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We’re getting closer! My newest novel, “Chasing Shadows,�� will be released in just two more months, on June 8. So, a few days ago, my publisher, Tyndale House, sent a film crew to my home to interview me about the book. It was quite interesting to have my home transformed into a recording studio, with lights and cameras and complicated-looking equipment.

It seemed like there was a lot going on around me as I sat there smiling and talking and answering questions. It was hard not to get distracted as I described the novel, which takes place in The Netherlands during World War II. I talked about the inspiration for the book, and described my three main characters, Lena de Vries, her daughter Ans de Vries, and Miriam Jacobs, a Jewish refugee.

When the interview ended, we switched gears and moved to an outdoor setting. I live in Holland, Michigan, which originally was settled by Dutch immigrants, and our town just happens to have a beautiful park with a 250-year-old windmill imported from the real Holland. It’s the only authentic, working Dutch windmill in the United States. There’s a windmill in “Chasing Shadows�� but you’ll have to read the book to find out more about it. My town of Holland also has millions of tulips, which are just beginning to bloom in time for the annual Tulip Time Festival in May.

I will announce the links to the finished interview when the film is completed and edited. But in the meantime, I’m giving away an autographed copy of my novel “Waves of Mercy,�� which I wrote a few years ago. It tells the story of the Dutch immigrants who settled Holland, Michigan in 1857. The area was still a wilderness, but the settlers were escaping religious persecution in the Netherlands and were happy to be here. Simply leave a comment below and I will randomly choose a winner. Happy Springtime!

If you’ve read my blogs before, you’ll know that I’m an avid bicyclist. That’s why I’m thrilled with the cover of my newest book, “Chasing Shadows,�� which releases June 8. The windmill reveals the novel’s setting in The Netherlands. The low-flying airplanes, the model’s clothing, and her concerned expression hint that it takes place during World War II when the Nazis invaded that peace-loving country. But best of all, in my opinion, is the bicycle!

I have loved cycling since I was a girl. I still remember my first bike, a clunky, secondhand single-speed with coaster brakes that I repainted red. My sisters and I would ride into the countryside in rural New York State where we grew up, or to the ice cream stand in a neighboring village, three miles away. And my love of biking has only increased with my age. One of the deciding factors in choosing our new house was the bike trail right at the end of our driveway. It goes for miles and miles in both directions. It’s an easy six-mile ride into town to go to the library or the farmer’s market or for lunch with friends. And only 1 ½ miles to the beach on Lake Michigan.

Our vacations are chosen with biking in mind. We spent the month of February in Florida where we accumulated 400 miles. Ken and I bought new bikes last August and already maxed-out the odometers at 1,000 miles. In 2019 we joined friends from church on a cycling tour around Lake Constance, traveling through Germany, Switzerland and Austria. My most memorable day was in the Austrian Alps where we ferried our bikes up Mt. Pfander in a gondola, then cycled back down the nearly 3,500-foot mountain. It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying! Of course, I want to do it again.

The Netherlands, where “Chasing Shadows�� takes place, is filled with bike-loving people like me. The first time my Dutch publisher invited me on a book tour there, I was astonished to see how many bicycles there are in that tiny country. A huge tangle of them greeted me outside every bookstore, their owners all waiting inside to hear me speak.�� Bicycles whizzed through every village and city, often at breakneck speed. Dutch bike paths even had traffic circles at busy intersections to keep people from crashing into each other.

I’m told that there are more bikes in Holland than people, and I believe it! It’s a common sight to see professional men and women commuting with briefcases strapped to their bikes. Thousands of bikes are parked at every train station, some perched in double-decker bike racks to conserve space. I can’t imagine how people ever find their own bike again at the end of the day.

Naturally, bicycles play an important role in “Chasing Shadows.�� Lena de Vries relies on her bicycle to travel from her farm to the nearby village, often with children perched on the handlebars and rear fender in true Dutch fashion. Her daughter Ans rides home from her townhouse in Leiden to visit her family. Later, Ans uses her bike for her dangerous work with the Dutch Resistance. I traveled to The Netherlands to research this book, and my husband and I rented bikes in Leiden to ride out into the countryside like Ans would have done so I could research settings for the de Vries family farm.

