Hey there, thanks for stopping by. Today's post won't offer you an enlightening message. It probably won't teach you a lesson. It's just a true (albeit embarrassing) story from a girl who grew up on a farm. Enjoy!

​Every cow was in the corral – except one – and I knew what that meant. Even if my parents had to walk the entire 80 acres of pasture and dense timber, they had to find that cow.
 
My little legs would only slow them down, so my job was to stay in the truck and keep watch. Mom gave me strict instructions.
 
“Now if the momma cow comes up, you need to honk the horn. Then we’ll know we can stop looking and start heading back.” Mom gave me stern look. “But DON’T honk that horn unless the momma cow shows up. Got it?”

​My throat felt thick as I watched my parents disappear into the timber, leaving me alone with a bunch of cows.
 
At first I sat in the truck. I snooped through the glove compartment, but found nothing interesting.
 
I hopped out of the truck, climbed over the tailgate and scrambled into the back. Then I looked out at the crowd of cows and took a deep breath.
 
“So how ya’all doing today?”
 
They stared at me, silent.

Tough audience. 
 
I grabbed a corn cob and held it like a microphone. “I want to thank you all for coming.”
 
They continued to stare. Two or three chewed on some grass.
 
I cleared my throat and pretended to flip my long, Chrystal Gale’ish hair. I imagined myself in a tight, sparkly dress with a slit up the side. Before I knew it, I was singing my heart out.
 
“You … you light up my life … You give me hope … to carry on … you light up my days …” 
 
One cow near the back relieved himself.   
 
I threw my hands on my hips. “Don’t like that, huh? Well how about this one?” 

Snapping my fingers, I danced around the back of the truck.
 
“Love … Love will keep us together … Think of me babe, whenever ... Some sweet talkin’ girl comes around ...”
 
For the next several minutes, I belted out song after song. I sang some ABBA ...
 
“Knowing me, knowing you, Uh-huhhhh … There is nothing we can do, knowing me, knowing you ....” 
 
Still no reaction, so I stomped my feet and clapped my hands to: “We will, we will, ROCK YOU!”
 
Finally, I plopped onto the side of the truck. Mom and Dad had been gone a long time. I was tired. And hungry. And very much alone. Why couldn’t that momma cow just show up?

I took a deep breath and crawled into the front seat of the truck. With both hands, I pressed hard against the horn. The cows jumped a bit, startled. I honked it again. And again.
 
About five minutes later the momma cow came walking up the path toward the corral. And my parents were right behind.
 
Mom shook her head in disgust. “We told you not to honk unless the cow came up. Why did you honk the horn?”
 
I knew I’d done wrong, but what could I say? Mom wouldn’t understand. Truth was, I was a fabulous singer, but it was ever-so-boring keeping company with cows.

Certain words always come to mind when I think of my mom. Honest and kind. A hardworking farmer’s wife. She is definitely a lady who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. However, there is one word I’m sure I never used to describe my mom: cool. Lord knows I wished for it—especially during my teen years.

My best friend had a cool mom. Patty’s mom wore stonewashed jeans and sang along to Madonna. I wasn’t sure my mom had even heard of Madonna.

Truth be told, Mom and I didn’t have much in common. I loved checking out the latest styles at the mall. Shopping gave her a headache. I enjoyed traveling and exploring new places. She was a homebody. In high school, I was captain of the pom-pom squad. She played the accordion.

However, there was one thing I always appreciated about my mom: she was a fabulous listener. Every day I came home from school and told her about my day. I could tell her anything—the good, the bad and the boring. She always listened, even when I told her things she didn’t want to hear. Like the night I went on my first date.

​It was a double date, actually. Two popular boys had promised to take my friend and me to dinner and a movie. They pulled into the driveway and honked the horn. Of course my mom wasn’t okay with that. She crossed her arms and gave me a look.

“If he wants to date you, he can come in and get you.”

As it turned out, I should’ve left him in the driveway. The boy was a loser. The date didn’t go well. Later that night I returned home and marched up the steps to Mom and Dad’s bedroom.

“How was your night?” Mom stifled a yawn. Dad snored.

“Terrible,” I said. “They didn’t take us to dinner. We didn’t see a movie. Someone got alcohol and they spent the entire night driving around back roads, drinking beer.”

“What?” Dad mumbled, half asleep. Mom elbowed him.

“I swear I didn’t drink,” I said, plopping onto the bed. “I didn’t want to drink. I just wanted to come home.”

Thinking back, I’m surprised I even told her. After all, she had every right to be upset. Instead, she just listened. She didn’t overreact. Dad never learned to master this skill. Mom did it well, time and time again. So I kept telling her stuff.

After high school I moved out on my own. I called my mom often, mostly for cooking advice. Dad liked to tease me when he answered the phone.

“Is Mom there? Is Mom there?” he huffed, acting offended. “Doesn’t anyone ever want to talk to me?”

“Okay fine,” I said. “I’ll talk to you. How long does it take to hard-boil an egg?”

After a few seconds of silence, Dad cleared his throat. “Here’s Mom.”

Life went on. I went to college, got a job and met my future husband. Curt and I got married one beautiful day in May.

At the end of the ceremony, we faced the congregation and grinned as our pastor belted out an official introduction with his best preacher voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Curtis Zeck.”

There was something very symbolic about that moment. We had walked into that place on our own, but we would leave together. I squeezed Curt’s arm as we took our first step back up the aisle.

