Director’s Cut

See, I have this friend. She writes, too. Yes, one of those people. A few weeks ago she emailed me to see if I would like to help her use some gift certificates to a spa. Spend a day with nothing to do but sleep, eat, read and write? Oh, yeah, I’m game. Twist my arm.

So here we are, lounging in the Battle House Hotel Spa Quiet Room, barefoot and dressed in fluffy chenille bathrobes. Recessed lighting softened by the orange glow of a fire pit. The muted roar of a hot tub background to twanging sitars in the sound system. Leafy palms and ferns tucked into a couple of corners, and candles glowing on glass-topped tables.

A girly room.

I’ve been here more than seven hours, and I’ve had a manicure and a nap, I’ve eaten lunch, worked a crossword puzzle, read a couple of articles about historic Mobile. It’s time to write. So I sit here daydreaming, thinking about the historic Battle House Hotel. Wondering about the journalists and politicians and everyday people who stayed here when it first opened, prior to the Civil War.

As it happens, my first completed manuscript—which was my eleventh published novel, Redeeming Gabriel—contained a couple of scenes set in the Battle House. I wrote those scenes purely from imagination and a couple of history books, because at the time, the Battle House had been long closed and fallen into disrepair. It has since been restored to glistening, luxurious splendor, complete with crystal chandelier in the domed atrium of the lobby and antebellum mural in the grand ballroom. It’s delightful to walk through, gaping at the columns and parlors, even more beautiful than I’d imagined them.

If you’ve read Redeeming Gabriel, you didn’t find those scenes. The manuscript was published by Steeple Hill Books for their inspirational romance series, Love Inspired Historical. That won’t mean anything to most people, but prior to ebook days, series books were constrained by word-count—read: short. The original manuscript was way too long, so my editor insisted on chopping off the first two-and-a-half chapters. I reluctantly agreed (to me it was like hacking the nose off a sculptured bust).

Anyway, as I was thinking about the Battle House and those cutting-room-floor scenes, I thought it might be fun to polish them up a bit and plant them here for my handful of die-hard fans. If you haven’t read Gabriel (whose ancestor, by the way, is the hero of my Work-In-Progress, The Pelican Brides), it’s available here.

