Amanda and That Boy

Do you ever buy a book and then take some time to get to it? Like I did with Lisa Bevere’s book, Lionness Arising? But when the timing was right, suddenly I read it and passed it quickly to my youngest daughter.

The second book, a novel by Barbara Sutryn entitled Amanda and That Boy, copyrighted in 2019 and published by Outskirts Press, Parker, CO, graced a shelf for months. Then, I felt an urgency to read it a couple of weeks ago, just before the race riots. I consumed that tome and ignored chores, social media, and most everything in my life to find out what happened next.

Amanda and That Boy

(photo from web address:

When I closed the back cover, a quiet thought came to me. Give it to your youngest daughter.

She looked into foster care, but the way did not open. She works with teens so parents can have a respite from their care.

This book, Amanda and That Boy is about a youngster from the projects. An inexperienced woman steps in to care for a grown child. My daughter became an instant mother when she married a man with children.

I asked her how she liked the book. She really liked it, but she got frustrated with the main character. I may not react like Amanda in this book and my daughter certainly wouldn’t respond as this believable character did, but the story got us thinking.

I asked God what He wanted me to do with the stories I’ve been seeing and hearing about that touch my heart. It’s too much, I can’t do everything. He might have said, “Write.”

And so, I do.

May God bless you.

To Blog or Not to Blog This

Have you ever blogged and became emotional and wrote almost a thousand words and realized you could not send it out without time for it to rest and without a good editing. That was me tonight.

I grew up in a moderate sized city and recalled childhood friendships that died because our city experienced race riots. Its aftermath rippled into the lives of children, too.

We had a multicultural neighborhood and I loved people of diverse backgrounds most of the time. So, it was painful when the city erupted into chaos and looting and possibly violence. Being so young, I’m sure my parents sheltered me from some of it.

I’m glad God made people with a variety of skin tones and kinds of hair and cultural experiences. I’ve felt sad when it got in the way of connecting one with another, years ago.

My sister Mary went to be with Jesus two years ago. She used to attend Monroe Community College in downtown Rochester. She’d often tell me that she wished she was black because the gals would sit at a table and get talking about their boyfriends or some other “girl talk” – and they would laugh and laugh.

There are no divisions in heaven, no crying, no favorites in God’s eyes there and here. I like these emotions I’m feeling now. 🙂