Work of Art
I had the joy and privilege of visiting The National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C. a few weeks ago. As I stepped into the museum on that surprisingly balmy October afternoon, I thought back to my first visit to The National Gallery. In 1989, I flew from Columbia, South Carolina to D.C. to spend a few days with one of my dearest life-long friends, leaving behind my husband, Paul, and our one-year-old son, Andrew.
This was the first time I had been away from Andrew for more than a day, and, although I was delighted to spend time with my friend, I was also quite emotional about leaving my son. So perhaps that explains in part my reaction as I strolled through the halls of this magnificent museum.
Museum map in hand, I made my way to the rooms which housed the 17th century Dutch paintings. As I rounded the corner, I stopped in my tracks, my heart beating faster, tears filling my eyes. There she was in all her astonishing beauty, so close I could have reached out and touched her, a painting by one of my favorite Dutch painters. A painting I had studied almost a decade earlier in an art history class in college.
Now I was experiencing this painting in real time, in real life, and that simple joy made me cry.
It also inspired me to pen a poem, scribbling it down on a napkin I fished out of my purse.
Work of Art
All at once I saw you there
And it took me by surprise.
That same incandescent air
Brought fresh tears into my eyes.
Like a long-forgotten friend
Who at one time knew my heart,
You were with me once again,
A most precious work of art.
And we come to admire this work of art,
Vibrant reds, brilliant blues, subtle grays,
And we leave inspired within our hearts,
To give the artist praise.
I can still remember when
I first met you on the screen
In that musty, crowded room
Of Art History 115.
The professor’s droning voice
Lifted animated, grand
As he described your subtle shades
And the artist’s skillful hand.
Just a student, lone and tired,
Searching for which way to turn,
You left me breathless and inspired
To create and seek and learn.
And we come to admire this work of art,
Vibrant reds, brilliant blues, subtle grays,
And we leave inspired within our hearts
To give the artist praise.
We are each a work of art,
Crafted by the Master’s hand.
When His paintbrush strokes our heart,
He recreates our inner man.
So if we should someday be
One whom others come to see,
May they turn each time they leave
And give the Artist praise.
Oh, come and admire each work of art
With our vibrant and subtle shades,
And for the changes wrought within our hearts,
Turn and give the Artist praise.
Now, in October, 2017, as I once again strolled through the rooms of the museum, I thought about how my poem was prescient. When I penned it, I had never published anything, but I had a deep longing in my heart to write novels.
Twenty-plus years and twelve novels later, I prayed again the same prayer, “Lord, when people come to see me at book signings or speaking events, please may they see You through me.”
A few nights ago, I attended an art exhibition in a private home. The artist, Jill, is a dear friend of mine. Jill and I are both from Atlanta, and have both lived in France for 30+ years. Jill’s life and art inspire me. As I mingled with the other guests, admiring Jill’s impressionist tableaux, several people stopped me. “Are you Elizabeth Musser? The Elizabeth Musser?” Shocked, I nodded, “Yes, I’m Elizabeth.”
“Well, I’ve read many of your books, and I simply love them.”
This phrase was repeated throughout the night. And once again, my poem’s haunting message whispered to me So if we should ever be one whom others come to see, may they turn each time they leave and give the Artist praise.
As writers, we have a voice, we have a story to tell, and, sometimes, we have the opportunity to meet our readers in person—whether planned or serendipitously. This acclaim can go to our heads.
Or it can go to our hearts.
May it go to our hearts, and from our hearts, may sweet words of praise to the real Artist flow.
BIO
ELIZABETH MUSSER usually writes ‘entertainment with a soul’ from her writing chalet—tool shed—outside Lyon, France. But this year, she and her husband are living in the Chattanooga area, to be near their three grandkids, and Elizabeth is writing at the yellow desk where she penned her first poems and stories as a child. Find more about Elizabeth’s novels at www.elizabethmusser.com and on Facebook, Twitter, and her blog.
Last year, in late October and early November, this little writer was spoiled rotten with a sabbatical at the beach. Earlier that year, in the midst of burnout, I asked the Lord for a month at the beach alone to write, an extravagant request which I had no idea He would answer, and in such an extravagant way! But a dear friend had counseled, “You have not because you ask not,” and so I asked.
A couple I hardly knew from the church we helped start in Montpellier gave me the use of their studio at the beach town of La Grande Motte. I literally ‘hid out’ for that time, telling almost no one where I was. (Paul was ‘allowed’ to visit me twice from Lyon=). Sabbatical means different things to different people, but I knew what I needed: time alone with no travels and no visitors, to soak up the Lord’s goodness and to write.
As is the Lord’s nature, He did ‘above and beyond’ what I asked. Here’s a peek into how I spent that month at the beach (written in the present even though it took place a year ago):
The view from my little spot of paradise (yes, that’s the Mediterranean in the distance):
My day starts off (not necessarily EARLY) with time with my Lord. Essentials: the Word of God ; my Kindle which holds the Bible study I am doing, a fleece blanket and a cup of tea, of course!