Here’s a sneak-peek at the Dutch version of the cover. Naturally, it also features a bicycle.

I doubt if my bicycling hobby will ever coincide so perfectly with my novel-writing research again, but it certainly worked out nicely for this book. I hope you’ll enjoy journeying into the past in “Chasing Shadows�� and visiting the bike-loving Netherlands. And watch for a great deal on pre-orders, coming very soon!

I reached a milestone last week.

As you can see from my odometer, I have now biked 1,000 miles on my new bicycle.�� Ken and I purchased the new bikes in late August—a present to ourselves to make up for all the restrictions and disappointments in 2020. We have a lovely bike trail right outside our front door, so we put on 600 miles before the weather grew too cold.

But this past month we’ve been vacationing in Florida where we finally reached the 1000 mile mark.�� Some of the trails took us through an alligator habitat where I made a new friend.

We’re home now, and my bike will get a rest for the next few months. But as soon as the snow is gone and the bike trails are clear, I’ll be looking forward to the next 1,000 miles.

What milestones are you looking forward to this spring?

by Jane Rubietta

My husband stood beside me, our fingers clutching the frozen fencing. The unexpected ice storm shut down many roads in Tennessee, but we slid up to this gateway to my grandparents�� farm. Though the acreage sold 20 years prior, I hadn’t returned. My husband creaked open the unlocked gate and, in our station wagon with three small kids, we inched along the icy lane to the old farmhouse.

������������������������Smaller than my memories, and decrepit in its presentation, still, the house contained poignant history. We peeked through the windows to peeling wallpaper and sagging ceilings. I grieved the loss of place, the lack of love and respect for such an antique beauty.

������������������������A decade slipped past. This time I steered a rental while on a Tennessee book tour. An internal map guided me straight to the farm, this time without a gate—or ice and snow. Cotton fluffs dotted the dark soil, reminiscent of last year’s harvest. I crept over in my dress clothes and heels to collect a few wisps.

������������������������Then I noticed. The sycamores lining the lane…gone. Fields rolled straight to the gravel’s edge. But surely soon I’d see the barn and tractor shed and the old gas pump. And the house.

������������������������Except, no. In their places, dirt and more dirt. I crawled from the car again, rooted at the edge of the house’s memorial site. So many stories, collapsed with the walls, the memories of hope and laughter, hardship and hard work. The scents of buttermilk biscuits and the smoke house with the best cured ham and bacon anywhere in the country.����

������������������������That day, a novel began to stir. About a woman who, wounded by her family, evacuates her past, and creates her own Do-It-Yourself life far from the fertile fields and painful memories.��

When everything she’s built threatens to collapse, Evelyn Lewis returns to liquidate her inherited farm. If only it were that easy. That’s no fun. Under the roasting southern sun, Evie realizes she must excavate her past in order to build her future.��

Is it biographical? No. But geographical, you bet. Though the farmhouse is larger in the novel than in real life, and waits in dire need of a kind hand when Evie reaches the cattle guard before the short driveway.��

��������������������������is filled with laughter, sweet tea, healing, hope, lots of hammers, reclamation, and the surprising gift of friendship.��

No one, perhaps, is more surprised than me (well, except my family) that from so many fingers-clutching-fences places, I’ve become an author and speaker. Twenty of my books are non-fiction; with Evie, I wanted to experiment with real people working through the very real issues I write about. While it was a finalist for a couple of national book awards, the real blessing, to me, about��The Forgotten Life of Evelyn Lewis��comes when someone says, “It felt so good to laugh.�� “I will never look again at another person with the same lens. People carry so much inside; I want to honor that.�� Or, “Evie’s journey helped me heal.”��

It’s been a harsh year. I hope t��The Forgotten Life of Evelyn Lewis��will continue to help us laugh and love and heal. Meanwhile, last summer, in the spirit of reclamation and rebuilding, I published��Six weeks of readings lead us in both our present and past realities, and invite us out of the shadows to the One who said, “I’m the Light of the world.”��

Because even though life feels a lot like a D-I-Y project, it really isn’t. As Evie ultimately figured out, it’s a “Come to Me�� journey, where we collect others along the way. Although laughter and sweet tea help a whole lot.

