DOUBLE SQUEAL!! i apologize, but I’m so SUPER excited about the cover of my brand-new picture book, coming in July 2019. All the best stories are true… and this one is MINE, based on the birth of my first son, many years ago.
I was just 25 years old, and the night he was born I had an amazing experience that has stayed with me ever since. It was as if the moon and the stars knew about his birth, the trees clapped their hands, the rivers laughed, and all creation rejoiced with me.
With stunning illustrations by Aurelie Blanz, The Wonder That is Youcaptures the utter elation I felt that evening and the universal joy parents feel as they celebrate the arrival of a new child in the family, whether through birth or adoption.
These words won’t make sense to anyone who doesn’t know me well. But my family, my close friends, and my four brothers and three sisters know only too well who the ‘Secret Supper’ maker was…
Let me take you across the Atlantic Ocean, almost fifty years ago, to a red brick home in northern England, where I grew up with my seven siblings… Continue reading →
Well, maybe that’s a lie. I was, in fact, the largest of my mum’s eight babies, weighing in at a whopping 10 pounds. But the joke in my family for a long time was that I’ve never put any weight on since.
It’s true though, that through no merit of my own, I managed to give birth to four children and then shrink, almost immediately, back to my previous slim self. The same skinny jeans that I’d discarded a few months prior slid easily over my hips without too much trouble. And I continued in that same skinny vein for years and years. If you don’t believe me, here’s a 1990’s picture to prove it… Continue reading →
This little girl, with the pony-tail tuft bouncing around on top of her head, is full of personality and fun. She’s not yet two years old, but already she can hold Grandma’s new book the right way round, lift the flaps, and see the pictures. It will be quite a while before she can read the words. But when she does, I want her to know that for every hero in the Bible, there’s always a heroine… Continue reading →
Welcome! I’m so glad you’re joining us for this seven-week Bible study based on Love Letters from God: Bible Stories for a Girl’s Heart. We’ll be studying the lives of seven incredible New Testament women. It’s the perfect way to journey through Lent together.
I have a confession to make… I’m a terrible host. I’ve never liked cooking that much, and when we have more than two people to entertain, I’m a nervous wreck. I cannot imagine how Martha must have felt as she busied herself for the arrival of Jesus and his disciples. It’s my idea of the ultimate nightmare.
I mean, Jesus is coming to dinner. For me, that would be like entertaining the Queen of England. Wouldn’t you want your place to be perfect and your baking top-notch if the Son of God was coming to your eat at your house? Hospitality was an important social requirement of the times. No-one can blame Martha for wanting everything to be perfect. Just imagine all the jobs she’d already done in preparation…
And then, the big moment arrives.
Slip into Martha’s sandals for a moment and put yourself in her position…
Oh Glenys… this is the phone call you never wanted.
I hear the tremor in my brother’s voice. He’s 4000 long miles away, and I say a prayer in my head.
God, whatever this is, give me strength.
Dad is dying.
I can hear those three words like it was yesterday. My heart is beating fast and I kneel by my front window like I always do when I don’t know what else to do.
That was one year ago today.
My little grandsons are running around the house. There’s Christmas music playing. I’m setting the table with a cheery red cloth, preparing for a party. And then the next day, I’m on a plane, England bound, where I get to kiss my dad for the last time as he lies with his eyes closed cold and his hands folded in that quiet, quiet room, with a stuffed dog at his feet and an acorn tucked in his pocket.
Please, God, let me know you are real.
Let my dad be living in heaven.
Let my faith not be in vain.
Let my words, let my words that I write for children, be true.
Because sometimes, just sometimes, there’s this little nagging doubt that creeps up inside me and I wonder what life is all about, and if I really will get to see my dad again, like I told him with absolute certainty on the phone as I knelt that day in front of my window.
I love you Dad, and I WILL see you again.
I could hear his breathing.
My voice was strong, and in that moment, I was convinced, just like Paul, that NOTHING,not even death itself, can ever separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
But today, I’m not strong. I’m not convinced. And I’m trying hard to hold on to my faith, my God, like I’m drowning in the ocean and it’s my only life-line, my only hope and it’s slipping fast through my fingers.
But what is faith? What is hope, the writer of Romans said, if it can be seen?
The day after I kissed my dad goodbye, as he lay in that simple wooden box, I stood in the street just a few doors down the road, while my sister and nieces played Christmas carols in the brass band. The icy wind blew my sister’s hair, and the rain in Wigan was cold. I wondered if my dad could hear them play his favorite carol, as he lay there, all alone.
Hail the heav’n-born Prince of Peace!
Hail the Son of Righteousness!
Light and life to all He brings
Ris’n with healing in His wings
Mild He lays His glory by
Born that man no more may die
Born to raise the sons of earth
Born to give them second birth
Hark! The herald angels sing
“Glory to the newborn King!”
I know my dad has been raised. I know my dad has gained that second birth. I just miss him terribly, and there’s this big, empty hole in my heart that no one can fill.
And so as my family gather in England today to celebrate and remember the life of the most Christ-like man I have ever known, the one I was utterly, utterly privileged to call Dad, I will take a walk in these Michigan wintry woods, and I’ll admire the splendid trees, all covered in soft snow, and I’ll listen for the birds he loved so much, and I’ll thank God that my dad, my wonderful dad, is in heaven.
I remember when my mum discovered ‘catalogs’… the perfect, stress-free way to shop for Christmas for all eight of us. We would pore over the pages, and then she would order what we wanted.
One year was a big disappointment. It must only have been a few days before Christmas when she broke the devastating news to an expectant ten year old:
Glenys, I’m sorry, but your pogo stick didn’t arrive.You’ll have to choose something else.
