Susan Anne Mason: When God's Dreams Are Bigger Than Ours

Everyone's Story welcomes author Susan Anne Mason. I've been blogging for nearly 4 years now, trying to unite readers and writers with the common note of encouragement, and that's why I'm pleased Susan is visiting with us this week. Though Susan shares with us her story of persistence in her writing and relying on God's belief that He wants the best for us, I believe Susan's story will appeal to many. Please check out her lovely BookGiveaway offer and her excerpt. We're both looking forward to hearing from you!

For fun: please take this month's poll on the right-hand sidebar. Thanks.

BookGiveaway:

Susan is offering 1 e-edition of 1 novel of the readers' s choice between: HEALING THE WIDOWER'S HEART, BETRAYED HEARTS, WAYWARD HEARTS. The winner will be announced here on Friday, February 13th between 5-6 PM EST. To be entered in the Giveaway, please leave your contact information within your comment. 

Excerpt from HEALING THE WIDOWER'S HEART:

Excerpt from Healing the Widower’s Heart by Susan Anne Mason

CHAPTER 1

Paige McFarlane paced the patterned carpet of the front office, her fingers clenched in the pockets of her khaki shorts. How could George put her in this position?

Seated behind his mahogany desk, the burly manager of Wyndermere House tapped a pen on his blotter. “A seven-year-old boy desperately needs your help, Paige. His father is a long-time customer, as well as a personal friend. You’d be doing us both a big favor, not to mention helping a child.”

Paige stopped to face her employer and friend, trying hard not to picture a devastated little boy grieving the loss of his mother. Trying hard not to allow memories of her own horrific loss creep back into her consciousness. “My heart goes out to him, George, but I have no practical experience in grief counseling. He deserves a qualified professional.”

George Reynolds’ bushy eyebrows snagged in the middle of his broad forehead. “They tried that already, but it didn’t work out.”

Perspiration dampened Paige’s palms as she fought the beginning of panic. “I’m not sure this would even be ethical since I haven’t earned my certification yet.” I’m not ready for this.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make it clear that you’d treat Zach more in the capacity of a camp counselor.”

Paige chewed on her lip, noting the pleading gleam in her boss’s brown eyes, and felt her resolve slipping. Why was she always such a sucker for someone needing help? She really should practice saying ‘no’ more often. Psychology student, heal thyself.

The big man spread his hands on the desktop. “I know how much you love kids and Zach is already enrolled in your Bible camp, so you’ll have lots of time together.” He fixed her with a pensive stare. “I think we can help each other out here. You could use some extra money for school, right?”

Paige winced. Understatement of the year—not to mention a low blow. George knew she was scraping together every last penny for her final year of her Master’s Degree.

“You know I could,” she said quietly.

George swiveled in his leather chair. “Why not look at this as an opportunity to make some cash on the side then?”

“I don’t know, George...” She twisted a loose strand of blond hair around her index finger, doubts wreaking havoc with her desire to help. Textbooks were all well and good, but could she honestly say she was ready to handle a troubled boy’s grief? What if she made a mistake and compounded the problem?

“Didn’t I do you a favor by adding a Christian theme to our camp?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. An even lower blow. “Yes.”

“And now I need a favor. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t confident you could help.”

Paige groaned and dropped back into the guest chair she’d recently vacated. It wasn’t fair. As owner and general manager of Wyndermere House, George had been her boss since she’d started working here in her teens, and he knew her too well. He was using her weakness against her, which told her how much this meant to him.

“Will you at least meet Nate and Zach and see how you feel? They arrive tomorrow morning, which will give you a couple of days before camp starts.”

He looked so hopeful Paige didn’t have the heart to say no. And the extra money wouldn’t hurt.

“Fine.” She threw up her hands in defeat. “I’ll meet them and assess the situation. But I can’t promise any more than that.”

His smile created wrinkles around his eyes. “Thanks, kiddo. I knew I could count on you.”

Good old Paige. Everyone could always count on her. She sighed a few minutes later as she pushed out the employee’s entrance onto the wrap-around porch. What had she gotten herself into? This could be a huge disaster in the making.

She paused to lean against the stone wall for a moment, halting her wayward thoughts long enough to take in the view of the velvet lawn sloping toward the lake, and allowed the beauty of God’s handiwork to steady her. Sunlight glinted off the surface of the water like glistening jewels. She inhaled the clean air, smiling at the faint scent of roses drifting by on the breeze. The tension in her shoulder muscles eased a fraction.