AND THE REST OF THE STORY ... 
As I read back through this story, I must say how thankful I am for my mom (and my dad). Last January, my parents were in a serious car accident. Dad broke his left arm in two places and needed stitches in his right hand. Mom broke her collarbone, a bone in the base of her neck, fourteen ribs and also cracked her sternum. She spent 8 days in the hospital ... 9 days in a nursing home / rehab facility ...  she and Dad stayed at my brother's house for 27 days until they were both able to go HOME. Today, they are both on the mend and I am thoroughly grateful to have both of them!   

I don't know about you, but this sheltering-in-place thing is making it hard for me to keep track of what day it is. Is it Monday? Is it Saturday? Who knows? I still have two college girls, a high-schooler and a husband here every day. To make matters worse, last week we got something that really threw me: SNOW. Seriously. It looked like December. So with all this confusion, I thought I'd share a Christmas story today. This was previously published in "Chicken Soup for the Soul: It's Christmas!" When you finish it, keep on scrolling for "the rest of the story." 

A Special Gift
by Sheri Zeck

​​I hurried down the steps, my bare feet on the heels of my brother’s as we raced to the tree. “Santa came!” I squealed, spotting several neatly-wrapped presents tucked under the branches. We plopped to our knees and began inspecting every package. 

“This one’s for you.” Steve propelled a red and green present across the carpet toward me. “And this one’s for me.” He smiled, placing it on top of his growing stack of gifts. 

I studied Steve’s pile, and marveled at how he always managed to make Santa’s list. He wasn’t a horrible brother. Sometimes he was my best friend. But other times, his naughty outweighed his nice. Especially when it came to his little sister. He particularly liked destroying my toys. Like the year Santa gave me a Mrs. Beasley doll. 

I remembered Mrs. Beasley’s big blue eyes greeting me as I slid her out of the box. I’d never owned a doll that could talk before, and I was eager to hear her speak. I positioned her onto my lap, straightened the blue, polka-dotted apron around her waist and pulled the string. 

“I do think you’re the nicest little friend I ever had.” 

Mrs. Beasley and I did become good friends. We spent hours playing together. Through good times and bad, she always greeted me with a warm smile and pleasant conversation. 

Until that tragic day when she stopped talking. 

I’m not sure I’ll ever know my brother’s motive for such a heinous crime. Maybe it was curiosity, attempting to see what makes a doll speak. Maybe it was payback to an annoying little sister that snooped through his room. Or maybe he was just having a bad day. Whatever the reason, poor Mrs. Beasley endured an awful fate the day Steve ripped out her voice box.  She never spoke another word again. 

Looking back, I’ll admit I wasn’t the perfect sister. Steve probably got tired of me following him around and badgering him to play. I suppose he didn’t appreciate me snooping through his room, or tattling to Mom when he beheaded my Barbies. But through all our fights I had a sneaking suspicion. He would never admit it, but I suspected that somewhere, deep down in his heart, Steve had a soft spot for his little sister. 

However, my brother wasn’t into mushy stuff. Even when he did something nice, he’d shrug it off in his “no big deal” kind of way. Like the time he came home from school with a bag full of Christmas candy. 
I took one look at that candy and wished I could go to school. Why did I have to stay home with Mom? I wanted a Christmas party! 

“Go ahead. Take it,” he said, tossing me the bag. 

I studied his innocent expression. Is he serious? Why would he give it to me?  Maybe he dropped it on the bus floor. I finally decided to trust him. 

“Thanks!” I dug my hand deep into the bag. 

“Whatever,” he said, making a face. 

It’s been thirty-five years since my brother and I raced down the stairs on Christmas morning. Eventually, we grew up and forgot our petty sibling rivalries. Now our yearly tradition is to gather at Mom’s, now referred to as “Grandma’s house,” every Christmas Eve. We no longer dig through the presents under Mom’s tree. Only the kids get presents at Grandma’s. Except one year when a surprise waited for me.  

“Hey Mom, there’s a present with your name on it.” My oldest daughter held up a shiny red box. 
A present for me? “Who’s it from?” I glanced around the room. No one else seemed particularly interested. 

“Doesn’t say.” She handed me the gift. My girls circled around me. 

I ripped back the paper and immediately spotted the words “Collectible Doll” printed across the box.

“How about that,” I said, pulling the doll out of the box. Her warm, familiar smile greeted me, and I propped her onto my lap. “I’ve got a brand-new Mrs. Beasley doll.” She was perfect. Apron neatly pressed. Miniature glasses centered squarely on her nose. Blonde hair curled in place. 

A puzzled look settled across my daughters’ faces as if to say, what’s so special about a blue, polka-dotted doll? But I knew why she was special. Mrs. Beasley confirmed the suspicions I’d had all along. After all these years, my big brother still had a soft spot for his little sis. 

​Across the room, Steve glanced up from his pie … and shrugged.

The first draft of this story was a whole lot longer. Let's just say, Steve gave me plenty of material. The following are two short scenes I decided to cut ...

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just Mrs. Beasley that suffered at the hands of my brother. Stretch Armstrong also fell victim to Steve’s antics.

With his burly build, Stretch Armstrong looked like a Ken doll on steroids. His limbs could be pulled or twisted four times their regular size. Steve tied his arms and legs into knots, but that didn’t even bother Stretch Armstrong. He always returned to his normal size without one stretch mark.

But when my inquisitive brother wanted to see what made Stretch so flexible, he hacked into his tough, rubbery hide with a pocket knife. Thick jelly-like slime oozed from Stretch’s pitiful body – and he was never the same again.  