I often light a candle during my devos to symbolize Christ’s presence with me.
Pens, pencils and Sharpies for this writer gal!
I carry 3 by 5 notecards with me on my many walks-they help me memorize Scripture and remind me of the spiritual disciplines I am practicing
After devotions, I start working on my WIP (work in progress)-my new novel. Essentials: Laptop, three ring binder (for notekeeping, chapter planning etc), granny glasses, cup of tea (not shown in photo), external hard drive to SAVE what I write.
I often interrupt my writing (after typing those precious required words) and take a long walk on the beach. Here I worship, pray, and plan new scenes for the novel.
In the evenings, after a good day of work, I am rewarded with a gorgeous sunset!
Spoiled Rotten, n’est-ce pas? And so incredibly thankful!
Now, a year later, as I reflect back on the Lord’s extravagant gift to me, I think it was given so that I could rest, be restored and be prepared for the next season-unknown to me, but perfectly known to my Lord. This past year has been one of sickness and grief, of death of a loved one and death of dreams, of coming before the Lord, often in tears, and saying, “Now what, Lord?”
And He has been faithful to show me the next ‘what’, one step at a time.
As I sit at my desk in my little ‘writing chalet’ (tool shed) here outside of Lyon, I am working once again on the same WIP (because I got majorly sidetracked this past year.)
But the Lord is not surprised by the twists and turns in my life, and His promises are true. He never fails or forsakes us; He doesn’t slumber; He keeps us in our goings out and our comings in, from this time forth and forevermore. I am so incredibly thankful that He is the Author of my story and that He writes each chapter in loving detail. He doesn’t leave out the hard parts, but He redeems them, again and again, for His glory.
May His peace surround you in the midst of whatever chapter of your extravagant story He’s writing today.
“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts…and be thankful.” Colossians 3:15
I flew home to France yesterday after almost six weeks in the States. Six unexpected weeks in my old home. Never would I have chosen those weeks which proceeded and followed my mother’s death. If the Lord had somehow whispered to me ahead of time, “Would you like to have the heartache now?”, I would have responded with a resounding “NO!” accompanied by “Never!”
I am thankful He didn’t whisper that to me a few days before Mom’s stroke.
And yet, and yet, how He has whispered to me in my spirit—even shouting at times over my grief—during these past six weeks. He has spoken such words of comfort and love.
And I have felt carried. Carried along by God’s Spirit, carried in the midst of deep emotional pain, carried through the numb moments of disbelief as well as the slew of fresh tears at the most unexpected and inconvenient times. Carried through the corridors of the ICU, carried when the nurse practitioner took me aside and stated in a blunt but compassionate way, “She is going to die and you must let your father and brothers know.”
The Spirit carried me on that bright and balmy spring Atlanta day as I took a break from the hospital and took a walk around the block, those roads of Nancy Creek and Ridgewood that I have walked so many hundreds of times before. “Bring her home,” the Spirit whispered. And I knew we would do just that. Somehow, by God’s goodness, we would contact Hospice and bring Mom back to the home in which she was born, and she would spend her last days in the spacious den, with the wall of windows overlooking the backyard, filled with flowering azaleas and dogwoods and tall hickories and, most importantly, horses. Horses nickering from the barn so that Mom could hear them.
And then the Spirit carried me, carried the whole family, through those precious last days as all of us at different times, oldest to youngest, spent sweet moments with Mom, and then in the last hours, we gathered around her bed and sang those old Baptist hymns and prayed her into glory through buckets of tears.
The Lord carried us through the mind-numbing process of writing the obituary and making decisions about caskets and internment and memorial services and a thousand things that seemed so overwhelming.
And yet, we were carried.
And through it all, I felt in my spirit the sweet, sweet presence of Jesus, and I wanted to run, arms flung out, eyes wide with hope, and lips singing, “It works! It works. Really! Jesus DOES give me the peace that passes understanding in the midst of the hardest days of my life. He DOES carry me as a shepherd carries a little lamb. He IS with me through the valley of the shadow of death. And Halleluiah, death IS swallowed up in victory!”
These things I have shouted in my spirit, and then I have sobbed them out loud to whomever would listen.
And oh, how you have listened. Because, as Jesus has carried me and my precious family, one of the main ways He has done it is through you.
We’ve been humbled, blessed and amazed by the ways people have helped us carry this grief, from the purely practical to the perfectly extravagant: you’ve brought toilet paper and plastic cutlery and you’ve sent gourmet meals and gorgeous flower arrangements. And orchids, ah, orchids!