Enjoy this deleted scene!
***
At the western edge of the city of Mobile, Gabriel Laniere paused and pulled off the disreputable slouch hat he’d found somewhere on the side of the road. Slapping it against his knee, he knocked off a cloud of dust and plopped it back onto his head. A stream of sweat dripped off his blistered and peeling nose. He had ridden in a straight shot from New Orleans for a day and a half and couldn’t decide which would be most welcome—a bath, a meal, or a good night’s sleep. He sat his no less travel-weary gelding and wished he could go back to those simple times he’d spent on the Texas plains. No war. No orders. No people. No women.
Well, he supposed women were people in the loosest sense of the word. He’d rather argue with a greenbroke mustang any day, but he was going to have to deal with one this very night. Not only deal with her, but entrust to her everything for which he’d been working for the last six months. His very life would be in her lily-white hands. The knowledge made him bare his teeth in a snarl that sent a little colored girl, pushing her hoop past him, scurrying as if the devil himself was after her.
At the sight of those rolling eyes and bobbing pigtails and the pink soles of her flying feet, he chuckled and chirruped to the horse. No sense putting it off.
Gabriel had more than once cursed Admiral Farragut’s courier system, which forced him to depend upon other agents. He had to admit, though, that it eased the transmission of time-sensitive tactical intelligence. He knew for a fact that New Orleans’ surrender would have been delayed by several months, maybe even a year, if he’d had to leave the city in order to deliver information. Gabriel was to report this time through one Delia Matthews, an actress who traveled aboard an Alabama River showboat.
An actress. Gabriel snorted with disgust, and the bay danced at the jerk on the reins. “Sorry, fella.” He settled the horse, but his thoughts continued to seethe. He of all people knew better than to trust an actress.
He really had no choice except to meet the woman as planned. The information he had to give her was so incredible that only the influence of Farragut’s stepbrother, David Porter, had convinced the Admiral that his favorite agent hadn’t simply cracked under the enormous pressure he’d been under for the past year.
A boat that traveled underwater. Unthinkable.
But the fishboat was real—or had been, before it was hastily scuttled by its inventors just before New Orleans surrendered. And more than one source confirmed that the financiers and designers had removed to the nearest Confederate port to try again. The military implications of such a vessel boggled the mind.
Gabriel was determined to not only annihilate such a tool for the enemy—but to seize the plans as contraband. No matter what he had to do to get them.
He rode through downtown Mobile and reached the famous Battle House Hotel, named not because it had anything to do with the war, but for the family who had built it. Presidents, entertainers, journalists—everyone who was anyone had spent some days basking in its luxury. Even the livery stable was appointed in the first style of quality, its whitewashed shingles neat and free of the mildew that blackened most wooden buildings in the city.
Gabriel left the bay in the care of a decrepit but genial Negro, who grinned toothlessly when Gabriel flipped him a coin.
He crossed the muddy yard to the grand entrance, where he had to scrape his boots before entering the elegant lobby. Last time he’d been in this city, he’d barely had boots on his feet, much less a horse of his own and money in his pockets. In fact, the day he left some ten years ago, he’d possessed little more than the clothes on his back, a head full of useless knowledge, and a mountain of pride.
Remarkable how time could change one’s perspective.
Mobile, which had once seemed to him the embodiment of gaiety, arrogance, and self-absorption, now neither impressed nor intimidated him. He’d seen Boston, New York, St. Louis, and other cosmopolitan cities that made this little backwater town rather an object of pity to him. Indeed, he could almost forget his resentment.
Almost, but not quite.
Shrugging off bitter memories, he headed for the registration desk, his boots sinking deep into a plush oriental carpet. The fourteen-foot ceiling dwarfed even his six-foot frame, and the wrought-iron railing of the oval atrium drew his gaze up and up to a sparkling crystal chandelier hanging two stories above. He gave a soundless whistle. His stay here was going to cost the United States a pretty penny.
Behind the registration desk, a prune-faced woman dressed in black bombazine sat behind the counter knitting what appeared to be a deformed stocking. “Livery’s in back,” she said without looking up.
“I’ve been to the livery. I need a room.”
The flying needles paused as the woman looked up and took in Gabriel’s heavy, unkempt beard, singed hair, and wrinkled clothes. “I’m afraid—” Her gaze lit on the gold half-eagle Gabriel had flipped into the crease of the book. The pursed lips softened. “Ah. I believe Governor Slough checked out just this morning.”
“How fortunate.” Gabriel smiled. “Then maybe you could show me to my room.”
“I’ll call Sally right now. Sally!” The woman turned toward the doorway behind her stool. “Take this gentleman’s luggage up to—” She glanced at Gabriel, who shook his head. She sniffed and turned to the doorway again. “Never mind, ask Mr. Cottrill to step out here for a moment.”