Steve didn’t always ruin my toys. Sometimes he just hurt me with them. Like the time we got a joy buzzer. A joy buzzer was a windup toy that fit onto your finger like a ring. With one firm handshake the toy delivered an abrupt zap to the unsuspecting handshake victim.

One day Steve thought it would be fun to shock me on the top of my head. As he whacked me with the buzzer, I felt a quick “zap,” then the uncomfortable sting of hair pulling. When the coiled spring inside the disc released, the buzzer wrapped a generous clump of hair inside the disc.

Mom spent several minutes attempting to free my hair from the metal buzzer’s grip. Finally, she stomped across the kitchen linoleum, glared again in Steve’s direction and grabbed the scissors from the junk drawer.

At least the next day wasn’t picture day.  

You know what? I've noticed something about social media since this whole Covid-Crap began. People are stepping out of their comfort zones to encourage each other. Surely it's not just happening in my social circles. 

I've seen people playing the piano, singing songs, reading books (for kids and adults), sharing jokes and playing games. All in the hopes of brightening someone else's day. 

So here's what I'm going to do. Over the next several weeks, I'm going to share some of my "most liked" stories. If you're a long-time blog reader, you may have read some of these before. And that's okay, because I still hope to add a little something new at the end of each story. Like maybe I'll tell you "the rest of the story" and share something I didn't include in the original story. Or I might share something about my experience with writing that story. Or, I might open the conversation up and ask to hear YOUR stories!

​Anyway, I have lots of new readers, so this will be new for many of you. I hope you enjoy!  

First up is my story called, "Head Over Heels." It was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Dating Game and describes one of my most memorable dates with Curt. Of all things, we went skiing. There was just one little problem ... I had no idea how to ski. 

I watched the revolving chair lift scoop up skiers for the long ride up the hill. A shiver ran through me, more out of fear than from the cold. How did I get myself into this? I’d never skied before. I just wanted my boyfriend to think I was bold and courageous – the kind of fun-loving girl who was always up for an adventure. Who was I kidding?

Curt and I stood in the loading area, waiting for the chairlift to circle behind us. It smacked the back of my legs and plopped me onto the chair. The cable above us creaked as it carried us over the glittering snow. As we neared the top, Curt prepared me for my approaching dismount. He lifted the safety bar.

“Okay, ready?” He leaned forward and straightened his skis. I scooted up. Then he stood to his feet and promptly glided down a small mound of snow. Oops! I missed it! A safety bar whacked my leg and the chairlift stopped. Curt glanced back at me still perched on the edge of my seat.

“You were supposed to get off.” He grinned, obviously more amused than the long line of skiers dangling behind me.     

Even with the cool temperatures, I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “Sorry, I wasn’t ready.” I scrambled off the chair and inched my way toward Curt. I struggled to maneuver the long, awkward skis. So much for impressing him, I thought. I looked like a toddler learning to walk.  

A steep hill stretched out before us. “Wow,” I said, catching my breath. “It’s a long way down. Shouldn’t I start with a bunny hill?”

Curt’s face turned sympathetic. “This is the bunny hill.”

I knew this adventure thing was a bad idea.

We started with the ever-popular snowplow technique. Curt demonstrated how to angle my skis inward as we edged our way down the hill. I spent more time lying in the snow than skiing.

First I fell backwards, the skis dragging me down the hill on my bottom. Then I fell sideways. Apparently I had leaned too far forward. Finally, just when I thought I was getting the hang of it, my skis crossed and I crashed again.

Curt raced to my side. “You okay?”

I wiped the snow off my face. “Oh sure, I’m good.” I wondered if it was possible to look cute while tumbling face first into a pile of snow.

Curt smiled – a bright, charming smile – and reached his gloved hand toward me. “You’re doing fine,” he said, helping me up. “It just takes practice and patience.” I gazed into his kind eyes. He certainly has patience, I thought. If I were him, I’d be back in the lodge sipping hot chocolate by now.

However, Curt stayed by my side. And he was right. Before long, I had mastered snowplowing and was ready to move on. On my next trip down, I turned my skis parallel ever-so-slightly.

“That’s it, you’re getting it.” Curt skied alongside, cheering me on. “Lean forward a little and bend your knees.”

“I’m doing it! I’m skiing!” I shifted my weight, enjoying the cool breeze and exhilarating joy of sweet success.  

But within an instant that thrilling rush of adrenaline switched to pure panic. Too fast, too fast! I thought, hurtling out of control. I dragged my poles through the snow, trying to slow down and regain control. Finally, I crashed into a jumbled mess of legs, skis and poles. As the snow settled, I laid flat on the ground in utter frustration.

That’s it, I thought. Enough is enough. My legs were twisted in opposite directions. My body ached. But my wounded pride hurt the most. Why would Curt want to ski with me anyway? He could handle any trail here; instead, he was stuck on the bunny hill with me.

Curt plopped down in the snow next to me. He handed me my wayward pole that had gone skidding halfway down the hill.

“I think you may have dropped this,” he said, expressionless. Suddenly, two young children zipped past us, smiling. I looked at Curt and shook my head.

A slight grin tugged at Curt’s pink cheeks. Suddenly he erupted in laughter – silly, yet delightful and contagious laughter. Curt’s joy pulled me in – no matter how hard I tried to resist it. Even in my most awkward moments, he could make me laugh.