Other than her hometown of Portsmouth, New Jersey, the Finger Lakes region of New York rated as close to heaven as Paige could imagine. She’d been coming here during the summer for as long as she could remember—first on vacation with her family, and later as an activity coordinator for children. She loved everything about Wyndermere House—the majesty of the sprawling stone inn, the breathtaking scenery surrounding it, and most of all the wonderful people who’d become like family.

George and Catherine Reynolds had turned this beautiful setting into a five-star resort, while using the rustic cabins further back on the property as a summer camp for kids. Parents could leave their children under the counselors’ care and partake of the resort’s amenities, knowing their kids were having a blast at camp.

Paige squinted against the sun to see if Jerry was down on the dock. She’d promised to help him organize the water equipment this afternoon. Knowing Jerry, he’d probably started without her. She reached into her pocket for her sunglasses, and her fingers brushed the envelope she’d hastily stuffed there before her meeting with George. Immediate tension cinched her spine as she recalled the message typed inside. “Second installment of tuition fees due.”

Paige unclenched her fingers and released the envelope. Maybe God was giving her a gentle nudge—an opportunity to increase her finances, as well as a way to ease into the type of work she wanted to do. Still, she couldn’t quite quell the anxiety that swirled through her system. She’d been counting on next semester’s practice sessions to give her the skills and confidence she needed before attempting any real counseling. Would she be able to treat this boy without falling victim to the paralyzing emotions that had engulfed her after Colin’s death?

Was she brave enough to try?

Dream Big! by Susan Anne Mason

I think I know how actors feel when they finally get that breakout movie that thrusts them into the spotlight. Suddenly they have ‘made it’, and people call them an overnight success — even if they’ve been acting for years.

The key to it all is PERSISTENCE! Something I learned through experience with my writing.

I started writing stories when I was a child, but it wasn’t until after university, marriage and babies that I got the urge to write a book again. I won’t bore you with all the details of how I went from writing bad secular stories to inspirational romance, but suffice it to say that a lot of trial and error was involved.

My first ‘break,’ so to speak, was finaling in the 2008 Golden Heart contest. I became part of a Golden Heart writers’ loop and was recruited to write a post for a blog called Seekerville. Though I wasn’t entirely sure what a blog was, I blithely jumped in with both feet! Little did I know how important the wonderful Seeker ladies would become — both as friends and mentors. (A great blog, by the way, for readers and writers.)

After many rejections, I sent a manuscript to White Rose Publishing and received a reply that was both scary and wonderful. The editor liked my writing, but the story needed a lot of work. I was so excited that someone was willing to show me where I was going wrong. I took six months to rework the story. When I sent it in the second time, they asked to see books 2 and 3 in the series, and eventually offered me a contract for the first two books! My persistence had finally paid off and I was becoming a published author!

In August 2013, I entered my historical romance, Irish Meadows, in a contest and prepared my pitch for the September ACFW Conference. Though I received no interest for my book at the conference, I wasn’t discouraged. I had confidence that when the time was right, God would give me the desire of my heart. A few months later, I found out that Irish Meadows had won the contest I entered, and one of the judges, an editor from Bethany House, asked to see my manuscript. Turns out, he loved it and in March 2014, I received an offer from BETHANY HOUSE for 3 historical romances!

Imagine my surprise when around the same time, as a result of another contest, I learned that Harlequin’s LOVE INSPIRED line wanted to buy one of my contemporary romances! Now I had 3 contracts with 3 different publishers!

Persistence, hard work, and faith! Three key elements for anything you wish to achieve! And remember that God can dream a bigger dream for us than we can ever imagine! So don’t give up!

Susan's Ah-hahs To Tweet:

What do writers & actors have in common? See what author Susan Mason @samason says. (Tweet This)

Enjoy #ChristianFictionRomance? Check out Susan Mason’s @samason #BookGiveaway. (Tweet This) 

Will God give you the desire of your heart? Visit with Susan Mason @samason to see. (Tweet This)

Author's Bio:
Susan Mason is a wife and mother of two almost grown children. She lives in a suburb near Toronto, Ontario, Canada and works part time as a church secretary. When not writing romance, she enjoys scrapbooking and researching her ancestors on-line.