My mom seldom had empty hands. When she finished pressing dough into loaves, feeding the chickens, or ironing heavy cotton, her fingers picked up scraps of fabrics left over from the feed sack clothing she designed and stitched for my sister and me. From these bits of cloth,��postage stamp��quilts emerged. Cozy coverings for an uninsulated home in central Iowa farmland. Frugal living with a needle and thread.

��These images impressed upon my mind at an early age translated into the historical fiction that I have written. In�� the novel that highlights the orphan train, an entire chapter is dedicated to the history of frontier quilt patterns. One of the characters is buried with her favorite comforter wrapped around her, a custom of many pioneers. The novel binds family, home and second chances with love.

Another historical novel,��, includes the quilt square that Stephen carries as a reminder of his mother, who dies of cholera. At the end of the book, the Nebraska patchwork of wheat fields yield homesteaders who sew a��Hugs and Kisses��quilt to welcome this adopted son to the community.

The most personal of the stories based in history is�� After reading my mother’s diary of her early marriage to my father in the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, my fascination with Sunbonnet Sue and Overall Sam with their feed sack creations sparked a story of a Depression era teacher who quilts. At the beginning of each chapter, a typical 1930’s piecing pattern is highlighted. The appendix to the book presents a brief description of each design.

But the most compelling part of quilt making is the quilters themselves. After joining a quilting guild, I found myself talking with the sew-ers more than actually constructing a fabric masterpiece. Their stories intrigued me and spurred my imagination. Eventually, researching every movement in quilting from pioneer stitchers to Gees Bends needle crafters filled many hours. The alliance of Amish and Hmong to produce high quality quilts inspired me. Learning how a therapist who works with anorexia patients has used the soft curves of fabric to heal their souls brought tears to my eyes. These and many more historic and personal accounts encouraged me to share the ways that quilting provides therapy, creativity, functionality and community to so many women.��s the first compilation of narratives about needle work.

This month, the second book brings more stories to inspire and encourage stitchers.������chronicles the women who used their threads and needles to fight in WWII. Deaf quilters are introduced. Even baking projects with a needle crafter’s touch are explored among the crazy quilt of topics covered within the pages of this nonfiction book. The hopes and despair of real women create the masterpieces that give snuggly comfort.

Slow stitching allows time to meditate. To ponder the thread of creativity that flows like a running stitch through the fabric. To think about the women who find their lives richer from the creations of their hands.

��Hands like my mother’s.

A long time ago, before I had published a single word, a writer friend invited me to join a Christian writers�� group. Of course, I declined. I was much too uncertain of my calling or my future as a writer to accept. Eventually, my friend talked me into it, and I discovered the many blessings of partnering with other companions in the journey of faith. I grew a lot over the next few years, in confidence and in my writing ability. And then my husband’s work involved a job change, and we moved from Canada back to the United States.

At the first Christian Writers�� Conference I attended in our new area, the leaders encouraged participants to form a critique group with other attendees who lived nearby. I leaped at the chance. The group was large at first, but commitment and determination soon whittled us down to a faithful few. For more than twenty-five years now, Jane Rubietta and Cleo Lampos and I have been meeting to share our lives, encourage each other, and critique each other’s writing. When we began, none of us were published—and none of our children were married. Now we all have multiple books and publications to our credit—and multiple grandchildren!

We have cried with each other through our many disappointments, and joyfully celebrated each publishing milestone. We brainstorm plots and characters and titles together—and we laugh a lot. And eat a lot. Our writers�� meetings always involve great food. There were times when each one of us was ready to quit, but we always convinced each other to hang on to our calling as writers. I can honestly say that I wouldn’t be where I am today without Jane and Cleo.

You’ll get to know them a little better next month because I have asked them to blog in my place during the month of February. I will be on a much-needed sabbatical from writing to recharge my batteries. I wrote a Christmas novella this year in addition to my usual, yearly novel, and I need a break. They will tell you a little about themselves and their work—which I’m always thrilled to endorse!