One wonderful friend brought me a new wardrobe from her closet, another sent me for a manicure and pedicure, several came to the house on the day of the memorial service, leaving the reception early, to prepare the house for the family and closest friends who would drop by later. They got out Mom’s silver and made the table lovely, just as Mom would have done. One of Mom’s closest friends came to the house while we were at the private internment and freshened up the flower arrangements, adding azaleas and forsythia from the yard and plucking out the wilted flowers. My cousin quietly took photos at the internment and service and reception. My parents’ god-daughter (and dear friend of the whole family) painted me this beautiful bouquet of flowers in memory of Mom.
And so, so many called and emailed and sent Facebook messages and gave gifts in memory of Mom. And then the cards, so many beautiful cards of sympathy and condolence! In this age where we rarely take up a pen to sign our names, where most of our words fly through cyberspace, what a joy to hold in our hands these carefully crafted cards.
It all added up to hundreds of people offering Daddy and the rest of the family their words of comfort and love. And how we loved it when you shared a memory of Mom! Yes, these things made us cry—sparkling tears of heart-wrenching pain mixed with a smile on our lips as we remembered Mom being Mom.
And prayers. I don’t think any of us fully understand how prayer works, but during these weeks, I picture the hundreds, even thousands of prayers for Mom and now for her family, as lilies, multitudes of Easter lilies, spread around the Lord’s throne, so abundant and glorious. And the Lord in His mysterious, omniscient way, acknowledging each lily as He stoops to smell each one. And as He does, we feel His peace.
God has given humans amazing creativity, generosity and practicality for such a time as this, and we, the Goldsmith and Musser families, have been the beneficiaries of this richness in the past six weeks.
You who have walked this path of grief KNOW. You just know what to do, what helped you in the past. And we have treasured your active caring and whispered words of advice.
Mom always told me that if there was any way possible to attend the funeral of someone I knew, to do it. If I couldn’t attend, send a sympathy card or flowers. Or take a meal. Do something to let those left behind know that you care and are praying. This I have tried my best to do.
Mom would be a bit shocked to see how many people have followed her wise, practical counsel in the wake of her death. And this time, I and my family are the recipients of her advice.
Thank you. Merci. It has meant the world to me, to us.
And please keep praying for my father, for all of us.
If ever you wonder what you can do to help a dear friend through such heart-wrenching grief, it is quite simple: when someone dies, do what you can. Whatever that is, do it.
But you already knew that, didn’t you?
As Daddy said, Mom is at Grady fighting for her life. She has fought her way through breast cancer and two open heart surgeries and a whole lot more, but she has also spent her life fighting for those people and causes she loves. She loves Jesus, she loves her family and she loves her church and community.
She has been a lifelong member of Second-Ponce de Leon and she made a commitment to Christ at 10 years old. In the course of her 77 years on earth, Mom has chosen and mastered more careers than a typical graduating college class. Most of us pick a vocation and a hobby or two and do our best to serve our community within the realms of these callings. But not Mom. She lives inexorably in the present, and in that present, there are a host of opportunities. Her special giftedness is to concentrate 100% on the present and give her every energy to the task before her. In this way, she has blessed and enriched the lives of countless people, most notably my own in her many callings.
There was Mom the Girl Scout leader, taking us on campouts, teaching us how to ride a horse, climbing Kennesaw mountain.
And Mom the environmentalist. My teenage years are peppered with memories of sitting on the steps of Westminster High school waiting for Mom to come pick me up. Waiting and waiting while she was actively involved in saving the Chattahoochee River. Those are not bad memories. She became a lobbyist and outspoken representative of the wide happy river than runs so close to the backyard where she and I grew up.
And my mother the missionary. For over forty-five years she has helped out the inner city mission in her active, humble way, gathering volunteers to work with the poorest and neediest, fixing thousands of pots of spaghetti sauce and never needing one word of thanks. True service from the heart.
She’s been my mother the deacon, the Sunday school teacher, the Singles helper. So much time and energy given to so many different groups of people at Second-Ponce. My mother who lives out her faith through good works.
My Mom the Olympic chauffeur. Many people do volunteer work, but Mom has a special zest and enthusiasm that got her invited to all kinds of behind the scene events during the 1996 Olympics when she drove the Russian girls’ gymnastics team.
She’s the woman who cares for the elderly in very practical ways: A meal, a bed, a trip to the doctor’s office or the hospital. Available to be there for those in need.
And of course, she is perhaps best known as my mother the horsewoman, the riding instructor the competitor, the barn help. Horses were always a part of our family and she helped hundreds of children learn discipline and self-respect with a pitchfork and a brush in hand.
My mother the wife, the Georgia Tech fan, the Merrill Lynch supporter, jitter bug sweet-heart of Dad. Their differences in style are as big as their difference in height, but used together it’s been a great blending of personalities that adds up to many years of great generous giving. Their beautiful manor on Nancy Creek Road has been used to entertain and shelter the richest and the poorest and many, many in between. And we the children have benefited most from this great generosity.