“Thank you—Mrs. Battle, I presume?” Gabriel dipped the quill into the inkwell.
The woman simpered. “Oh, dear, no! I’m Lucretia Price-Williams. And you’re—” Glancing at the registry, she melted noticeably. “Oh, Reverend Leland! We’re honored to have you as a guest. Clergymen are always—” She broke off as a portly little man, notable for gray chin-whiskers bristling with self-importance, popped from a side parlor off the lobby. “Mr. Cottrill, there you are. Come meet Reverend Leland.”
Cottrill prissed up to the Gabriel and shook hands limply. His bald pate didn’t quite reach Gabriel’s shoulder. “How d’ye do, Brother Leland?”
Gabriel smiled. “To be perfectly frank, it has been a long ride from New Orleans. I’m ready for a bath and a meal.”
“Yes, I’m sure—won’t keep you a moment. General Withers made it policy some time ago that newcomers must be questioned by the Vigilance Committee—search out Lincolnism, you know.” Cottrill pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his tight suit and mopped his brow. “Forgive the inconvenience, dear sir, but I must ask you to step into the parlor for a moment.”
Suppressing a sigh, Gabriel followed the man into a parlor decorated in the grand French style, where Cottrill sat down behind a cherry escritoire and motioned for Gabriel to take a seat in a brocaded Louis XIV wing chair. He complied as the Vigilance Committee noisily adjusted a stack of papers, dabbed his forehead, and cleared his throat.
“So pleased to have you, sir—er reverend.” Cottrill scrabbled in the desk for a quill. “That is, we hope your stay in our fair city will be a lengthy one. That is, will it?”
Gabriel hid a smile. “I may be here for several weeks. I am assuming responsibility for the churches of Reverend Tunstall.”
Mr. Cottrill tsked and looked sympathetic. “Naturally you’ll need time to acquaint yourself with your new flock.”
“I don’t know a soul here.” Gabriel sighed and glanced at the other man, whose whiskers fairly quivered with emotion. “I don’t suppose you could—No, no, I shouldn’t impose on such short acquaintance…”
“Brother Laniere, I am honored—” The good man applied his handkerchief to his moist eyes. “I would be more than happy to introduce you to any parishioners of—which church did you say you are pastoring?”
“The First Methodist Church of Spring Hill. A young but growing congregation, I understand from the widow Tunstall’s communication.”
Mr. Cotrill pursed his lips in thought. “I shall write you a letter of introduction.” He fumbled in a lap drawer and produced a scrap of pink wallpaper. He proceeded to cover it with tiny, elaborately curly manuscript, mumbling aloud as he wrote. “…make you acquainted…the Honorable Reverend Gabriel Leland…late of—” Cotrill blinked up at Gabriel. “I beg your pardon, sir, what is your city of origin?”
“Boguechitta. Over in Mississippi.”
Mr. Cottrill brightened. “A most felicitous little community. I visited my wife’s family there not a fortnight past.”
Forcibly reminded that southern families invariably extended their tentacles in unexpected directions, Gabriel decided he’d best extricate himself from this conversation as quickly as possible. “Mr. Cottrill, I deeply appreciate your hospitality.” He reached over to snick the wallpaper from his host’s pudgy fist and perused the salutation. “‘Mrs. Thomas St. Clair.’ A matron of some social stature, I assume?”
“Indeed, yes. Mrs. St. Clair will introduce you to any number of prominent citizens who can prosper your ministry.”
“I’m sure the good Lord needs all the help He can get.” Gabriel stood and ruefully indicated his own grubby attire. “But I can hardly pay my respects to such a grand dame in all my dirt. Is the Vigilance Committee satisfied as to my credentials?”
“Oh, dear me, yes.” Cottrill launched himself to his feet and motioned for Gabriel to follow. In the lobby he hailed the proprietress with a flap of his handkerchief. “Mrs. Price-Williams, Reverend Leland is cleared to take up residence in our city. I beg you to make him comfortable with every amenity possible.” After a jerky bow, he sprinted back into the parlor, leaving Gabriel to withstand Mrs. Price-Williams’ bellow for the long-suffering Sally.
Sally, a minuscule scrap of femininity in an enormous mobcap and apron, duly appeared and dipped a shy curtsy. “Follow me, sir.” She swung her starched apron sideways in order to maneuver it up the stairs.
Struggling not to laugh, Gabriel followed. Halfway up he touched her elbow. “Miss Sally—” The girl squeaked in surprise, and nearly sent them both tumbling back down the stairs. He steadied her with a smile. “I was just going to ask, what happens to those unfortunate souls who don’t meet the requirements of the Vigilance Committee?”
Sally fanned her rosy face. “Oh, sir, that ain’t never happened. Mr. Cottrill and Mayor Forsythe yap about how they gonna deport the abolitionists, but far as I know they ain’t no abolitionists in Mobile. You ain’t no abolitionist, are you?”
Gabriel winked. “Do I look like an abolitionist to you?”
“No, sir.” Sally giggled. “You look just like Jonah, steppin’ outa the whale! I ain’t never seen no preacher looked like you before.”
Gabriel tried to look pastoral. “Perhaps you could have a hot bath brought up, so that I might remedy that.”
“Oh! Yessir!” Blushing, Sally turned to wrestle her apron up the remainder of the stairs.
Gabriel followed, feeling a certain kinship with the reluctant prophet to Ninevah. Hail and brimstone would be too good for these southern traitors, and he hoped Farragut would find a way to blast their sleepy little port to smithereens.