Places to connect with Susan:
Website
Twitter
Facebook
Amazon
Goodreads

AnnaLee Conti: The Secret Of Managing LIfe Storms

Everyone's Story is blessed by this week's appearance of AnnaLee Conti, not only a dear friend but a wonderful author. Every now and then one just knows when God has introduced you to a special person and without hesitation, I know this is true when I met AnnaLee. The times she and I have met (living within driving distance of each other) I've been warmed by her genuine warmth and regaled by her stories of Alaska, which I think you will be as well. Please check out AnnaLee's opening of TILL THE STORM PASSES BY and her special BookGiveaway offer. We both look forward to hearing from you!

BookGiveaway:

AnnaLee is offering 1 e-book edition of the reader's choice of either TILL THE STORM PASSES BY or A STAR TO STEER BY to 1 randomly drawn commenter. The winner will be announced here on Friday, February 6th between 5-6 PM EST. To be entered in the Giveaway, please leave your contact information within your comment. 

Here's a sneak peek at the opening of TILL THE STORM PASSES BY:

From TILL THE STORM PASSES BY by AnnaLee Conti

Chapter 1

I awoke with a start, my heart skipping like my fourth graders playing double dutch with their jump ropes. Even my fingers and toes were pulsing to the pounding rhythm. My body was clammy with sweat. My parched throat ached.

A sense of profound loss sucked the breath from my lungs. I sat up in the predawn darkness and shivered as the chilly air turned my damp nightgown icy. I pressed my trembling hands to my cheeks and found them wet with tears.

“Why now?” I moaned. I hadn’t had this nightmare in years—the one that had tormented my childhood. I thought I’d outgrown it along with my fear of the dark and the bogeyman.

My bedroom door opened. “Evie, are you all right?” Mother asked. “I heard you cry out.”

“Oh, Mother! Remember that nightmare I had every night as a child? I had it again. Why now?”

She turned on the table lamp and sat on the bed beside me. Blinded by the soft light, I squinted at her as she pushed the damp hair from my forehead as though I were a little child, not her almost twenty-three-year-old daughter. She looked a little pale, but I assumed it was the lighting.

“You want to tell it to me again?”

Closing my eyes, I tried to gather the fragmented scenes of my kaleidoscopic dream. Drawing a deep breath, I licked my lips and attempted to clear the cotton from my throat. “It’s never a connected scenario—only flashes and impressions. I’m a little girl again, but I’m in a place I’ve never been except in my nightmare.” I paused and opened my eyes, looking beyond Mother, trying to see something I couldn’t quite grasp.

“Is it always the same place?”

“Yeah, I’m standing on a sandy beach surrounded by mountains. Water ripples at my feet. A beautiful woman appears. Her long blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her scarf flutters in the breeze. Excited to see her, I wave. As she turns toward me, a monster looms over her head, and she suddenly disappears.”

Fear and sorrow constricted my throat, and I broke off. Swallowing hard, I rubbed my forehead to ease the tension behind my eyes, but it didn’t help.

“I’m sorry, dear.” Mother stroked my hand. “Is that all?” Her tone sounded strangely flat.

“No.” I hesitated, trying to put into words what had only been pictures—like a rapid slide show. “After that, I see men running, people shouting, water splashing. Then the woman lies stretched out on the beach, cold and wet and still.” I shuddered. “So still.”

“Do you know who she is?” Mother seemed to be holding her breath until I answered.

“No, I’ve only seen her in my nightmare, but I throw myself on her, crying, ‘Mommy! Wake up, Mommy!’ She doesn’t respond. That’s when I wake up sobbing, feeling all alone and afraid.”

As waves of sorrow washed over me, I shivered and lay back against my now-chilled pillow. Mother tucked the blanket around my shoulders.

“Thank you. I guess I’m not too old to need a little mothering now and then.” I sighed, studying her concerned brown eyes framed in tousled dark hair sprinkled with gray. “You know, the strange thing about my dream is the woman I call ‘Mommy’ doesn’t look like you at all. She’s tall and blond and doesn’t resemble anyone I know.”

Mother’s fleeting look of pain—or was it fear?—caused me to break off my recital and sit up. “Oh, Mother, I’m sorry I woke you when you haven’t been feeling well. You’d better go back to bed. I’m all right now.” I faked a bravado I didn’t really feel.