For that is what she has been, of course, most of all to me, and my brothers. My mother, the mother. She has supported all of our endeavors and those of her grandchildren and even great-grandchildren with great enthusiasm and energy.
It all takes a whole lot of time, and time is Mom’s best commodity. She makes it work, albeit she may be running a little behind. She fills her days with her passions and she blesses many along the way.
Would we to learn such service, such joy in the present, such giving with literally no thought of getting something in return. Her service in all its many different capacities has ultimately been my mother being the hands and feet of Jesus to those around her. It has been a lifelong testimony to me of my mom, doing what she does best. Which is just about everything in the world.
Sometimes it seems that social media is trying to take over our lives, that we are obsessed with something that ten years ago did not even exist. How strange. Technology pushes forward to give us ever-new gadgets on which to waste time.
But used at its best, social media can be a huge blessing. And that is how I feel today. Blessed.
My mother had a massive stroke three days ago. She wasn’t expected to survive. After a slow, crazy wait for more news, and then a mad rush of packing and trying to get my mind around ‘massive stroke’, I took off to Atlanta from Lyon, France, praying I would get there in time to say ‘I love you’ and ‘Good-bye’.
And somewhere in the midst of the tears and confusion, a message or two was posted on Facebook.
Now, as I sit in Mom’s ICU room, with nothing but the beeping of machines to keep me company, I turn to Facebook and scroll through all the hundreds of people who have left comments and ‘liked’ something that is horrible. But I know what you mean. You are with me in the suffering.
And this is Facebook at its best. You tell me you are praying. You remind me of how much you love my feisty little mother. You are from all over the world and you have been in some way a part of the Goldsmith family spanning almost 80 years. You are family or a lifelong friend. Maybe Mom was your Girl Scout Leader or Mom taught you horseback riding or Mom accompanied your chorale to Europe. Or you served spaghetti meals to the homeless beside Mom. You went to school with Mom, or me, or Daddy or my brothers. You are a fan of Georgia Tech, you are a member of Second-Ponce de Leon Baptist Church.
You are part of Paul and my missions’ organization and we’ve prayed each other through many other tough times.
We met in grade school or at church or in youth choir or college or in missions or in Europe or you read one of my novels and told me so.
I read your names and I know you. I know you even if we’ve never met. I know that your heart beats and loves and cares.
I read the messages, scroll through the ‘likes’ and cry. I am held up by the power of your love and friendship. I know the profound and unsearchable power of prayer, and I feel it as I wait for Mom to wake up. As I wonder if she will ever walk outside again, on two sturdy legs.
Humans always find a way to respond to crisis, to tragedy. The heart finds a way. Social media gets the word out more quickly, but the heavens are never limited to these man-made inventions. But these inventions are tools. And today, as I wait, I am very, very thankful that I am connected to all of you in this time. Thank you for being the best of humanity and taking the time to close your eyes and offer a prayer to our great God for my amazing mother.
The whole Goldsmith-Musser family sends thanks for your love and prayers.
“Bear one another’s burdens and thus fulfill the law of Christ.” Galatians 6: 2
On a crisp, bright January morning in 2008, Paul and I walked across the Rhône River at the Pont Wilson bridge, headed down the wide street, and into the block that is taken up by the stately Prefecture Building to became French.
After over three years of paperwork and waiting, we had been convoqués to receive our French naturalization papers.
I did not feel particularly sentimental or excited about this step. After all, we began the process for our son, Andrew, who was asked to try out for the French national baseball team, but could only do so if he were French. We were told that if the whole family were applying for French citizenship, the process might go more quickly for Andrew.
It didn’t.
The day of his 18th birthday came and went without him becoming French. Bye-bye national baseball team. Soon after, Andrew left for the States for college.
We, however, received notice of our acceptance later that year. Paul and I had agreed that with political situations so volatile throughout the world, and visas harder to come by in France, perhaps it would be a good idea to be French.
I was never the student who dreamed above all else of going to France. I was not the girl who soaked up the culture like a fish in water. I was enchanted, but also intimidated, feeling I didn’t have the personality to embrace France. I was too sensitive and sentimental. But I came, out of a call, an obedience, a scary step into the unknown.
And I stayed. We stayed. Twenty-five years in the country is enough, I suppose, to merit being French. No matter that I still don’t sound French. Even after all these years, my bonjour betrays a Southern accent (south of the US, not south of France). But I have grown to love the people, one by one, and the country, visit by visit into its untamed countryside and historic villages.
Anyway, here we were at the Prefecture with a group of other people, all waiting to become French. We looked around. We were one of the rare white couples. Most of the people looked North African or African or perhaps Middle Eastern or Eastern European.
I felt a little rebuke in my spirit, realizing that this ceremony meant a lot more to most of these people than it did to me. I would still retain my American passport. But for them, this was their hope, their future, their security.