The Quality of Julien Dufregne’s Boots

So today I’m writing. Well, I’m sitting in my office with my computer in front of me, knowing I just finished Chapter Four of The Pelican Brides, and it’s time to start on Chapter Five. So I decide it’s a good time to organize character names.

Huh? How is that helpful to writing a novel? Well, I have a basic cast of characters, most of whom are mentioned in the synopsis and are listed in two companion documents that I call—wait for it—“Characters” and “Names.” Whoa. Genius, right? But the character list is sorted only by broad groupings like “Pelican Girls”, “Settlers”, “Indians”, and “Clergy.” And the names (French and Indian names from which I pick names for characters) are divided into male, female and surnames, but not alphabetized or marked “used” in any way.

Now that I’ve finished four chapters (begun two years ago and continued in fits and starts, amidst long periods of fallow nothingness), I find myself getting confused about things like how to spell the heroine’s last name…what color the hero’s eyes are…and didn’t I already name a character Jean?

Have mercy, this is going to be a 100,000-word tome; it’s only going to get worse!

So the first thing I do this afternoon is alphabetize those French names. Then I skim through Chapter One, looking for character introductions and striking through their names on the list, making sure everything on the “Character” list, including spelling, is consistent with the manuscript. Amazing how productive I feel, having accomplished that. I promise myself from now on to keep up with it as I write.

But as I read through the manuscript, I get caught up micro-editing, because that’s way easier than actually composing new text. Surely it’s critical to fact-check, to make sure all historical details are correct. I come to a passage in the viewpoint of the main antagonist, a smarmy red-haired fellow named Julien Dufregne. Apologies to my friends who have named their sons Julian, but that just seemed like a supercilious name when I was creating this guy, and Julien he remains, as alive and breathing in my imagination as if he’d actually walked the soggy ground of Fort Louis de la Louisiane back in the Year of Our Lord 1704.

Which means that he wears expensive boots that he can’t stand to get scuffed by sand and mud. There’s a lot of sand and mud in Fort Louis, and those boots are as much a part of his character as his habit of walking a little sideways because he’s literally listening to overhear conversations around him. I had originally written “eelskin boots” because when I lived in Fort Worth, Texas, many years ago, all the “real” cowboys wore eelskin on their feet. But now that I re-read that, something strikes me as off. Would a French naval officer really wear eelskin? Do they even have eels in France?

So off I go to Google-land. 17th Century boots. French. What are they made of? I find a few images that look sort of like Three Musketeers costumes. Hmmm. I guess that’s close to the right time period. Russia leather. Really? There was a Russia back then? Would a bastard son of a French comte (the equivalent of an English count) be likely to wear Russian boots? Confused, I dig a little more and find a site dedicated to costumes for 17th Century re-enactors. Okay, 1689, that’s close to my time period, and the shoes are very cool-looking. Russia leather, not “Russian,” and they would be imported from Paris, who cares where they originate from.

Satisfied, I plug that in, instead of “eelskin,” and go back to scoping out costumes, A) because it’s very interesting, and B) I still don’t know how I’m going to start Chapter Five. Back on the Boots page I see a link to an essay entitled “Quality” by John Galsworthy, a British writer who won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1932. That sounds interesting, so I start reading, and quickly understand why this guy got the Nobel. He’s pretty good. “Quality” is in the public domain, and if you have time (which you obviously do, since you’ve already killed ten or fifteen minutes on my drivel), you should go read it. If you don’t, here’s a quote that nails something I’ve been thinking about off and on over the last couple of years:

I remember well my shy remark, one day, while stretching out to him my youthful foot:
“Isn’t it awfully hard to do, Mr. Gessler?”
And his answer, given with a sudden smile from out of the sardonic redness of his beard: “Id is an Ardt!”

This is about boot-making of course, but it’s about more than that, too. It’s about life. Someone asked me a few days ago to answer the question, “Why do you write?” There are surely a lot of things I could be doing with my time. In fact, there are a lot of things I do with my time. I teach kids the Bible on Sunday mornings. I play my flute in the church orchestra. I teach music to inner-city teenagers. But none of those things are particularly difficult for me. Mostly I just wing it, and things seem to shake out pretty well.

So why sit in front of a computer keyboard and string words together, choosing just the right one, day after day? Why spend a couple of hours looking for a possible 17th Century method of mosquito repellant? Why brave the rejection of editors, vitriolic reviewers, and snotty wannabe writers? Why turn your soul inside-out for the inspection of the bored masses, all for the massive return of about 50 cents an hour?

Because it’s an art, which by definition makes it hard. Booker T. Washington once said, “Nothing ever comes to one, that is worth having, except as a result of hard work.” With the exception of salvation of the soul, which is grace-given, I think he’s right.

So I’m going back to my red-haired villain, he of the expensive leather boots and supercilious name. Julien must be so perfectly motivated as to be a worthy antagonist for my extraordinary hero, Étienne Lanier (ancestor of several previous heroes, including Gabriel Laniere), who has a lesson to learn and a message to limn for future readers.

Nobel laureate? Me? Probably not. But I’m going out of this world giving my best effort with the abilities God gave me. How about you?

Master Class

Early in the fall semester, I began to pray for God to give me some kids to mentor. I listed off the ones I thought might be leadership and asked for confirmation. You know, seniors…soloists…loudmouths… Then forgot all about it in the busyness of day-to-day teaching.