Where would any of us be without our friends? I know my life would be much lonelier without them. But even more than keeping us company, we all need people in our lives who will help us discover our gifts, and challenge us to step out in faith, and hold us accountable to the ministries God has given us. We see Christ through these friends and experience His deep love for us, in spite of our faults and failures. If you have friends who are dear to you, I hope you’ll take a moment this week to tell them how much they mean to you, and to celebrate God’s gift of friendship with them.��

I’m nearing the end of the novel I’m currently writing, and as I keep telling my husband, “I have to bring this story in for a landing.�� My main characters have found themselves facing more and more problems and dilemmas over the past twenty-some chapters and it’s time to resolve them in a (hopefully) satisfying way. I’ve heard writers explain the plotting process as forcing your main character up a tree, then throwing rocks at her. Well, it’s time for me to fetch a ladder and help my characters down.

The novel’s climax is what readers have been staying up all night and turning pages in order to reach, so it needs to be stellar. I want my readers to sigh and maybe wipe a tear and feel as though all those hours spent reading have been worth it. Author Anne Lamotte says the climax is “that major event…that brings all the tunes you have been playing so far into one major chord.�� For me, tying up all of those loose ends into a gratifying finish is the most intense and stressful part of writing a novel.

Once my characters are on solid ground again, they’ll have a chance to pause and reflect on the lessons they’ve learned during the trials and hardships they’ve endured. What have they discovered about themselves or about their faith? How have they been changed? This reflection process, called the dénouement, is a very important part of a satisfying ending, especially if the main character needed to change in order to become the person God created her to be. Yes, I have a big job to do in these final pages.

As I reach the conclusion of my novel, I’m also aware that we’ve reached the conclusion of a tumultuous year. 2020 has made many of us feel as though we’ve been driven up a very tall tree and had an avalanche of rocks thrown at us. Hopefully the climax is coming soon in 2021, and the rescue ladder is on its way. Maybe we can finally find our way down from our precarious position and recover from our wounds. But let’s not forget the final part of every great story—the time for reflection. Because if we don’t, everything we’ve endured this past year will have been a waste.

In a year as difficult as this past one, we may not want to remember everything we’ve been through, especially the losses. Yet I think it’s important to ask what lessons we’ve learned through it all? What have we discovered about ourselves? Is our faith any different? Has it grown? How has this year changed us? What new perspectives have we gained after being up in the tree for so long? I can already name a few things that I’ll never take for granted again, like a warm hug. An unmasked smile. And gathering together freely with my family and friends.

So, how about you? How are you different after spending this long, difficult year up in a tree? ��

The first time I traveled to Israel and visited Bethlehem, I expected to feel a sense of the beauty and simplicity of the much-loved Christmas story: a crude stable, the holy family, shepherds, wise men, and the Son of God in the manger.�� I was sadly disappointed. The traditional site of Jesus�� birth in Bethlehem is inside the Church of the Nativity—a truly ancient church built in 565 AD.�� It has survived enemy invasions, the Crusaders, restorations, renovations, a fire and an earthquake, but it looks like . . . well, a church.�� A beautifully decorated and ornamented church, with all the sacred clutter that has accumulated over the centuries, but it bore no resemblance to my image of what Jesus�� birthplace was like.

But wait—the real site was down a set of stairs and inside a natural cave that has been venerated as the place of His birth since 160 AD. But even this simple cave was so gilded and bedecked with artwork and tapestries and lamps and incense burners that I still couldn’t get a sense of what it might have looked like on that first holy night. In the center of the floor was a silver-encrusted star with a hole in the middle. By putting my hand inside, I could touch the place where Jesus was born more than 2,000 years ago.�� I tried it, but I left Bethlehem feeling empty, unable to make the sacred connection I had so longed for.

And isn’t that how so many of our Christmases in the past ended up feeling? In spite of all the tinsel and glitter and sparkle, all the money we spent and the stress we endured as we tried to create the perfect Hallmark Christmas, we were often left with the same let-down feeling I had inside that church in Bethlehem. We’ve lost the simple beauty of the story, that precious connection with Jesus that is the true miracle of Bethlehem.��

But this year—surprise! Many of the Christmas traditions we have come to love—like family gatherings and parties and Christmas concerts and church programs—have been stripped away, leaving the holiday a mere shadow of itself. Christmas is starting to resemble the classic Dr. Seuss book, “How the Grinch Stole Christmas!�� as Covid-19 slithered into our homes and communities and stole so many of the festivities we’ve long enjoyed.