Eventually, we were ushered into a beautiful room, a grande salle, where two women greeted us and instructed us to have a seat in the red velvet-covered folding chairs set up for us. A magnificent oil painting of a scantily clothed man chasing a scantily clothed woman—Greek mythology, perhaps—kept watch over us from one wall.
The ladies were friendly, professional, and actually made the event seem joyous. A celebration. They explained the importance of the papers we would be receiving in our dossier. The paper that mattered the most, the one that said we were French, was indeed unique, one of a kind, never to be reissued. “Guard it with your life,” one of the women said. “Make photocopies and keep it in a safe, safe place.” In case of fire, she told us what to do, who to write to.
One by one or couple by couple, we were invited to come forward, sign a paper, hand over our carte de résident and receive the dossier with our French naturalization paper, our certificate of birth and of marriage, our livret de famille, a copy of the French national anthem, the Marseillaise, and a few other things.
A young man volunteered to read the letter of welcome from the President of the Republic. Then the woman presiding reminded us of the cost of this citizenship, the cost of liberté, egalité, fraternité, of the many other foreigners throughout the centuries who had been ‘naturalized’, become French and some, become great men and women of France.
And as she spoke, something happened inside me.
I felt a stirring, a pride, a thankfulness and even a tear or two in my eyes. We’d given a good part of our lives to this country—not in a grand way. In a soft and subtle way, but we’d done it out of love for the Father of nations and for the French, and that day, I was suddenly very proud to be française. I felt hopeful and happy. I especially felt the joy of these other people, most needing, probably desperately, this nationality. For us it was un plus, for many of the others, essentiel.
So now I am French. And American.
And yet, deep down inside, I am neither. I am a wayfaring stranger, a citizen of heaven, waiting, at times impatiently, for my Savior to call out to me and say, “Welcome home to eternity.”
Until that day, I pray I, we, will serve Him with honor and dignity and integrity in whatever land He calls us to and for however long He asks us to stay.
For most of his ten years, he recalled hearing the story of how the Festival of Lights came to be. It was because of the Virgin Mary. People in the church had vowed to build a cathedral in her honor if she would protect their city from the Plague in the 17th century and then from invasion by an enemy in the 19th century. She had, and the church had been built, complete with a statue of the blessed Virgin on the top. The inauguration of the statue in 1850 was to be held in September, but had to be postponed until the 8th of December because the Saône River flooded. The city folk placed small candles along their window-sills to commemorate Mary on the inauguration day and so the celebrations had continued ever since.
He knew the story by heart, and, he thought to himself, staring out the window to where that same Saône River flowed swiftly by below, perhaps she would escape her banks again. Now that would be exciting! Five days of straight rain, once even a few snow flurries, had swollen the Saône River and the neighboring Rhône River on the other side of Lyon, well past capacity.
Jean-Michel liked the Festival of Lights; he liked feeling his mother’s strong hand clutching his as they were pushed forward through the throngs of people.“Is it time to leave, Maman?” he inquired, coming back into the kitchen, where his mother was finishing washing the dishes.“Almost. Don’t be in such a hurry, Jean-Mi. Help me dry the plates and then get your coat and mittens and scarf. Don’t forget your scarf. And the hat. If it takes a mind to rain again, I guarantee it’ll be white before it touches the ground.”Maman closed the old door and locked it. They descended the narrow stone staircase which wound itself in a spiral. Maman said they were lucky to live here, in the middle of the city in an apartment which had been around ever since Napoleon had decided to take over the world. Jean-Michel liked the high ceilings and the long climb up the four floors of winding stone staircase. But he didn’t much like the frigid air that blew right through the windows as if there was no glass on them at all. 
Their neighbor, Monsieur Lepine, had once commented that the glass had survived the plague and two world wars and a lot else and that it was pretty nearly worn out. So at night, Maman covered the windows with thick quilts. Tonight they descended the staircase and as always, let themselves out through the traboule. Jean-Michel had invented a hundred different stories of the traboules—how he would escape from the bullies in the next apartment building by hiding in these narrow covered passageways that led from one street to the next. The traboules were very famous in Lyon, dating back to the 14th century when the city first became a major exporting center for silk.
Then of course he would run down the steep hill from the cathedral, run through the gardens until he reached another church—Saint Jean’s Cathedral at the bottom of the hill. If the police came after him—for whispering in the Virgin’s ear—he would run down the cobbled street beside the church and duck into an innocuous doorway which, in fact, was a traboule. But the police would think they were merely entering into another apartment complex, when he was long gone out the other side and hiding on a street two blocks away.“Jean-Mi, do quit daydreaming. Pull the scarf around your neck and let’s be gone.”They emerged from the stone structure into the street and the biting chill hit him full in the face. He was glad he had brought the scarf and pulled it up over his chin. His heart felt a little thrill. People everywhere, the smell of chestnuts being roasted in an old barrel, a vendor holding out a rolled up newspaper filled with the blackened nuts to a woman who handed him a few cents. Another man selling crepes and hot chocolate. And others calling out “Vin chaud!” The hot mulled wine warmed the body and made the people smile. Lights everywhere. People laughing, people happy even if Mary didn’t answer their prayers. Tonight it was a celebration.