Though I had aching legs and painful bruises, that date turned out to be one of my best. Not because I learned to ski; but because I realized that Curt was the kind of man I wanted in my life. The kind of man I could marry.

A couple years later, I did marry him. Even today, I still appreciate those same qualities Curt had during our dating days. He is patient and kind, he makes me smile, and when life gets me down, he encourages me to get back up and try again.

After twenty years of marriage, I still can’t ski well. Curt knows I’m not the most bold or courageous girl, but that’s okay. He makes sure my life is full of adventure, or at least full of laughter.

How about you? Have you had any embarrassing situations or memorable moments while on a date? I'd love to hear about it. Leave me a comment here--or on my Facebook page. Let's keep the conversation going!

Well, hello. Hello? Is there anybody out there? 

I know. It's been a long time since I've shown my face around these parts. Honestly, it's not you. It's me. You see, I've been writing, just not here. Lately I've been pouring every bit of my creative energy into writing a novel. Yep, an actual novel--with scenes and a plot and a full cast of characters and ... you get the idea. 

Anyway, I've missed you and was thinking it's high-time I come back. And then, everything started going crazy in the world (like this ridiculous virus). Then I really started thinking about coming back.  

So recently, I had a story published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Laughter is the Best Medicine. And I've been debating about sharing it with you. You see, it's a little different from the stories I typically write. I usually share stuff about my faith, my family or my life with MS. I mean, I try to encourage people. Hopefully even inspire. But this story ... well, it's different. 

I wrote it on behalf of my husband and it's just a goofy, funny, slightly inappropriate story from his teen years. It's one of those stories he wouldn't normally share with the world (sorry Curt, but hey, you married a writer). So just for fun, I wrote it up, submitted it to Chicken Soup (on his behalf) and figured they probably wouldn't even want to publish it.

But ... as fate would have it, they liked it. 

So, as I was saying, I debated about sharing it here. Because there's so many things going on in the world and I don't want people thinking I'm insensitive ...

Then I realized--especially now, with everything we're going through--I'm gonna share it. Because if I can take your mind off the news--or help you smile in the midst of fear--or even just entertain you while you're bored at home, then so be it.  

I would ask, if this story isn't your cup of tea, that you just keep scrolling and keep your comments to yourself. As you know, there's enough negativity in the world. 

I was bored. Immature. And a little mischievous. Inevitably, if you mix those three qualities with one teenage boy, his mind will travel to inappropriate places. At least mine did.

It all started one day when I came home from school and found a brand-new set of license plates on our kitchen table. Dad had recently bought a car and the plates had come in the mail. I scanned the bold, black letters and chuckled to myself.
 
TTT 8039.
 
Good thing that middle letter isn’t an I.
 
As soon as the idea hit me, I made a beeline for the junk drawer. I grabbed black duct tape, a ruler and scissors.
 
First, I measured the top part of the letter T. Then I cut the tape to the exact size. Finally, I positioned the small piece of tape under the middle letter T. I smiled, admiring my crafty workmanship. Leaving the plates on the table, I looked forward to my dad’s reaction.
 
That night we went to church—a requirement for all pastor’s kids. Afterward, we went out for pizza. Meanwhile, I waited for Dad to comment on my handiwork. He never did.
 
A few days later, I noticed the license plates on the car, but the tape had disappeared. I could only assume one thing. Before Dad had a chance to see it, Mom had spotted my minor modification, ripped off the tape and prayed for her poor, wayward son.
 
Eventually, curiosity got the best of me. I questioned my mom.
 
“I did something to Dad’s license plates … did he ever say anything about it?”
 
Her eyes widened and mouth dropped. “You did that?” She bent over with laughter.
 
I nodded, perplexed. Why was she laughing—and not yelling—at me? She struggled to catch her breath.
 
“Your dad came home, glanced at the plates and was completely horrified. He scooped them up, drove across town and marched into the DMV.”
 
She dabbed at her eyes as she continued. “He told the man at the counter, ‘I can’t accept these. I am a pastor. I can’t drive around town with this on my car.’ Finally, the DMV guy took a closer look and discovered the tape.”
 
Uh oh. Busted, I thought. But Mom was still laughing. “So, your dad asked the guy, ‘Who in the world would put tape on my plates?’”
 
The DMV guy came up with the only logical explanation. “These license plates are made at the prison. I’m sure one of the inmates was messing around and thought it would be funny.”
​
My dad didn’t think it was funny, but Mom found it hilarious. Meanwhile, some poor prisoner got blamed for my mischief. 

I must admit, my emotions have been a little crazy since my middle daughter graduated from high school last weekend. Yep. Unbelievable. It feels like we just sent my first daughter off to college and now--here we go again--learning to let go of daughter #2. 

Recently, I was talking to a friend of mine who had just published her fourth book. She was excited, but also admitted to being a little nervous about releasing her book into the world. I found myself telling her some of the same advice I'd been hearing about letting go of my high school senior. 

"You've worked hard. You've done everything you could do. Now it's time to trust and let go." 

Now that I'm in the thick of planning her graduation party, I am reminded of one more bit of advice ... Celebrate a job well done!

And that's exactly what I'm doing today. I am so excited to have Crystal Joy on my blog and help her celebrate the release of her latest book, Shattered Heart. Take it away, Crystal!

​Thank you so much for having me as your guest today, Sheri! It’s been a pleasure to experience our writing journeys together, and it’s an added bonus that we get to experience motherhood together as well.
 