But do you remember how the Dr. Seuss story ended? After the Grinch had taken everything away, Christmas morning still dawned. The startled Grinch could hear people singing and celebrating and rejoicing. We can do the same. The cookies and lights and parties aren’t what Christmas is about. Jesus is. His birth in Bethlehem is still worth celebrating, whether we’re alone, far from our families, or in a packed church sanctuary singing Handel’s “Halleluiah Chorus.��

Maybe this will be the year that we’ll recapture the simplicity of Christ’s incarnation. Maybe the clutter and glitz that have draped themselves over our past celebrations are like the religious trappings that have collected inside the Church of the Nativity over the centuries. Whether we gather with our loved ones in person or around our computer screens, we can still feel the holy wonder of Christmas—Emmanuel, God with us! I pray that your celebrations, no matter how small, will be filled with joy this Christmas season.

This past November was the seventeenth anniversary of my sister Bonnie’s death from cancer. As I was trolling through files on my computer recently, I found this article I wrote in 2003. Since Covid-19 has eliminated many of the church’s visible ministries and programs, I thought my reflections might be reassuring to all of the church’s “invisible�� workers.

The minivan halted in my sister Bonnie’s driveway. I helped the driver carry warm, foil-covered pans into the kitchen. The food smelled heavenly—as well it should, for this was manna from heaven, a gift from God, delivered by one of His messengers. “Please tell Bonnie we’re praying for her,�� she said before driving away.

The simple, unheralded task, bringing a meal to a fellow church member undergoing chemotherapy, was probably one of a dozen items on her to-do list. Compared to more visible ministries, her contribution may have seemed paltry to her. Perhaps she promised herself that she would do more for the kingdom of God someday, when her busy life settled down. I would like to tell her and all the other behind-the-scenes laborers how your humble meatloaf, offered in Christ’s name, ministered to my sister, to her family, and to me.

Bonnie’s cancer had robbed her of her job as well as her health. Chemotherapy caused hair and weight losses, and left her too weak to climb the stairs, let alone to be a wife and mother. As she grieved these losses, she clung to her faith in God like a lifeboat. I lived 700 miles away and felt helpless. “Don’t let her feel abandoned,�� I prayed. “Let her see Your unfailing love.�� When I finally was able to visit, I saw how God had been answering my prayers. For weeks, the women in Bonnie’s church had provided meals, demonstrating God’s concern, allowing her to feel the warmth of His love. These meals served as daily reminders of His presence.

Having meals delivered gave me the gift of time to spend with my sister. And when my brother-in-law returned home from work, a hot, home-cooked meal revived his spirits. The loss of income, coupled with mounting medical debts, clearly worried him. But for the weeks that the food continued, his food bills were lowered. With his prayer for “daily bread�� answered, he was able to trust God for his other worries.

��My nephew was angry with God, unable understand why He would allow his mom to suffer. One night, I tempted him with a homemade apple pie that had arrived, warmed in the microwave. As we sat and talked, I said, “I think I finally understand the verse that says, ‘Taste and see that the Lord is good.’�� He smiled, and for a wonderful moment, as he helped himself to seconds, a hurting son glimpsed God’s goodness in a warm slice of apple pie.

His younger brother longed to have a friend over to play video games. The many gifts of food made that invitation possible. His friend wasn’t from a Christian home. He and his stressed-out single mom rarely sat down to a meal. “I starve when I go to his house,�� my nephew told me. But on game night, the bounty of food had multiplied in our refrigerator like loaves and fishes. I re-heated a week’s worth of leftovers, spreading everything out on the table like a potluck supper. Desserts overflowed onto the kitchen counter. My nephew’s friend surveyed the bounty, wide-eyed. “Did you have a party or something?�� he asked. “Where’d all this food come from?��

“The people at our church keep bringing it,�� my nephew explained—somewhat wide-eyed himself. The Lord had prepared a table for us in the presence of our enemy, cancer. Indeed, our cup overflowed. The boys heaped their plates with food. Our anonymous chefs had displayed the love of the Body of Christ in all its beauty to a hungry boy without a church family.