But God did not forget. Sometime in mid-September, I got an email from a parent of a boy I didn’t even know, Taylor Something, who (his enthusiastic mother claimed) was a budding musical genius. He was in the band at LeFlore and played piano in church, and his mother wondered if I would teach him private piano lessons. I answered politely that I didn’t have time for outside lessons because I needed to focus on my choral students, and I sent her to the Mobile Music Teachers website. “That ought to satisfy her,” I thought, mentally dusting my hands.

Then one day a few weeks later, I was sitting at my desk during lunchtime catching up on email while I swallowed a turkey sandwich. Usually I shoo all the students out and lock the choir room door, because I need that thirty minutes of peace like I need air and water. But pretty soon I realized I was hearing a Beethoven sonata coming from the electric piano just outside my office. Loud, crashing chords, rippling scales in octaves. Dang, I must have left the door ajar and somebody came in and turned on the demo. Happened all the time, and it annoyed the heck out of me.

So I got up and stomped to the door, ready to send the intruder back to the cafeteria where he belonged. Sure enough, one of my advanced chorus kids was perched on my stool, watching another very tall, very lanky boy sitting at the piano with his back to me.

“Jaleel, what are you doing in here?” I said mildly. He asks to stay and practice a couple of times a week, and I usually let him because he knows how to keep it soft and jazzy and soothing.

Jaleel looked guilty. “I’m sorry, Mrs. White, I just wanted Taylor to show me this thing, and your door was open.”

It wasn’t until the music stopped that I realized it wasn’t anything I’d heard on the demo before. This was live music. Maybe it wasn’t even Beethoven.

The tall boy looked over his shoulder with a sheepish grin and cut his eyes at Jaleel. “He said you wouldn’t care.” He had on a band jacket, but I didn’t recognize him.

Wait a minute. Taylor. I started to connect dots. “Are you Taylor Travillion? Is your mother a teacher at Holloway?”

“Yes ma’am.” He gave Jaleel an apprehensive look, and Jaleel shrugged.

“Was that you playing that piece?” I demanded. “How did you learn it?”

“Yes ma’am, it was me. I heard it on a video game.” He got up, clearly ready to slink back to the cafeteria—well, as much as a 6’3” string bean can slink.

“Okay, hang on,” I said, looking him over. Neat haircut. Pants that actually fit, belted at the waist, shirttail tucked in. Wooden-beaded cross at his throat. Shy smile. “Y’all can stay,” I said grudgingly. “But Jaleel, go shut the door so nobody else will wander in.”

I went back to my desk, leaving my office door open. Beethoven and email, I thought, relaxing. It could be worse.

The next two nights I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about a kid who could play Beethoven by ear and couldn’t afford piano lessons. I thought about all the things I needed to do at home after school. And I thought about how I’d asked God for disciples.

Dang.

The next time Taylor slipped into the choir room to “borrow the piano for a few minutes,” I shut my eyes and asked him if he’d found a piano teacher yet.

“No ma’am.”

Dang. I braced myself. “How about Wednesday afternoons after school?”

His face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Okay! That’s my only day I don’t have band sectionals.”

The next day I emailed Taylor’s mother to tell her I’d changed my mind, and you would have thought I’d bought him a BMW. Sheesh. One hour a week.

The first time we met for a lesson, I interviewed Taylor to get a feel for how much he already knew. He’s a trumpet player, so the treble clef was familiar—the bass clef, not so much. Strong rhythmic skills, again thanks to years of band. I discovered he liked to improvise and arrange (no big surprise) so I had him take notes on interval and chord qualities—major, minor, perfect, augmented, diminished—and for me, the teacher, it was like meeting an American-speaking native in a foreign country. Finally, somebody who spoke the language of music, fluently and beautifully. Taylor absorbed everything I said, without an eye-roll or yawn, for a solid hour.

Fast-forward six weeks. I now have four piano boys after school on Wednesdays—Taylor, Jaleel, Donavan and Ricardo—and it’s my favorite day of the week. Varying degrees of musical training, but all exceptionally gifted, one in each of the four grades. We’ve already covered the circle of fifths, chord structure and harmony, scale composition, and sight-reading. I find myself dredging up pedagogical techniques used by my high school piano teacher (who is now conducting ballroom dance and baton twirling lessons in heaven, God rest her soul), and now I see that Mrs. Goodman wasn’t quite as crazy as I used to think.