Maman thought Jean-Michel didn’t notice at all. But he was ten, and he had understood for several years now. Maman was looking for something or someone. That was why she dressed as she did and why she prayed to the Virgin Mary. For many years Jean-Michel had tried to figure out exactly what his mother said to the Virgin, and once he had gotten up the courage to ask her. But she had merely quipped, “You’ll see, Jean-Mi. Someday the Blessed Virgin will answer my prayers and things will be different.”He had tried to guess what those prayers were. At first he was sure she was praying that his father would return. As a small boy, he convinced himself that this was it. But he had visited his father’s grave too many times with his mother now, laid too many cheap bouquets of flowers on the stone, to believe his father could somehow magically reappear.If she was not praying for his father’s resurrection, perhaps it was for a new father to come, a man who would work hard and love them both so that Maman could rest a little and stop dressing in a way to attract every man’s eyes.Or maybe she was praying to win the lottery. Many people bought the Loto ticket every week, sure the next time their number would be chosen. Maman bought the Loto ticket every Saturday.Catherine Anderson set baby Timothy in the crib, thankful that he was at last sleeping. She walked to the window and gazed out on the city below, the streets filling up with enthusiastic people ready for celebration. The Festival of Lights. Again. She sighed, closed her eyes and said a brief prayer for her husband, Steve. She could well imagine him right now, setting up the book table on the Rue de la Republic, with little Jessica, 7, and Luke 10, helping him. Reluctantly, she thought to herself. These days, Luke seemed reluctant about everything.It was their seventh year in Lyon, their seventh year of ministering in the little Protestant church tucked on a street between the Rhône and Saône Rivers. Their seventh year, she thought to herself with a taste of bitterness in her mouth, of working hard. For what? Steve was still filled with enthusiasm for the members of his small congregation, still filled with energy and expectations. At least on the outside. But she could see the light dimming in his clear blue eyes. She could read the disappointment there. And it scared her.Disappointment, she was used to. She had felt it creeping up on her for the past three years. Missionaries. Missionaries in France. Of course, they did not call themselves missionaries. Steve was a pastor. But their goal in life was to reach out with God’s love to the French people. Their desire was to help strengthen struggling French churches, training up leaders and letting them take over.She sighed, brushed the baby’s cheek and was overcome with the emotion of what another young mother must have felt so long ago when she considered her miraculous infant. “Mary, were you afraid? Overwhelmed? Disappointed? Discouraged?” Yes, she must have known each of these emotions as she watched her young son grow into a man and move into a life of hurt and misunderstanding. A radical life.The giver of life! The Lord Jesus Himself. Maybe Mary had wondered if it was worth it, all the heartache and uncertainty. Surely she had. She could not see ahead, could not know what Jesus would become, would have had to trust solely in God’s promise and believe.
The Bible lay open on the kitchen table to Luke 2 as she had a custom of doing during the month of December. “Dear Jesus,” Catherine prayed silently. “Encourage Steve, somehow, encourage him this season. Thank you for our little Timothy. Thank you. Forgive me for the disappointment and resentment that well up sometimes. I am homesick, and I am wondering if any of this is worth it. Forgive me.”Catherine rested her forehead on the chilly window and continued to pray…It was happening again. Maman was talking with the men in front of the bar, commenting on the canopy of lights above them. Somehow she always managed to get a drink for free. Tonight Jean-Michel was thankful that one man had offered him a hot chocolate, as he stood trembling with cold beside his mother. With the warm drink in his hands, he left his mother’s side, telling her, “I’m going over to look at the books.”Over to the side of the square, a tall thin man with bright eyes and a graying beard was stomping his feet and blowing on his hands from behind a long table that was filled with books.“Bonjour, Monsieur.” Jean-Michel said. “You look cold.”The man laughed. “I am cold. I’ve just sent my children to get me a hot chocolate like you have.”‘It’s good. You won’t be disappointed.”“Are you at the Light Festival alone?”“Oh, no. Maman is over there.” He nodded her way. “She’s talking with the men. I got bored. What kind of books are you selling, Monsieur?”“I’m not selling any books. These are free. Bibles. We have several kinds. Here is one for children, with pictures. And this little book tells the story of Jesus’ birth. Would you care to look at one?”Jean-Michel nodded, trying not to look too eager as he picked up a small paperback book, obviously meant for a little child. As the man said, the story was about baby Jesus and His birth in a manger. After reading the short book, Jean-Michel leaned over the table and confided, “I’ve heard the story of Jesus being born. But the Virgin has not yet answered my mother’s prayers. She has prayed to the Blessed Virgin for five years and still no answer. I don’t believe in the story anymore.”Then, while his mother laughed with the men, glancing every few minutes his way, Jean-Michel listened, wide-eyed, as the man told him the story of Christmas. When his mother was finally ready to leave, Jean-Michel had tucked a copy of the Bible inside his coat along with a bright green slip of paper. “A special invitation for you,” the man had said, a smile on his face. “But you must get permission from your mother.”Jean-Michel thought about the man’s words all night long, while he lay in bed, tucked under four quilts. Could it possibly be true? Could it be that Maman had been praying to the wrong person all these years? Was that why the prayers were never answered? Perhaps he could ask Maman tomorrow.
