I reminisced in my own world early on Sunday morning July 15, 2012, sipping coffee and enjoying warm pannukakku with fresh blueberries from Michigan, out on the patio. Childhood memories flooded my head. It was Mama’s birthday and I missed her so much!!!

Birds chirped as the sun climbed higher in a golden sky, tinged with leftover rose and mauve. My soul was at peace but my heart ached—wishing I  could hear her voice saying, “I love you!” just one more time. Then I remembered a message my sister, Bonnie, left on my birthday, with Mama saying she was proud of me and loved me very much. What a wonderful gift! I also remembered the birthday card she sent, carefully inscribed with her  special wishes. Tears moisten my checks when I touch that precious memento. 

Is God good all the time? Looking back at Mama’s story, I sometimes wonder. We see the tapestry from a different perspective than our  creator does. Was the unbearable sadness Mama and her siblings endured as orphaned children just stuff that happens in life? Or did God have a reason for allowing the pain? No doubt, there are varied opinions. 

My Scandinavian roots go back to the Vikings who were adventurous, courageous, and determined to survive against difficult odds. My great-grandfather Johann Höglund helped settle Finland with repeated trips  across the Gulf of Bothnia as a sea captain. He knew adversity from weather,  the rugged terrain, and from humans who struggled to keep their promises. 

Mama was birthed from that ancestry and she proved our responses to circumstances can be victorious. Tragedy doesn’t need to destroy lives. Stressful incidents can be kindling for a bonfire that warms and offers hope, sharing the sweet aroma of His presence. She’s finally enjoying her well-deserved reward. 
 
Celebrating her life with a garden of flowers would make Mama happy so I’ll create a special place in her memory. The only thing left for me to
decide is—who will I sing my little Swedish songs to now, and who will listen to my new stories? 

Grandmothers are treasured in most families, usually leaving a legacy of love, wise advice, and wonderful memories. I wish I could have known my Mormor. She spoke Swedish, immigrated to the USA from Finland, became a young bride in Upper Michigan, and died at 37. The shock was difficult for Grandpa  who insisted his family speak only English--except for occasional children's games and songs. The oldest daughter, my Aunt Viola, dropped out of school at thirteen to care for her younger siblings. My mama was almost two when her mother died; and she also lost her father when he dropped 
into the snow two days after Christmas, a few years later.  

I often wonder about Grandma Fina.
As a child, I wandered around the Steve Family home on rare visits up north and pictured what her life might have been like. There was an antique pillow with a woman's face on the bed where she died. Eerily sad, memorabilia from the past was scattered around the house--including an old wood burning stove that was used to heat the entire home. The creaky stairs conjured images of a bygone era and beckoned me to places I had never been. I've asked the why, when, where, how questions over and over. Mama didn't know most answers. Aunt Viola gave me new insights but her world seemed frozen back in time with unanswerables.
 
Every year I celebrate my grandmother's birthday~July 13, 1882~by trying to speak Swedish; I know lots of songs and sayings. I also eat blueberries and make little meat pies resembling pasties. This year I'm going to write special notes to each of my grandchildren and let them know how much I treasure being their grandmother, with my dreams for their own meaningful lives. Life goes on...and the outcome depends on what you set as your priorities.

It all started one rainy Monday afternoon when my chores were finished; a story began swirling in my head. The characters were fictional but soon developed unique personalities with an assortment of physiques, demeanors, and voices all their own. I couldn't get them to stop sharing their opinions as they settled into my home--eager for me to feed them something nutritious and give them a place to sleep. 

When I woke and went down for coffee in the morning, they were still there. Each had personal preferences and some were more cooperative than others. That’s why guests usually return to their own homes. I waited patiently, giving them countless incentives to leave and became enthusiastic about wonderful opportunities on the Today Show, until frustration finally set in. I’m an extrovert and like people but hospitality works best when we’re fresh. 
 
That’s when I picked up a journal and exposed intricate details about my characters I couldn’t speak out loud. For some reason, this encouraged them and they felt validated. We chatted about superficial things all morning and then moved on to issues that were more complex in the afternoon. Before long, I called them by their proper names and knew details about their lives I never really wanted to know. It became a fascinating game. 
 
In their defense, my hubby determined the story should be told and challenged me to write a tale of idealists who possess everything necessary to succeed in life, except for the only thing that really matters. That was the beginning.

This passionate story became emblazoned on my brain and hardly a day passed without thinking about how to adequately convey the characters' thoughts and actions. The plot grew to include subplots and as interesting details spilled over into new scenes, I knew the time had come.

Painting a novel with words became more fun than capturing a mesmerizing landscape with oil paints. My fingers danced on the computer keys trying to keep up with what would unfold next. Emotions built, dialog became heated, as interactions heightened--at times leading to sensory overload. My brain could hardly wait to turn the page. Where was this conversation headed? What would happen as the crisis loomed out of control? Was anyone capable of providing the critical help needed?

As days ran into nights, the story escalated and stopping to sleep sometimes seemed foolish. Rays of morning sunrise usually caught me off guard. Coffee usually helped. On a few occasions, I needed to pull the drapes closed and climb into bed for a delightful nap.

And then it happened. The last page appeared and my fingers hurriedly typed, "The end." Was it really? It seemed like some kind of joke. My body quivered with relief but a new storyline began creeping into my brain. "Goodness sakes, not a sequel?" I said to myself.

"It needs to be told," my hubby said at dinner.