Despite seventy-five degrees, vigorous daisies in the berm, and a purple haze of asters blanketing the meadow, fall has slipped over the mountaintops and nestled in our valley.

Cottonwood trees by the river are graced with gold, while grasses on the upper slopes are straw-yellow. One species of wild shrub is vibrantly persimmon already. In a couple of weeks aspens will erupt in fiery red and crayon yellow slashes—starting in high groves before gradually leeching color down the hillsides like melting candle wax. And the rose hips are little vitamin-C bombs, beckoning the bear family that lives nearby.

The first hunters were preparing for deer and elk season by sighting in rifles in the creek-bed beneath our property last weekend. Pickup trucks and four wheelers have been parked along the interstate too, waiting for hunters who are scouting territory, preparing to stock freezers in the coming weeks. We’re in bow (archery) season now, then muzzleloader season begins, and lastly, riflemen (and women) will comb forest and slopes as they track prints and scat, and replicate the female-elk whistle to attract a bull. Blaze orange polka dots will creep across the mountain face two miles north of my office windows.

Living here is a colorful adventure. One still very connected to changing seasons and an earlier, simpler way of life. I remember living in a big city, buffered from all but my most immediate environment by buildings that blocked my view and sprawled forever.

But here, I’m constantly reminded of God’s general revelation of Himself through nature, which keeps my life in perspective and triggers thankful joy.

Happy fall to you!

There are all sorts of epiphanies: large and small, horrifying and gratifying, personal and impersonal. By their nature, each epiphany is a surprise. An unexpected moment of clarity or understanding.

I had an epiphany yesterday—a personal, joyful, gratifying revelation. It was so dear that I’d call it serendipitous. A serendipitous epiphany is the very best kind.

I was a strange little girl, quiet and good. My late mother insisted that I was always sweet. (That admission makes me cringe.) But I was a loner and a “watcher,” more comfortable on the sidelines until absolutely necessary and after I had figured everything out.

I read constantly. I’d check out the maximum number of library books (seven) every week. On vacation, my footwell of the station wagon was so full of books (I used Mom’s allotment too) that I had nowhere to put my feet. My dad complained that I never saw anything because my nose was stuck in a book.

I lost myself in books that alluded to a larger world than my house and church and school. I was convinced that my life was a springboard for greater things and adventures into the unknown. I sat under an elm every summer, reading and drawing and living in imaginary worlds, waiting to fly.

For years, I’ve searched for one particular book that I enjoyed as a child. I couldn’t remember why it made such an impression, but I needed to find it. I only knew a couple of words from the title. I searched and searched, then gave up for years. Then I’d search again.

A few weeks ago, I found it.

It arrived yesterday, and I sat down to read. The small chapter book is appropriate for a girl of five or six. I expected it to be charming and to put it on my bookshelf with Before the Muses (Akkadian Literature) and The Ancient Near East, Volume 1.

But I discovered that the thin volume without question set my course. In it, a little girl travels beyond everything she knows, encountering a camel (my favorite animal) and the Middle East (setting of so many of my manuscripts and focus of my graduate degree). She is adventurous and brave, questioning and honest, unflinching but slightly cautious. She is on a mysterious journey—her own international suspense like the books that I write.

I had forgotten everything about this book except three words of the title. But as I read, I recognized my adult version of the protagonist. I laughed out loud, marveling at seeds that blossomed—half a century later—into what I have become.

Before you ask, I’m not sharing the title. I’m considering this adventure—because that’s what this is, and we should ponder epiphanies—and wondering what exactly I’m supposed to do with this revelation of myself.

But this book won’t slip onto my laden bookshelves and be forgotten. For as long as I write, it’s going to have pride of place on my desk. Who knows? It may even work itself into the next manuscript.

I think I owe it that much.

After thirty years, my husband and I represent the attraction of opposites. I’m a city girl—grew up playing Beethoven and tennis. He’s a ranch boy—grew up barrel racing a horse called Lollipop and . . . well, let’s just leave it at that.

But one of our big annual events is the county fair and rodeo. The grandstands are packed. Americana abounds. Summer is ending. (It ends early in this mountain valley so please weep for me.) I’ve never seen so much fringe and sequins in one place in my life. Except for maybe Studio 54 in NYC, but that was the 70s after all.

Although I’m not a fan of calf-roping (being drawn-and-quartered is cruel IMHO), I marvel at the athleticism of the cowboys (hubba hubba) as they ride bucking bulls and stallions, and wrestle calves to the ground after leaping from a horse.