One of the coolest things about my little “master class” is the way these boys feed off competition. Nobody wants to be the last one to figure out the answer to my leading questions. They all want to be first. The intellectual power in the room, the sheer musical giftedness—not to mention the testosterone—is enough to fuel a nuclear reactor. Don’t ask me why there are no girls there. I don’t really care. If God wants them there, they will come.

Another sweet byproduct is that I’m training choral accompanists for the next three years. And these children of the 21^st Century have been teaching me how to use the Finale digital arrangement program that has been sitting in my computer for nearly two years (who has time to read a 900-page instruction manual??). Taylor is already writing marching band arrangements, and I fully expect them all to be writing full orchestrations and original choral pieces by the time they graduate.

So am I congratulating myself on developing this trail-blazing piano class? On sacrificing yet another hour a week without pay?

On the contrary, I go to Wednesday night prayer meetings and cast myself face down at the altar, begging God to help me keep up with my students. I feel like I’m dog-paddling in the deep end of the pool, and my floaties just popped. If you know what a pathetic swimmer I am, you’d know just how terrifying that image is. I am scared spitless and exhilarated beyond measure. And I don’t know why I put this out there for the world to read, except to encourage someone else who may be ready to back out of the insanity that is teaching in a public high school.

You’ve got to find where God is working and go there. Do not settle for mediocrity. Do not settle for safe. There are children out there who need a human face and human hands to lead them. And these children will create and foster beauty and teach others who will do the same.

Please, somebody remind me of this tomorrow when I shut and lock my choir room door.

The Rise of Baby King

The Bride Wore White

One of my all-time favorite movies (and books) is The Princess Bride. In fact, I love the story and all its characters so much that I planted inside jokes and references to TPB all through my 2007 romance Off the Record. Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles…it’s got it all. Besides—everybody likes a wedding, right?

Well, with the possible exception of the MOTB (for the uninitiated, that’s “Mother Of The Bride”).

Last weekend I traveled all the way to Dallas for my nieces’s nuptials, where I watched my sister Robin gracefully skip across ceremonial landmines roughly equivalent in destructive potential to the Fire Swamp’s flame spurts. At the reception, I found myself smiling—not only because my niece, who is my namesake, looked both gorgeous and insanely happy, but also because I was not in charge.

Six weeks ago, it was me in the hot seat.

The gorgeous young lady in the wedding dress above is my daughter, Hannah. Seems like yesterday that she was trying on hats in souvenir shops during family vacation and

busting her nose in college intramural softball games (another story for another day). The responsibility of helping her plan her dream wedding—and figuring out how to make it happen without sending her father into budgetary cardiac arrest—came upon us like the proverbial thief in the night. One day we’re meeting a boy with tall hair, who just might be Somebody Important, the next we’re getting a phone call asking if he can become part of our family.

At first I was a little grumpy. Hannah and Larry were both living in Dallas, so we could either hold the wedding there—which would put me in the position of planning a huge long-distance event—or we could do it in Mobile, which would put all the

responsibility on me until Hannah could come home for the summer. After much weeping and gnashing of teeth, we decided on holding the reception at the historic Ezell House in downtown Mobile. And then the fun began.

I truly believe I enjoyed planning Hannah’s wedding more than my own some thirty years ago. For one thing, my daughter has a much more decisive “style” than I had as a twenty-something. She likes tradition and elegance, but she also goes for unexpected twists, just verging on the quirky. And I like that. A lot. The ceremony and celebration were both deeply spiritual and full of uninhibited joy; intimately personal, but reflective of our entire community.

Take that dress in the photo, for example. White symbolizes

the purity of both the bride and her counterpart, Christ’s bride the Church. Virginity being a rare commodity these days—not to be sold cheaply, but to be given with reverence—Hannah and I chose her dress with care. It’s designed with clean lines past the hips, a sweetheart neckline to frame the upper body and face, extravagant decoration on the skirt, and a sweeping train to imply royalty.

One more touch we added to the dress was a bridal sash, which Hannah put on after the ceremony and wore to the reception. The one she tried on at the bridal shop was outside the budget—so I decided to make it myself. After collecting a variety of upholstery and drapery-sheer remnants, plus a bag full of old jewelry and beads, I studied instructional videos for making fabric flowers and experimented with construction techniques. Eventually I settled on a design that pleased both Hannah and me and created what can truly be called an heirloom art piece. To me, it symbolizes the full bloom of womanhood, the “prize above rubies” that a wife and mother must be. The fact that it is tied around the waist implies that a wife’s role of helpmate is a daily choice she must make, a deliberate identification with her husband. And that choice is such a lovely thing if it is committed into God’s care.