“Well, if you’re sure you’re okay.” She seemed anxious to leave. I assumed she wanted to get back to her warm bed. She turned off the light and slipped softly from the room.

I was wide awake, though. With the adrenalin pumping, my thoughts raced. I lay still a few minutes but couldn’t stop shivering. Hoping to warm up and be able to go back to sleep if I changed into a dry nightgown, I slipped from beneath my covers and tiptoed barefoot to my dresser. Brr! Hopping from one foot to the other on the cold plank floor, I changed quickly and rushed back to my snug bed.

Even then, my thoughts wouldn’t turn off. Why did I have that dream so often as a child? Why did it recur now that I’m a grown woman? It must mean something, but what?

That place. I’ve never been there, have I? There are no snow-capped mountains in Rhode Island.

And I don’t know anyone who looks like that woman. Why do I call her “Mommy”? I frowned into the darkness. Haven’t I always lived with my parents, Jack and Louise Parker, in this tidy white Cape Cod house on High Street in Jamestown, Rhode Island? And hasn’t Father owned his hotel on Conanicut Island overlooking Narragansett Bay toward Newport since before I was born?

As the questions swirled through my head, an impression slipped into my mind. I was a tiny child being put to bed in what seemed like the top drawer of a very large dresser. I could almost hear the wind scream all around outside and feel the tiny room rock violently. Then a black curtain fell on my memory—if it really were a memory and not just my imagination.

The questions pounded on relentlessly. Still, no answers came. Finally, I gave up trying to sleep and got up. Since I was awake anyway, I might as well calculate the grade averages for report cards due the end of the week. Maybe that would break the endless cycle.

 Quietly, so as not to awaken my parents, I turned on the lamp. Pulling on my slipper socks and blue chenille robe, which I belted snuggly at the waist to keep out the chill, I padded over to my desk and slid my grade book out of my briefcase. I sat down and began to add the numbers, a chore I usually enjoyed since I like math, but my mind refused to focus. I would add a few figures and catch myself staring off into space, and I would have to begin adding the same column again.

Enough of this! I stuffed my grade book back into my briefcase. Hoping a brisk walk to school in the fresh air would clear my head, I decided to get dressed and leave early.

I smoothed the covers and pulled up the quilt coverlet on my bed. Mother had made the star-patterned quilt in my favorite colors—the colors of the sea—when I outgrew the frilly pink bedspread of my childhood. Otherwise, my room looked much as it always had with its painted white steel bed frame and furniture and a round braided rug on painted gray floorboards. The walls I had painted a soft sea green, the color of the waves as they foamed and hissed against the rocks at Beavertail Lighthouse, my favorite refuge.

Quickly surveying my room to see that everything was in its proper place, I wished I could so easily set my thoughts in order too. If only I had time to go to Beavertail. Oddly, those restless waves, always constant and rhythmic, seemed to soothe and reassure me.

Slipping down the hall to our family bathroom, I brushed my teeth and splashed cold water on my face. As I ran my brush through my blond, shoulder-length hair and pinned it up into a French twist, a few wisps escaped and fell softly around my face and nape. I decided I liked the look, less severe. I usually didn’t wear makeup, but seeing how pale I was, I pinched my cheeks and bit my lips to bring some color into them. I didn’t want my bad night to show on my face.

Before going back to my room to dress, I checked my appearance one more time. My image in the mirror suddenly caught my attention. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I peered more closely.

I looked like the woman in my nightmare.

Who is she?

My Watershed Moment by AnnaLee Conti

The watershed moment that would change my life forever interrupted my freshman year at Seattle Pacific College on March 27, 1964.

I grew up in a missionary family in Alaska in the fifties and sixties. We lived by faith on Daddy’s meager pastor’s salary. My personal faith grew as I experienced many answers to prayer. Feeling called to fulltime Christian service, I wanted to attend a Christian college, where I hoped to find a godly husband. I knew I couldn’t expect financial help from my family, but with a scholarship and money I’d saved from hundreds of hours of babysitting and ironing, I enrolled at Seattle Pacific College, an accredited Christian college closest to home.