The horses are incredible. The cowgirls who barrel race are faster than a speeding bullet—while TURNING three times! And the bulls, which my husband says are part Brahman so born with a bad attitude, are big enough to scare the wazoo out of anybody: twelve-hundred pounds of slobbering nastiness!

The rodeo is a patriotic event. Organizers recognize local servicemen and women on championship night. Funnel cakes and corny dogs and a few things I don’t even recognize —swirly potatoes fried on a stick?—pass back and forth in front of the grandstand. And the beer vendor promenades, shouting like an imam calling the faithful to prayer.

But the point is, this diverse crowd pulls together to support a tradition as old as the sixteenth century, when the Spanish conquistadors and Mexicans began to manage cattle and horses. It’s part of my husband’s heritage, something we shared with our two children. It’s a celebration of doing something—being a cowboy or cowgirl—well.

And did I mention the mutton-busting, the sport loved by every visitor? Ranching traditions start young. And every cowgirl should own a pair of pink sparkly boots. This year’s winner rode a ewe for a good twenty yards before falling onto the dirt of the arena. His trophy, capped with a statue of a sheep, was a foot taller than he was, and his mother will be dusting it for years.

Enjoy your summer—county fair and rodeo or not—and we’ll catch up in August. Yee-haw, ya’ll!

You know what I like best about anticipation? It means I’m looking ahead.

Anticipation, in itself, is an act of faith.

If you’ve been following this site for a while, you know that I have blogged weekly for years. And that I lost both parents, who lived in another state, between mid-December and late April. They died so close together that I’m dealing with two estates instead of one as executor. As great as the loss is, the paperwork is a much greater burden.

A few weeks ago, I scattered their ashes together—as they lived for sixty-five years—in a thicket of wild roses in the meadow behind our house. It was the perfect day: no wind, pending rain. The act was a step forward, although I haven’t felt as if I were moving forward for almost a year.

God still has much in store for me.

I sent the fourth manuscript to my agent last week. It has survived two tough editors, a beta reader whose brain catches lint, and a twenty-something scientist (weird.) A number of acquisitions editors—general and Christian market—are reviewing it because of sustained interest in the previous manuscript.

And I just received the latest book from my favorite author. His summer release is an event in this house, in a valley where summer is an event. I’m going to sit on my office deck in the evenings and appreciate his talent—which is immense. I’ll have to ration the book, a few chapters at a time, or I’ll pull an all-nighter (I’m a wee bit too old for those) and read it in one sweep. (Guilty as charged.)

I hope your summer is wonderful and that the dog days ahead are good to you. I’ll blog once in August, resuming weekly postings in September. The monthly newsletters will start then too. Meanwhile I’m taking care of things my parents entrusted to me, which means I’m taking care of my parents.

And I’m tending to myself—writing, fishing, serving, gardening, attending concerts—as I adjust to life without them. I’m looking forward to fall, invigorated about life and the two books you haven’t seen.

Thank you for being here.

Everything is green. Our temps are in the eighties. There’s not a cloud in our bluebird sky as I type. The female deer have disappeared, preparing to have fawns that will dot my garden around July 4. (The little dude in the photo above is last year’s baby.) I’ve coated everything in DeerOff and am ready to launch a second offensive!

I’m still dealing with estate matters (which trigger emotions and memories best left behind) after the death of my mom a week before Christmas and dad in late April. But warm days and sweet, cool evening breezes ease every responsibility, making life a little less oppressive. I have a grip on eternity, but getting there was a battle.

The third manuscript is complete and edited; the fourth is in its last edit cycle. According to editors, daughter, and beta reader—tough critics, all—the third and fourth are the best yet: deeper character development, more accessible, clearly driven, engaging from the first page. And in the fall, when I’m fully back in the saddle after giving myself a beautiful summer to recuperate, I’ll begin to post teasers here.

It’s a bittersweet time—marching onward while trying not to trip over the past. And it’s Fathers Day. I refused to go to church to hear a sermon on King David—I don’t care what biblical scholars say, I’m over David and think he’s a complete loser.

Today I’ll garden. Work on my bike. (Guess which one is mine in the photo on the left.) Clean the golf clubs (Ping Eyes) I gave Dad thirty years ago and that returned to me when he couldn’t golf any more. I’ll breath hyssop. Hear the orioles’ (we have a nesting pair this year!) trilling song. Watch for the mountain lion in these parts.

And I’ll think of summer and Mom and Dad. And I’ll count my blessings—including you!

Keep calm and summer on!