I didn’t want anything else. I wanted a pogo stick so I could boing up and down the driveway to my heart’s content. I don’t even remember what I chose as an alternative.
But what I DO remember is coming downstairs that Christmas morning, waiting patiently outside the living room for all my siblings to line up, and then opening the door to see…
a POGO STICK!
It had arrived after all, and my dad had dutifully hidden it away in the back of his wardrobe so it wouldn’t be seen. (He’d also forgotten to tell my mum). How excited she must have been to be able to surprise me with that gift after all.
I was a happy little girl, and spent the next several months boinging away happily to my heart’s content, up and down the drive. It was the best surprise ever.
It wouldn’t be Christmas without surprises. A little baby, in a manger, who would grow up to be King of the Whole World… what could be more surprising than that?
Traci Smith, a Presbyterian pastor in San Antonio, has a Christmas surprise for her two young sons. She wrapped up 25 books and beginning December 1st, they’ll open one book a day until the 25th.
And can you guess which book they’ll save for last? It’s Christmas Love Letters from God. What a wonderful surprise for me to find that out!
Read her post and be sure to enter the Christmas Love Letters from God giveaway. You never know… you might win.
I’ll never forget the thrill of writing the dedication in my first book.
This book is dedicated to the oldest and youngest members of my family…. I wrote.
To my dad, Harry Hughes, who first told me the wonderful Story of Jesus. And to my grandchildren, Xander, Sam, and Brixham, who are just beginning to hear the wonderful Story for themselves.
When I penned those words I was nervous. I wasn’t sure whether my dad, frail at 90, would ever be able to hold that book, or turn its pages, or see that it was dedicated to him, or even remember that his daughter was the author. But he did. I have the photographto prove it:
And how glad I was, because he never did get to hold my second book. He died while it was in the mail on its way to him, all wrapped up in Christmas paper, on route over the wide sea from Michigan to England.
If he could have opened it, he would have seen that I dedicated that book to my first granddaughter, newly arrived into the world.
For Colette, my first granddaughter, I wrote. How my dad would have loved to meet her, and lift her high onto his shoulder. But it wasn’t to be.
There is a time for everything, Solomon wrote, a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to weep and a time to laugh.
Isn’t that true?
When the time came for the third title in the series, Christmas Love Letters from God, I was ready when my editor asked, Who would you like to dedicate this book to?
I knew, straight away, whose name would be printed in the front of this book, and why. And so when Laura Sassi, children’s book author, welcomed me to her blog, and asked me to share the story behind its dedication, I was happy to do so.
Do you know who I dedicated Christmas Love letters from God to?
Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, this first grandson of mine managed to turn five years old, swiffed his blonde hair to one side, and knocked on the doors of kindergarten.
Gone are the days of painting at grandma’s and singing songs at the library together. Gone are the alphabet rhymes and the sensory bags filled with birdseed and pasta. My boy is grown up.
I picked him up from after-school for the first time just yesterday. I was there when the doors swung open and he jumped down from the yellow school bus, laughing and jostling and chatting with his little kindergarten buddies. I watched him swing his back pack onto his shoulder, his laces all undone and his blonde hair blowing in the wind.
He didn’t see me for a few minutes as I glimpsed into his new world. But then, his eye caught mine… and there he was after all, my little grandson running, running, and squealing with joy.
Gandma!!! he squeals in delight.
(Yes, that’s right… I didn’t mis-spell that word. He still calls me Gandma sometimes).
And I swing him high into the air, back-pack and all, and hug him close. All is not lost. This little boy still loves to see me, and he’s not embarrassed to show it… yet.
This is my Gandma Glenys, he announces loudly and proudly to all his friends, and hugs me tight around the legs as if I might escape. But where would I go… if not with him?
I tuck him into bed that night, and I tell him:
I love you to the moon and back.
He thinks for a minute, before he responds: I love you to… (a little pause here) the mountains and back.
How did he fill my heart like that? I kiss that little blonde head as he snuggles under the covers and closes his eyes.
And I think to myself, seize this time Gandma. Hold on to it like it’s the last thing you’ll ever have, because that gorgeous autumn tree, that one you took a photo of just the other day? It’s leaves are almost all gone.
And if I could hold on to a season, I surely would… before the ground is covered with what was once so lovely.
I’m only about six or seven years old, but already I know that I love to write. I love to read too.
My brother and I, we sneak into my dad’s study and pull the big heavy book from the shelf. We huddle together and turn the pages. Already we’re giggling.
It doesn’t take long to find what we’re looking for… a photograph of a fat bird with a huge, puffed out red chest protruding from under its chin like a ball. The Apple Bird we used to call it. It seemed to us that this strange bird must have swallowed an apple and the gigantic fruit had somehow made its way outside the bird’s skin. We couldn’t believe that such an exotic creature existed… it was so unlike the tiny red-breasted English robin who hopped around our front garden, waiting for my dad to feed it.
This big book of wonder was only one treasure in a room containing many. The shelves in my dad’s study were bulging with encyclopedias and classics and poetry books and bibles.
And something else….
In a tiny corner, in the smallest of spaces, sat a little desk… containing notebooks and paper and pencils. And a chair. It was my desk. And it was all I needed.
I think it may have been at this desk, surrounded by my father’s books and bibles, that I began to write poems. And even though I inherited my dad’s passion for poetry and his love for God’s Word, I never, ever would have thought that fifty years later, I might be able to combine the two in Snuggle Time Psalms.
And all I can think, when I leaf through its pages, is how much my dad would chuckle to see it, and how much he would love it so.
And maybe one day, there’ll be two little children, who will lift it from the shelf, and giggle over it together, and wonder at our great God, who made Apple Birds and English robins, and brothers and sisters, and all things good.