Clocks stopped at 5:36 p.m. that memorable Good Friday in 1964 when the largest earthquake ever to hit North America struck South-central Alaska. At 9.2 on the Richter scale (the recent Japan quake registered 9.1), the quake centered in Prince William Sound, along the northern edge of the Gulf of Alaska. It generated tsunamis and devastated every city, town, port, connecting highway, and railroad in the region. 

Seward, before the quake. Courtesy US Geological Survey

Horrified, I watched coverage of the destruction on television. Seward, a port just south of Anchorage, where my entire family lived, had been hard hit: the docks swallowed up by Resurrection Bay; oil storage tanks ruptured, belching flames and black smoke for weeks; homes destroyed; bridges stranded 8-12 feet above shredded ribbons of highways. Several tsunamis carried burning debris inland, setting everything on fire. Many people were killed. For a torturous week, I didn’t know if my family had survived.

That summer, I returned home to a very different landscape. Miraculously, our church and parsonage had survived, but everything south of us was gone—many homes, the docks where my father had worked as a longshoreman to supplement his income, the shrimp cannery where I had pulled several night shifts while in high school. Ninety-five percent of the industrial area had been destroyed. Family men couldn’t find work, let alone a single college girl. And no one needed a babysitter.

As that jobless summer progressed, I prayed and tried to have faith, but I knew it would take a miracle for me to return to college that fall. In July, evangelists visited our tiny church. We agreed together to make it a matter of special prayer, and my faith increased.

Seward, ayer the quake. Courtesy US Geological Survey

The first week of August, the local librarian asked me to help her catalog new books. She could only promise me babysitting wages (50 cents an hour at that time). It wouldn’t pay my way to college, but it was something useful to do.

While I was working at the library, a bulletin from the Ford Foundation arrived announcing an “Earthquake Relatedness” Scholarship for those who had lost a family member, property, or employment due to the earthquake. It would cover up to full expenses according to need. I was eligible.

But there was one catch. This scholarship was only for students attending universities in Alaska. I could not use it at Seattle Pacific College.

Although it was not what I’d hoped for, I knew this was God’s answer to my prayers. I immediately applied to the University of Alaska in Fairbanks and felt peace. At least I would be able to continue my education.

The week before school started that fall, I received my letter of acceptance and a scholarship covering full expenses for the year. It even included money for books, a fur parka essential to living in the interior of Alaska where the thermometer reaches 50 and 60 degrees below zero for weeks on end, and spending money. And all of my credits transferred. When I graduated three years later, the scholarship had covered all of my expenses for all three years.

But that’s not all. Not only did God meet my needs, He gave me the desire of my heart. The first week of school that fall of 1964, I met a young man at Intervarsity Christian Fellowship. We married three weeks after our graduation in 1967. We will celebrate our 48^th anniversary in June.

I often laughingly say, “God had to send an earthquake to introduce me to my husband.”

Check here for more photos of Alaska's Good Friday Earthquake.

AmnaLee's Ah-hahs To Tweet:

Any benefit from the Good Friday Alaskan Earthquake? Author @AnnaLeeConti shares on Everyone’s Story (Tweet This)

Meet @AnnaLeeConti, pastor & author of novels set in #Alaska. #BookGiveaway (Tweet This)

Like novels set in #Alaska? See what @AnnaLeeConti offers: #BookGiveaway (Tweet This)

Author's Bio:

AnnaLee Conti is an author, teacher, and ordained minister. She resides in the Mid-Hudson River Valley with her husband, Bob. Together, they have pastored churches in New York State for 35 years, including pioneering a church. She has taught ministerial and Bible courses, and served as minister of Christian education and music in the three churches they have pastored as well as statewide on denominational Christian education and women’s ministries committees. Now retired, her greatest joy is time spent with their son and five grandchildren who live nearby.

Conti worked as an editorial assistant at Gospel Publishing House, where she wrote freelance articles and short stories which were published in EPA award-winning magazines such as The Pentecostal Evangel, Youth Alive, and Woman's Touch, as well as church school curriculum on assignment.

While showcasing the majestic beauty of Alaska in these stories, she explores important themes she has struggled with in her own life—God's love and human love, forgiveness and reconciliation, rebellion and redemption, fear and faith. She tries to give readers satisfying stories that inherently illustrate, without being preachy, the value of choosing God's way.

Places to connect with AnnaLee:

Website/blog

Twitter

Facebook

Goodreads