One young mother delivered a meal with two preschoolers in tow. “I helped make dessert,�� the older girl said. The cake was slightly lopsided, the candy sprinkles unevenly dumped by a pair of small hands. Life can be overwhelming for a young mother with endless diapers and midnight feedings, and I recognized this woman’s gift as a true sacrifice. If anyone could be excused from preparing an extra meal, it would be her. But instead of wallowing in her own weariness, she chose to serve others. She also took a few minutes to pray with Bonnie. As I watched the children fold their hands and pray, I saw that this mother was giving a gift to her daughters, too, by her own quiet example.

One sunny afternoon a young man in his mid-twenties pulled up in his SUV bearing a loaf of garlic bread, pasta, and a pot of fresh spaghetti sauce. “I’m just learning to cook,�� he explained. “All I can make is spaghetti sauce, so here it is.�� He’d prepared it from scratch, simmering it in his slow cooker for two days. I thought of the Apostle Paul’s words to Timothy: “Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers�� (1 Tim 4:12).

A middle-aged woman, suffering from Multiple Sclerosis needed help carrying her gift of pot roast and potatoes. She explained that her illness didn’t give her very many good days, and she was often unable to cook for her own family. “But I prayed for strength to do this when I signed up at church and God answered my prayer,�� she said. She also gave Bonnie the gift of her time, sharing what God had taught her through her own illness, offering much-needed hope as she testified of His goodness.

After returning home, I volunteered to prepare a meal for a family from my own church. I sliced, simmered and sautéed with a sense of reverence, aware that God might use my humble offering for His glory. He’d taught me not to discount the small, unsung tasks done in His name, or to say I have no ministry simply because it isn’t visible. “Anyone who gives even a cup of cold water in my name,�� Jesus said, “will certainly not lose his reward.�� And I’m very sure He’ll say the same to those who’ve offered a lopsided cake and a simple meatloaf.

What ways have you found to minister to others during these unusual times?

My two-year-old granddaughter is very active, and often fearless. My daughter sent me a video the other day of her attempting to climb the cat tree in their home. A more cautious, thoughtful child (like her older sister, who is four), might stop and think, first, before attempting such a climb: “Hmmm . . . I’m much heavier than a cat . . . and it looks a little wobbly . . . and . . . what will I do once I reach the top?�� But my granddaughter is only two, so she scrambled up the post.

And it did wobble. And she did reach the top. She turned around and grinned in victory . . . And then she looked down. Her eyes grew very wide. Can you guess what happened next?

She didn’t fall. And she didn’t cry. She simply stretched out her little arms and said, “Papa! ��Papa! Help me down, Papa!�� She knew who to call upon for help.

I love to read novels that feature heroines of great inner strength and courage. I love writing novels with that kind of heroine, too. Often, the main character doesn’t see herself as brave or courageous to begin with. But when circumstances in her life bring her to a crisis point, she finds a source of strength and courage. ��

Sometimes that source comes through other people. She finds deliverance through teaming up with others and fighting the battle together. Her friends may offer a variety of strengths, and victory is achieved through teamwork. This type of heroine demonstrates the wisdom in asking for help rather than remaining isolated. It’s a lesson I often need to remember.

This week, I was struggling alone with several worrying concerns. Then I met with my prayer sisters for our monthly Skype prayer meeting. We prayed for each other—for our writing projects, for our families, and for our country. I came away refreshed and restored. And no longer alone. We will continue to pray for each other throughout the month.

Sometimes, a heroine’s journey is about more than overcoming physical danger or other obstacles. In the most memorable novels, an outward crisis sends the heroine on an inner, spiritual journey that will change her in some way. And for that, she must learn to call upon God—much like my granddaughter called to her papa.

When I think back to the times of crisis and uncertainty in my own life, they always turned out to be the times when my relationship with God grew the most. When I cried out to Him in fear, I discovered that He was right there. I learned to trust Him and allow Him to change me through my circumstances. He became my source of strength and courage for the next battle.

��I don’t think my granddaughter will attempt to climb the cat tree again. But the lesson she learned is more than one of caution. She knows that Papa’s arms are strong and loving. She knows that he will help her and rescue her when she calls to him. And maybe, someday, she will become a heroine who has learned to call upon her Heavenly Father the same way.