By the way, if you’re wondering who took these exquisite photos, let me introduce Mobile photographer Wendy Wilson.

Warm, outgoing, professional, and astoundingly creative—look at this photo of Hannah and her bridesmaids!—Wendy made Hannah’s bridal portraits and the entire wedding day unforgettable. Check out her blog for more gorgeous photos by this gifted young artist.

Which reminds me of something else I discovered in the process of making my sweet daughter’s wishes and dreams a reality: wedding-planning is an adventure best not taken on alone. Most good ideas being derivative, I relied heavily on the creative genius of many others, beginning with my good friend and Assistant-Mother-of-the-Bride, Tammy Thompson. Embracing Hannah’s plan to have the bridesmaids carry lanterns instead of flowers, Tammy called me one afternoon and all but commanded

me to get over to Tuesday Morning home store ASAP and purchase a couple of tall Moroccan lanterns they had in the window. She reminded me of the story Jesus told in Matthew 25, about the bridesmaids—10 wise and 10 foolish—who were charged with keeping their lanterns lit in anticipation of the bridegroom’s coming.

Thus was born the theme of light that literally illuminated Hannah and Larry’s ceremony and reception from beginning to end. I hope all our guests found as much meaning as I did in the votive candles flickering behind the wedding arch and the wrought-iron pillars lining the altar steps. The unity candle is a familiar troph, but we carried the idea on to the reception by using globes as centerpieces on the courtyard tables. Tea candles glowed softly through love quotes printed on vellum and tied with purple ribbon. I spent days choosing profound, funny, and poignant words from

some of my favorite writers. I hope Hannah and I will get to sit down and look at them together someday soon (I don’t think she had time to sit down and read them that day!).

The part of this whole adventure that I dreaded most was planning the food. I’m not a natural hostess, and I couldn’t help thinking of the biblical wedding of Cana, where Jesus famously performed his first miracle. The poor guy who had the misfortune to run out of wine at a Jewish wedding has my total sympathy. Fortunately for me, however, my friend

Ramona Savell, owner of Full of Grace Catering, not only created tasty and beautiful food, but presented and served it in such a way as to make our guests feel like royalty. I mean—dude—look at this spread. We were in no danger of running out!

And for the cakes, we settled on one of the oldest bakeries in Mobile, Pollman’s Bake Shop. The bride cake mimics Hannah’s wedding dress, and the groom’s chocolate dobash cake was a little taste of heaven. Mrs. Pollman is pretty much a genius. Okay, I’m sorry to talk about food when you can’t taste it. Just do yourself a favor and go down to Pollman’s on South Broad and have a bowl of peach cobbler. Tell her I sent you.

There were so many precious elements of this very special day, but most of them revolve around friends and family—which, after all, is mainly what a wedding is all about: speaking your vows before the witness of God and the people you care about most. Those people went above and beyond the call of duty to make Hannah’s day unforgettable. One sister, my daughter-in-law, two aunts and several friends sewed table cloths and made cookies. A brother-in-law, two sisters and three nieces decorated both the sanctuary and

reception site in temperatures hovering around 100. Then they helped disassemble when it was all over. My sister Robin pieced quilt blocks to be signed by wedding guests and then put together at an upcoming family quilting bee as a gift for the newlyweds.

Like I said, incredible.

I suppose this little rhapsody has gone on long enough, so I’ll stop with my favorite quote fromThe Princess Bride:

“This is true love…you think this happens every day?”

Thank You Doesn’t Cover It

The young people in the cover photo with this blog entry are more dear to me than I can say. Six of them are seniors, and my eyes instantly sting when I think about their upcoming graduation. The ten or so missing from the photo—due to scheduling conflicts, family emergencies, and disciplinary issues—are equally part of my heart. The stories I could tell, the lessons I have learned, would fill up an entire year’s worth of Glee episodes. The old maxim that “the more you put into something, the more you get out of it” has become a cliche for a reason. It’s true.

And, as I noted a few months ago in another blog, the more you invest in another person’s life, the more joy and pride explodes when things go well. And the more it hurts when disappointment or separation ruptures the relationship.

Multiply that by forty.

