmen (hubby speaks the native language) to bring the orphans to the local bank. We established Bank CD’s in their names, so that ten years later, they would have funds to begin their lives–marriage, college.

Given the arranging of marriages and that the value of women is based on their dowry, the idea paid off literally in dividends.

I share these “then and now” stories and our experience in greater detail in TSUNAMI 2004 – Still Wading Through Waves of Hope. A percentage of the proceeds from the sales will go to support our continuing mission work in India. 

Some of our “then and now” pictures (the book also has more picture)

2004 Nagapattinam Harbor

2004 Nagapattinam Harbor

harbor now

harbor now

Nambiar Nagar boatmen discouraged, not wanting to go back to the sea. Boats are all destroyed

We had given funds to a man who owned a boat repair business. He put 50 people to work after the tsunami. Above, then...and now.

We had given funds to the man above on the left of my husband (in the blue shirt/khakis). The man owned a boat repair business, decimated by the tsunami. With funds we gave, he put 50 people to work after the tsunami. Some, (above in boat), after losing loved ones to the sea, did not want to go out and fish again.

Two friends (orphans) we'd helped then, and below now...

Two friends (orphans) we’d helped then, and below now…

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IMG_0498

Some then photos….IMG_0975FH000002Long lines in Nambiar Nagar for foodIMG_0832Some now photos…

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Awestruck Sabeen looking at her picture then

Seeing herself in the photo from ten years ago

IMG_0615IMG_0203IMG_0580

Below, some of the orphans we helped then…Tsunami orphans 2004 who received CD Bank Accounts for approx. $230.And some of those faces now…
Tsunami orphans now

My deepest heartfelt thanks to all of you who helped with fundraising then and all of those who prayed for my husband and to those who also support my writing. Because of you all, we can continue to do the good works that the Lord has prepared for us to do and to go wherever and to whomever He leads us. 

*Special thanks to Roger Pierce, the husband of a Facebook friend, who happened to be in Bangalore, had been praying for my husband, and showed up at the hospital later and prayed with us. 

IMG_0668

To purchase Tsunami 2004 – Still Wading Through Waves of Hope (nonfiction)

Beautiful beach and sea

and

Crooked Lines (fiction), based on some tsunami experiences. (on sale for .99 Cents now)

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It’s My Birthday…

08 Thursday Jan 2015

Posted by Holly Michael in Books, Crooked Lines, Family

≈ 12 Comments

Tags

#1 Inspirational Fiction, best-seller, Bestseller, Betsy Byrne, Bishop Leo Michael, Crooked Lines, Holly Michael, Holy Catholic Church Anglican Rite, India, Inspiration, Jake Byrne, nagapattinam, Nick Byrne, Novel, Tsunami, tsunami 2004, Tsunami Still Wading through Waves of Hope

…so, I put CROOKED LINES, A Novel for sale  @ .99 cents. http://amzn.to/1r4gTrT AND its #1 in Inspirational, Fiction, Family on AMAZON.COM

book

Happy because…had a great time with the kiddos. Congrats to Jake on his engagement to Emma, on his right. (Just love her). Daughter Betsy (WTG 4.0 in Grad School) to the left of Jake. My husband, Bishop Leo Michael, to my right and Nick (WTG Winning the New Orleans Bowl! Go Ragin Cajuns). Nick is the bookend wearing the hat.

FullSizeRender

Counting my blessings at the beginning of 2015. There are so many. Started it out with a newly published book after our return from India. Tsunami 2004 Still Wading Through Waves of Hope: http://amzn.to/1AbgKXD

Beautiful beach and seaFeeling grateful to God that my husband survived dengue fever which resulted in a multi-organ failure situation. Truly, only prayers turned that around. We were at the tail end of a ten-year follow-up with the orphan children we helped after the 2004 tsunami. (thanks to those who gave during major fundraising effort back in 2004)

In the end, got the nonfiction book wrote and published. Tsunami 2004 – Wading through Waves of Hope is filled with inspirational then and now stories as we revisited the places and people in Nagapattinam, South India. $2.99 Kindle, $6.99 print.  http://amzn.to/1AbgKXD

Hope to get back to more blogging this year where I focus on connecting with others. Thanks for following my blog.

Holly

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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

Tags

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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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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Religion and Moral Lessons in South India Folklore

30 Tuesday Sep 2014

Posted by Holly Michael in Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Author Holly Michael, Blog, Crooked Lines, Folklore, Holly Michael, India, Novel, South India, South India Folklore, Tamil Nadu

I’m also blogging over at writingpromptsthoughtsideas.wordpress.com and was asked to write an article about Folklore.

images (2)

Here it is! Religion and Moral Lessons in South India Folklore.

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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.

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Book Review: Crooked Lines by Holly Michael

27 Wednesday Aug 2014

Posted by Holly Michael in Crooked Lines

≈ 5 Comments

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A Novel, Anglican, Blog, book, Book Review, Catholic, Christianity, Crooked Lines, Faith, Growing For Christ, Holly Michael, Hope, India, Novel, Sarah Bailey, Struggles, www.writingstraight.com

Awesome Book Review and website! Crooked Lines #3 in an inspirational fiction category!

Book Review: Crooked Lines by Holly Michael.

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