No, no he could not. She would shake her head and tell him never to listen to strangers, that many strange people wandered the streets of Lyon during the Light Festival.But what if the man was right? He gently shoved the little Bible under his pillow and whispered his very first spontaneous prayer. “Excuse me, Jesus, for bothering you. I, um, thought we weren’t ‘spose to bother you but talk to your mother. Then if she thought it was important enough, she’d address you. But what I’m trying to say is this. Would you please answer Maman’s prayers? If you are God, you already know what they are and how very, very small they must seem to you. But you must also know how very, very big they are to Maman. So could you answer them, please? And could you let me talk to that man at the book table again without Maman getting worried? Maybe he knows something. Bye, now.”Before he drifted off to sleep, Jean-Michel reached under his pillow, took the bright green sheet from inside the Bible and read the words for the third time. Children’s Christmas Club. Discover the true meaning of Christmas, make a Christmas gift for your parents and enjoy cookies and hot chocolate at the end. Saturday, December 14, 16H00, the Protestant Evangelical Church on 23 rue Régaud.“How’d it go tonight, honey?” Catherine asked, planting a soft kiss on her husband’s forehead. Jessica and Luke were finally tucked in bed, after she had spent an hour warming their frozen hands and reading from their Christmas books.“Fine, dear. It’s the same each year—a few Muslim youth get a bit rough, the French boys pick up the free Bibles and laugh. I find tracts streamed along the street. But we handed out a number of invitations to the Christmas party and a few people took Bibles.”And, as every year, they held hands and prayed for those who had received God’s Word. They prayed that these people would open that holy book and read about hope in Jesus.
Jean-Michel waited impatiently as his mother painted her face and put on her pointy shoes and brushed her long black hair. She reached for the red coat and was finally ready. He didn’t want to rush her or make her mad. She had agreed to take him to the Christmas party at the church!“We’ll see what it’s like,” she warned. “I won’t leave you with a bunch of strangers. You never know what they might want.”
They rode the metro to the Place Bellecour and walked onto the pedestrian road known as Rue de la Republique. Above them, brilliant arches of lights flickered the whole length of the long road. After a while, they arrived at rue Régaud and turned onto the tiny road, Jean-Michel eagerly searching for the number 23. They came to a building with a window covering the entire first floor. Christmas lights were strung around the door, and on the shelves behind the window were books and a pretty nativity scene. A small sign proclaimed “Evangelical Protestant Church of Lyon.”“Well, young man, welcome! Jean-Michel, I believe, is it not?”“How did you remember my name?”“I’ve been praying for you—and your mother, just as you asked me. I haven’t forgotten.”Jean-Michel blushed and said, “This is my mother.”The man held out his hand. “Steve Anderson. Pleased to meet you, Madame…”“Madame Fournier,” his mother said, batting her eyes. Jean-Michel wished she would not do that. He was sure that this man was not interested in making jokes with her.“Well, Madame Fournier, thank you for allowing Jean-Michel to attend our party. If you’d like, there’s a table with some coffee and hot chocolate to help you warm up. Later we’ll be serving Christmas cookies.”“This doesn’t look like a church,” Jean-Michel’s mother said, looking around nervously.The man laughed good-naturedly. “No, it’s nothing like Fourvière or Saint Jean, that’s for sure. But it is a church. It’s where a group of people who want to worship the Christ come on Sundays. And we have other activities during the week.”“How long will this party last?”“An hour and a half. If you have errands to run, Jean-Michel will be safe here with us. But if you prefer to stay, my wife is over there, and she’d be glad to get you a chair…”Jean-Michel had to agree with his mother. This room certainly didn’t look like any church he had ever visited. There were no high ceilings or stained glassed windows, no statues, no gold mosaics, no impressive organ. It was just a room. And yet something about it was warm and inviting. The walls were painted a soft cream color and they were covered with posters of pretty flowers and sheep and beautiful sunsets. And on every poster there were words written. He stood in front of one of a lighthouse shining by a tempestuous sea and read, “The Lord is my light and my salvation. I will trust in Him and not be afraid.”“Those are Bible verses. Promises that God gives us in His holy book,” commented Monsieur Anderson. “Jean-Michel, perhaps you’d like to meet the other children.”Ten or fifteen children were already seated in chairs over by an electric piano. Some were no more than four or five, a few a little older. One boy look to be about his age, but he was frowning and didn’t seem very happy to be there. “This is my son, Luke,” Monsieur Anderson said, smiling at the frowning boy.