To the right are four of my brightest and best. We had been invited to sing the National Anthem for the Opening Ceremonies of the Mobile Special Olympics. So last week on a cool, perfect spring morning we loaded my little Honda and drove to the  “prep school” side of town. Of course the students were thrilled to be released from classes. But more than that, I saw a blossoming of generosity and humility as they understood they were giving to students less physically and mentally blessed than themselves. I wish I’d had my camera ready to capture the expressions of awe when the four of them looked up as the Coast Guard planes zoomed overhead while they sang “o’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

Truly a grand moment.

A few days later, I arranged to take twenty or so students to a matinee production of Puccini’s Tosca, performed by Mobile Opera at the Civic Center Theater. Gorgeous sets, full live orchestra, $60 seats for $5 (it was the “dress rehearsal,” but I didn’t see a single glitch). Can’t beat a deal like that.

That was the first time I’d seen Tosca, though I was familiar with many of the arias from my undergrad studies at Mississippi State and graduate work at Southwestern Seminary. I missed a lot of the performance, though, because I kept watching my students’ faces as these wonderful professional musicians brought 19th century Italian and French history to life in glorious color, sound and language. During the scene where Tosca lies prostrate, singing her grief and love—from a position in which most of us have difficulty breathing, much less effortlessly zinging out high C’s—I was afraid a couple of my girls might leap onto their chairs and whoop. They managed to maintain dignity, but it was a near thing. Beautiful.

So I would like to take this opportunity to thank a few friends who have invested monetarily in my work with the music students of LeFlore High School this year. You’ll never know until you get to heaven what a difference you’ve made in the lives of young people who will, in turn, make a difference in the lives of others to come after them. Besides the two events mentioned here, I have been able to take students to choral conferences, college scholarship auditions, and arts festivals. I’ve purchased music, CD’s, and small equipment which has put items in their musical toolboxes. I’ve wrestled in prayer over every nickel I spent, because I wanted to make the highest possible impact for good.

I don’t know how else to express my gratitude except to say thank you and God bless you.

The Occasional Book Report

I probably shouldn’t admit that I’ve actually read a couple of books lately, given that I’m so far behind on writing my own novel proposal. But hey, it was Spring Break. With that said and guilt-fest properly acknowledged, let’s carry on.

First, I finished up Anne Rice’s Angel Time. I’d never read one of her vampire books, mainly because I’m just not a dark-read kind of person. Blood and fangs and eternal damnation don’t constitute “escape” or “edification” to me. But I’d read an interview or two with Ms. Rice after she became a Christ-follower, and when my friend recommended Angel Time, I decided to give it a try. I found the main character, Toby O’Dare, richly-drawn and completely sympathetic,  despite his career as a contract killer. The writing itself was powerful, with sensual imagery and clean prose. I didn’t find any of those annoying twitches that sometimes take me out of a story.

The only hitch to me was that the two major story lines seemed forced together. The present-day story with Toby in the 21st Century looped nicely into the historical section about medieval Jews—and stayed there way too long. I could almost hear the author relishing all those historical details, so much so that the medieval characters took over. Toby became essentially useless to the plot.

So…I’d give Angel Time an A+ for characterization and prose, but a C- for plot and structure. It’s definitely an interesting read, if you’re curious about where Anne Rice’s faith has taken her fiction. Clearly she has a high view of God and is not afraid to ask tough theological questions, like how does God’s will play into our human free will? I’m glad I took time to read it.

The other book I took on during my vacation was purely for fun. I’ve been a big Eva Ibbotson fan since reading A Countess Below Stairs, so when I discovered A Company of Swans, I could hardly devour it fast enough. Besides the fact that Ibbotson is one of the few authors who can make me laugh outloud at brilliant characterizations, smile at droll language, and sigh over a sweet romance, the story itself is about a British ballerina who joins a ballet company engaged to perform in the Brazilian jungle, of all things—in the year 1912. Every single character, down to a pair of manatees (the male of which is hysterically compared to the hero’s grouchy childhood butler), is conceived with precise and engaging clarity. The hero is a sweetheart, and Harriet, the heroine, is a girl you’d like to be best friends with.

SPOILER ALERT!!! Skip this paragraph if spoilers ruin a book for you!!!

One caveat: my Christian readers might be put off by the fact that hero and heroine sleep together before they’re married, but there’s no on-screen sex, and the hero clearly intends to marry her as soon as all obstacles are cleared for the happily-ever-after. And this is a real romance. Happily-ever-after is the whole point.

Anyway, I’ve also spent a good bit of time in a twenty-pound tome called Old Mobile: Fort Louis de la Louisiane, 1702-1711. Yee-hah. It’s actually fascinating stuff, but not for the faint of heart.

So, my friends, happy reading!