I’m a stay-at-home mom with three little ones all under the age of five. I’m already getting nostalgic knowing that my oldest is about to graduate from preschool, so I can’t imagine having a high school graduate. But I can relate to letting go of one of my babies—a book baby, anyway. I just published my fourth book, Shattered Heart. I’ve never felt more terrified to publish a novel. 

I’ll back up a little. When I wrote the rough draft of this sweet and wholesome romance, I knew exactly what I wanted to happen in the plot. I knew what conflicts would arise in order for the characters to grow and change. I knew where the book would take place. Every book in this series is located in a fictional small town in Iowa (based the town off of the Village of East Davenport). I was so excited that the first draft was easy to write. That was a first for me!
 
However, when I started revising the novel I wanted to rip my hair out. The main characters, Amanda and Ethan, had conflicts to overcome, but their problems were too surface-level. At the beginning of the novel, Amanda Meyers’ dad is diagnosed with lung cancer. Her mom passed away when she was in high school and her dad’s diagnosis resurrects fears that she kept buried for a long time. As Amanda’s worries resurface, she takes it out on the charming and handsome oncologist, Ethan Contos.  
 
My biggest hurdle in creating depth to Amanda and Ethan was my lack of experience in hospitals. Even though I write romantic fiction, I strive to create relatable, authentic characters with deep-rooted issues, like you and me. In other words, I couldn’t “feel” their inner turmoil. 

Until real life happened. 

Last August, I gave birth to my third child, Savannah Grace. After spending a few days in the NICU for what seemed like extra fluid in her lungs, Savannah was discharged from the hospital. But after several days of being home, I noticed that Savannah was having a hard time breathing, especially while nursing. So I took her into our pediatrician thinking he would give me some advice on how to position her differently, so that she could breathe easier. But that’s not what happened. Before I had a chance to explain my concerns, the nurse checked her oxygen level and called an ambulance due to an alarmingly low oxygen level. We spent a week at our local hospital. Doctors and nurses tested her for everything they could think of—but she seemed fine, except that she couldn’t breathe on her own.
 
We were transferred to the University of Iowa Children’s Hospital. At this point, they started testing her for rarities. And that’s when they diagnosed Savannah with Congenital Lobar Emphysema. You have better a chance of getting struck by lightening than having this condition. The best way I can describe it is like this: you have a lobe in your lung that expands like a balloon and pushes into the other lobes of your lungs—and in Savannah’s case, her heart. Once she was diagnosed, doctors immediately performed surgery. Watching Savannah being wheeled away into the OR was one of the scariest moments of my life. My prayers were set on repeat, but I felt an overwhelming peace that she would be okay. And she was. She is. Her lungs aren’t normal yet, but they are growing with her body. As she grows, she should be able to do activities and sports like her older siblings. Thank God!
 
After Savannah’s hospitalization, it took awhile before I attempted to write the final draft of Shattered Heart. But when I did, I poured my fears and worries into Amanda’s character. When Amanda cleans her dad’s house because she wants to kill off any germs that are a potential threat to her dad … That was me. After we got home from the hospital, I cleaned my whole house until it shined. When Amanda calls her dad at the hospital in the middle of the night just to hear his voice … That was me. I would go into Savannah’s room in the middle of the night just to make sure she was still breathing. When Amanda has a panic attack at the hospital … That was me. I thought I would pass out when I brought Savannah in for her first check-up (post-hospitalization) at our pediatrician’s office.
 
Besides one scene, I didn’t put my experiences in the novel on purpose. I was just polishing a final draft. But when I reread the final copy, I had tears in my eyes. There I was, in Amanda’s deepest darkest fears. Amanda and Ethan’s love story would not be the same if I hadn’t added my experiences.
 
This is why my heart picks up speed when I think about releasing Shattered Heart into the world. But I’m ready to let it go. I’m ready for you to read it. I hope Amanda and Ethan’s love story touches your heart as much as it touched mine.

​​Crystal Joy lives in Iowa with her husband and three growing children. She’s a stay-at-home mom with a heart for people. She loves getting to know them, writing about them, and inventing them. When she’s not hanging out with the hero and heroine in her latest book, she loves to dance awkwardly, watch reality TV, and visit real locations from her favorite books.

You can learn more about Crystal Joy at her website www.crystaljoybooks.com. 

Hi everyone! In honor of Mother's Day (this Sunday) I'm sharing my story that was recently published in the book, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Mom Knows Best.

Leave me a comment and I'll enter your name for a chance to win a copy for your favorite mom!

One word. That’s all it took to throw my family into a frenzy. It began one night during dinner. Someone made an innocent comment. I blurted out a response with one little word:
 
“Well!”
 
The tone of my voice surprised even me. Where did that raspy drawl come from? For a moment, the room became silent. Then suddenly, all three of my daughters broke into laughter.
 
“What?” I asked, folding my arms.
 
My oldest caught her breath. “You sound just like Grandma!”
 
“What? Grandma? Nah. No way.”
 
My husband joined in the fun. “Oh, yes you did!” He gave me a playful smile. “You must be turning into your mother!”   
 
“You’re all crazy.”

The next morning, I woke to the sound of girls arguing while getting ready for school. One girl snapped out a snarky comment. The other jabbed back with sarcasm. Back and forth. Louder and louder. Finally, I’d heard enough. I threw back the covers, jumped out of bed and marched down the hall to the bathroom.
 
“Girls, stop! If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all!”
 
I stopped in my tracks, mildly disturbed. Images of my mom, blurting out those same words, flashed through my mind. What in the world? Without even thinking, my mother’s words had jumped out of my mouth!
 
As the school bus drove away, I reasoned with myself. It was just a cliché. Lots of moms say those words. It doesn’t mean anything. I’m not turning into my mom.
 
Within a few minutes my cell phone rang. I checked the caller ID: Junior High. Why were they calling? Instantly, three scary scenarios slipped into my mind.
 
Did she get hurt during PE? Maybe she’s feeling sick – what if she threw up during class? Then I remembered a recent note from school. Oh no! I hope it’s not head lice!
 
I took a deep breath and answered the phone.
 
“Mom? I forgot my lunch money.”
 
Whew. As I hung up the phone, I couldn’t help but wonder. Why was I such a worry-wart? Over the years, I’d received dozens of calls from my kids’ school. Why do I always worry?
 
Then it hit me. If there’s one thing my mom excels at, it’s worrying. Just great, I thought. Now I was worried about worrying.
 
I assured myself it didn’t mean a thing. All moms worry. But when I returned home from buying groceries later that day, the clues were everywhere.

Like Mom, I collected an ever-practical bag full of bags. No sense throwing those plastic grocery bags away. We might use them for something. My mom’s words echoed in my head. “Why buy bathroom trash bags when these fit so perfectly inside our wastebaskets?”
 
I grabbed a head of lettuce from a bag and opened the crisper drawer. More proof glared back at me from inside the drawer. How had I accumulated so many leftover packets of catsup, mayo, and mustard from fast-food restaurants?  
 
Suddenly, it wasn’t just plastic bags and packets of catsup. I found evidence all over my kitchen. I stared into my drawer full of empty containers. Cool Whip. Cottage cheese. Sour cream. Yogurt. That kitchen drawer had more plastic dishes than a Tupperware catalog.  
 
Just then my daughter burst through the door. “Bad day?” I asked.
 
She exhaled and plopped down on a chair. Over the next few minutes she shared the dramatic details of life in middle school. I tried my best to encourage her.

“Thanks Mom. You give pretty good advice.”
 
“Junior high can be tough, but this too shall pass.” I patted her leg. “Seems like a long time ago when I told Grandma all about my problems when I was in school. She gave good advice too.”  
 
“See, we told you,” she said, beginning to smile. “You’re just like her.”
 
I thought for a moment, then spoke with a familiar raspy drawl. “Well,” I said, “Maybe that’s not so bad, after all.”

No one likes to watch their parents grow older. In my eyes, my dad was always strong. When I was a kid, Dad used to throw me up on his shoulders while he walked through the hilly pastures on our farm. Yep, he was a farmer, which meant long hours of hard work. He also worked a full-time job in town. So, as you might guess, he wasn’t one to sit around.
 
Which is partly why it’s so tough for him today.    
 
In addition to being 83 years old, my dad has congestive heart failure. He often feels tired and weak. He can’t walk very far without running out of breath or experiencing chest pain. He hates not being able to do much, but his doctor has warned him about putting too much stress on his heart.

I understood his frustration. There were so many things he could no longer do. 

Then a few years ago, God gave him a new opportunity.
 
One night, while he and Mom were at a restaurant, they heard live music coming from a nearby party room. The tune seemed familiar to dad, like something he’d heard as a child.
 
When dad was a kid, his parents used to invite friends and neighbors over for dances. They pushed all the furniture against the walls and anyone that owned an instrument played it. They always played upbeat music--a combination of bluegrass, old-time folk music and square dance tunes. My grandpa played the harmonica. Dad hadn’t heard anyone play that kind of music in years. Until that day at the restaurant.   
 
After dinner, Mom and Dad poked their heads inside the party room. A small group of musicians with a variety of instruments sat in a circle. Someone played a guitar. Another played a fiddle. There was a banjo, a harmonica, a hammered dulcimer and a mandolin. When the group took a break, Dad asked if they knew a particular song that my grandpa used to play. 

“Do you play?” Someone asked.

Dad shrugged. “I’ve played a little over the years--just for fun.” Dad usually played for his own enjoyment or maybe to entertain a grandkid.

The man tossed Dad his harmonica. “Play something,” he said.
 
Normally, Dad would never consider playing someone else’s harmonica. “It’s like using their toothbrush,” he says. Against his better judgement, he played a quick tune.

The guy smiled. “We play every Monday night. You’re welcome to join us.”
 
Dad laughed. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t play in public.”

Actually, Dad had played the harmonica once in public—a long time ago. It hadn’t gone well.

He was seventeen years old when an older boy named Ronnie talked him into playing the harmonica for the school talent show. He was nervous, but got through it. He finished the song and hurried off the stage. But Ronnie met him at the door with a grin.

“Hear that?” Ronnie motioned to the crowd that erupted with applause. “They loved you, Marvin! Go on back out and play an encore.”

Dad had no desire to return, but he took a deep breath and did as he was told. This time, when he reached center stage, he panicked. Never in his life had he seen so many eyes staring back at him. His mind went blank. He needed to play something, but couldn’t think of one single song.

His legs trembled and his mind raced. Finally, he played some little ditty and ran off the stage. It wasn’t anything special, but Ronnie must’ve thought so.

“Hey, Marvin, how’d you like to play in my band?”

Dad knew about Ronnie’s band. They made good money and wore fancy clothes. They drove nice cars and always had pretty girls hanging around them. It seemed like a good deal.

Dad ran home to find my grandpa’s harmonicas. As he rummaged through a dresser drawer, his mom (my grandma) walked in the room. 

“What are you doing?” She asked. 

“Looking for harmonicas.” He swiped his hand under some T-shirts. “I’m going to practice with Ronnie. He wants me to play in his band.”

Grandma frowned. “Oh no you’re not,” she said. Those boys play in taverns on school nights.”

Dad was disappointed, but honored Grandma’s wishes, assuming he’d probably be too nervous to play in front of people anyway. 
 
So … who would’ve guessed that SIX decades later, Dad got a second chance to play in a band. This time, he took it.

Today, at 83 years old, my dad has conquered his fear of playing in public. He loves getting together to play music with his friends, often three nights a week. It lifts his spirits and gives him something to look forward to. “And the pretty girl I’ve been married to for nearly 60 years always comes with me,” he says.

My dad's story is a good reminder that no matter what your age, God can give you new opportunities to enjoy your life.

The modest little group of musicians have played in many venues for various occasions. Restaurants. An art center. Community picnics. Farmers markets. Birthday parties. Charity auctions. Retirement centers. Nursing homes. A wedding. A funeral.

Strangely, they’ve never played in a bar. I think my grandmother would approve

“Merry Christmas! Come in!” Grandma wiped her hands on her apron and hurried over to greet us.  I took a deep breath, enjoying a wonderful whiff of turkey and apple pie. I stomped the snow off my shoes and kicked them onto a nearby rug. Four pairs of well-worn sneakers caught my eye. Ugh. A wave of anxiety rolled through my stomach. Just great. They were already here.

“They” were my cousins – and the only part of Christmas I didn’t enjoy. Being the youngest – and the only girl among six boys – wasn’t much fun. Especially for a shy, quiet five-year-old girl like me. Sure, I was used to my older brothers’ antics, but my cousins were a whole ‘nother level of overwhelming. How I dreaded seeing those rowdy, rambunctious boys.

A freckle-faced cousin raced by, his arms outstretched while he sang to no one in particular. “Come on and zoom!” He spun around like an airplane making a crash-landing. I stepped behind Mom’s legs. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen him act weird. I thought back to summer, when Grandma took a picture of all the grandkids together.

“Okay, line up! Little ones in front!” Grandma squinted into the camera. Then she huffed and motioned to the front row. “Matt, scoot closer to Sheri.” Matt was a few months older than me and not much taller. I noted the space between us.

“Scooch closer!” Grandma repeated. I took a side-step toward Matt. He took a giant step away. Heat crept up my cheeks. What was his problem? Did he think I had cooties? He glanced my way, then crossed his arms and crinkled his lip.

At that moment, I was certain of three things. I didn’t have cooties. I didn’t want to stand near him either. And most of all, boys were just plain weird. Watching him “zoom” through the kitchen confirmed it.

After the dinner dishes were washed and put away, everyone gathered in the living room for presents. My grandparents always gave each of us a gift. The cousins also drew names for a gift exchange.

I sat down by the tree. Across the room, one of my cousins took a running start and, as if sliding into home plate, plopped down beside me. Another boy promptly tackled and wrestled him to the floor. I moved closer to Mom.

I picked up one of my presents and carefully turned it over. What could it be? It was too small for a doll. Maybe it was a bracelet. Or a new outfit for my Barbie. I ripped off the paper and felt my jaw drop. I stared down at a small metal car.

Why would someone give me a car? I looked up at Mom. She raised an eyebrow and gave me the look – the look that reminded me to be polite – even if someone gave me a gift I didn’t like.

My aunt crouched down beside me. “I’m sorry, Sheri. I couldn’t remember whose name we had drawn. I figured, chances were good that we’d picked one of the boys.”

Suddenly, my aunt’s eyes widened with startling enthusiasm. She took the car and pretended to drive it through the shaggy green carpet. “Varoom! What do you think? Maybe you have a doll that would like a new car?”

I offered a weak smile. I knew it would never work. That car was way too small for any of my dolls. Even Barbie would be embarrassed to drive a cracker-box like that.

Over the next year, my aunt remarried. This meant I got a new uncle and two more cousins. Both of them boys, of course.

Now after Christmas dinner, eight boys crowded around Grandma’s dining room table. They worked hard, building roads with strips of flexible, orange tracks. When construction was finally complete, a race track spanned the entire length of Grandma’s table. Then the chaos began. The boys jumped up and down. They shouted. They made silly noises like they were revving up their engines. The more the cars flipped and crashed, the louder they became. I gathered my dolls and disappeared into another room.

By the following Christmas, I’d heard that an uncle had remarried. My mind raced on the way to Grandma’s house. How many boys would be there this year? I looked down at my new baby doll in my arms. Thank goodness I brought her along. At least I’d have someone to talk to.       

Like always, Grandma met us at the door. I took one step inside and the shouts and commotion of noisy boys already echoed through the house. They were probably in the living room. I followed Mom to the kitchen. A lady I didn’t recognize stirred something at the stove. She greeted my mom, then looked down at me. She must be my new aunt, I thought, tightening my grip on Mom’s pantleg.

Suddenly, the lady stepped to the side – and that’s when I saw her. A little blonde girl about my age, peeking out from behind her mom’s leg. My new cousin. She held a doll in her arms. I couldn’t help but smile.

Finally, after all these years, Christmas at Grandma’s was changing for the better.  

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Here it is. The whole story about how I met their father. And truthfully, it wasn't love at first sight.  

It didn’t take long for the news to spread among my young, female coworkers. My friend pulled me aside in the breakroom.

“Did you hear? We just hired a new guy and I guess he’s like twenty.”  

I shrugged. “Why should I care? I have a boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend you’re breaking up with.” Rhonda smiled. She knew me well.

The last thing I needed was a new boyfriend. Life was fine the way it was. I went to college during the day, worked in a call center at night, and spent my free time hanging out with friends.

As I walked back to my cubicle, a shiny, new nameplate caught my eye. Oh goody. The new guy. I read his last name. “Zeck.” What a weird last name.

The next day, young Mr. Zeck joined our department, wearing faded Levi’s and a gray T-shirt. As usual, the day-shift people left and our work environment relaxed. We cranked up the radio. Eric Clapton belted out a catchy tune.

On the other side of my cubicle, the new guy tapped his pen to the beat of the music. I sighed, hoping he’d realize how irritating he was. Unfortunately, he didn’t. Instead, he tapped louder. Then he kicked into double-time, beating his desk with a pen in each hand. Seriously? Was he trying to annoy me? I pushed back my chair and stuck my head around the corner.

“Do you mind?”  

He froze mid-tap and looked puzzled, as if wondering why on earth I interrupted his brilliant drum solo. He leaned back in his chair and raked a hand through his thick mop of hair.

“Nope. I don’t mind.” Then he smiled, revealing the most perfect teeth I’d ever seen.

I knew one thing. This guy was going to drive me nuts.

Thankfully as the weeks passed, my annoyance diminished. A little. He still drove me nuts, but he also had a knack for making me laugh. Maybe he hadn’t made a great first impression, but once I got to know him, we became friends.

One day, I stood in front of the breakroom bulletin board, scanning the announcements. Curt stood beside me.

“You going to that?” He motioned toward a flyer for the company Christmas party.

“Thinking about it. You?”

“Maybe.” He popped open his Pepsi. “You bringing your boyfriend?”

My senses heightened, but I kept my tone cool. “Nah, I don’t think so. Mostly because we broke up.” The spark in his eyes made me wonder. Was he just curious, or was there more to his question?     

On the night of the Christmas party, I spotted Curt, wearing a purple dress shirt and black pants. Dang, I thought, he cleaned up well. We spent the evening talking, laughing and singing along with our favorite songs.

When the music slowed down, I wondered if he might ask me to dance. The thought didn’t seem to occur to him. Time and again, slow songs came and went. Finally, by the end of the night, I’d had enough. I leaned in and shouted over the music.

“So, here’s a question. Are you ever going to ask me to dance?”

Next thing I knew, I was on the dance floor. My arms rested on his shoulders as we swayed to the music. Maybe it was the overwhelming scent of his Old Spice, but I felt lightheaded.

What was going on? Did I actually like him? Did he like me? And when did he become so stinkin’ good looking?

At the end of the night, he offered to walk me to my car. We stepped outside into the crisp night air. The parking lot lights shined down on the glistening snow. It was beautiful – the perfect backdrop for a guy to tell a girl how he really felt about her.  

Then without warning, Curt belted out a long, evil laugh. He scooped me up and carried me straight toward a pile of snow. I kicked my legs and pretended to hate it. “Stop it. Put me down.”

“You know,” he said, swinging me around, “if I wanted to, I could toss you into that snowdrift.”

“You are so annoying. We’re both going to fall.” I tightened my grip around his neck.  And that’s when I realized, it didn’t matter. Because I was already falling.

On Monday, Rhonda was full of questions. I assured her we were just friends. We had a lot of fun, but he’d had plenty of chances to speak up if he “liked” me. So, our relationship continued as usual. Curt took pleasure in provoking me. I tormented him back.

In our department, we staggered our dinner breaks. I always envied Curt. He lived only a few blocks away with his parents. This meant he had what every college student longed for: free food.

“Must be nice,” I said, clutching my Big Mac. “I wish my mom would make me supper every night.”

“It is.” He grinned.

A few nights later, Curt passed by my desk while I was on the phone with a crabby customer. I finished the call, tossed my headset on the keyboard and exhaled. That’s when I noticed the dinner plate on the side of my desk.

I pulled back the foil. Holy moly. Homemade beef and noodles. Buttered mashed potatoes. Sweet corn. A fresh-baked dinner roll.

Rhonda ran over to my desk. “Are you kidding me? Why doesn’t he bring all of us food like that?”

From the other side of my cubicle I heard his response. “I’m not trying to impress all of you.”

My heart leaped a little. Was he joking, as usual? After all, he’d never given me any tangible reason to believe he wanted more than friendship. And then came New Year’s Eve.

Not-so-coincidentally, we both planned to be at the same party – and I knew the perfect way to finally figure him out. If he kissed me at midnight, he obviously liked me. If he didn’t, he just wanted to be friends. Unfortunately, around 11:30, he ruined my plan.

“I need to go somewhere,” he said, “but I’ll be back.”

What? I looked down, trying to hide my disappointment. Now I’d never know how he felt. I was tired of this. Tired of wondering. Tired of--

Interrupting my thoughts, he leaned in and kissed me. I stared back, stunned.

“Just In case I’m not back by midnight.” He had the cutest smile. And I had my tangible sign.

Maybe Zeck is a weird last name, but it’s been mine for the past 24 years. Curt still makes me laugh. Over time he has also perfected his air drumming skills by tapping on steering wheels, kitchen tables, and sometimes even my leg during long car rides.

It doesn’t bother me anymore, but I don’t tell him that.