“B’jour,” the boy replied without enthusiasm.“Hi, I’m Jean-Michel…”Catherine watched as Steve talked to the boy and his mother. One look at the woman and Catherine felt she knew her life. Seeing her standing awkwardly in the middle of the room with her tight clothes and heavy make-up, Catherine felt incredible sadness. She felt she could have written this woman’s story by heart without ever meeting her. So many of the stories were the same. People searching for something, someone. Always searching. And that desperate, plastic smile painted on the face…She went over to where the woman stood, batting her eyes at Steve. Steve’s eyes were bright and happy. “Catherine, I want you to meet Madame Fournier. Her son, Jean-Michel, is over there talking to Luke.” Catherine knew immediately why Steve was smiling. He had met this boy the other night at the Light Festival. They had prayed for Jean-Michel, whose mother had asked the Virgin Mary for answers and had never received them.“Please to meet you, Madame Fournier. Let me get you a cup of coffee.”“I have errands…” she said too quickly, her young face, hard, suspicious.“Oh, well, you’re free to go. Your son will be fine with us. He’ll be here waiting for you when you come back.” But the woman was staring intently at the large wooden cross hanging on the wall behind Catherine. It was a replica of the cross that had been created for the Huguenots, the first French Protestants, back in the 17th century. Madame Fournier seemed drawn to it.“Or if you have time to stay, I could use help preparing the cookies. Whatever you wish.” Just then, baby Timothy began to cry from where he was in his stroller. Little Jessica ran over to him.“No, dear. You stay with your friends. I don’t want you to miss the story. Thank you, though.”As Catherine bent down to lift the baby from the stroller, Madame Fournier said, “I could hold your baby, if you wish. If that would help you?” Catherine looked back at her, surprised. “I used to work at a crêche,” she added. “I’m used to babies.”The matter of trust hung between them and Catherine took it. “Why thank you, Madame Fournier,” and handed Timothy to her.“Call me Elise.”Jean-Michel listened to every word Monsieur Anderson said. Though the story was meant for younger children, he liked it. At one point, Monsieur Anderson took a large wooden cross from off of the wall and he told the children about how the baby born in the manger on Christmas Day was also the Savior of the world, the one who died on a cross to save every person from all the bad things he had done. “Jesus came into the world for us, because God loved us so much. And He died for us on a cross so we wouldn’t have to receive the punishment for all the bad things we’d done. But children,” and here, Monsieur Anderson bent down, blue eyes again intense, “Jesus did not stay on that cross. He died and rose again by God’s power! For us. Jesus is alive and He loves each one of you and wants you to know Him…” When Monsieur Anderson said the part about Jesus not staying on the cross, Jean-Michel heard a small gasp at the back of the room, and turned around to see his mother covering her mouth with one hand while she held a baby in her other arm.Luke, who had decided to sit by Jean-Michel, frowned at him and whispered, “Listen to the story!” Jean-Michel gave him a cross look and whispered back, “I am listening.” But for the rest of the story, all he was thinking about was how his mother had had such a surprised and almost frightened expression on her face, and he wondered why.“So your husband is a pastor? I suppose that isn’t exactly like a priest then, seeing that you are married and have children.” Elise reddened.Catherine laughed, surprised at the ease with which she was talking to this woman. “Oh, no, not exactly like a priest. In the Protestant Church the pastors can marry and have families.”“That’s better. I’ve known some priests and well, they found it hard to—um, keep their vows…” She reddened again. “But we’re Catholics, Jean-Michel and me. Both have been baptized in the church. We do our best. Born Catholic and we’ll die Catholic. I’ve never met a Protestant before.” The suspicious tone was back in Elise’s voice.“Oh, Elise,” Catherine said, trying to make her voice sound light. “We don’t bite! Isn’t it sad how so often we let labels separate us! Anyway, we’re glad you stopped by with your son. How old is he?”“Ten.”“Yes, the same age as my Luke. He’s the grouchy-looking kid sitting by your son.” She sighed. “Your son seems a little less insolent right now.”Elise’s face brightened as they began to talk about their children in whispers. But Catherine wanted her to hear the story. Finding an excuse, she left the room, going into the kitchen to retrieve a plate of homemade Christmas cookies. As she came back out into the main room, Catherine noticed that Elise was listening intently to what Steve was saying to the children. When her husband brought out the wooden cross and began to explain the meaning of Jesus’ death and resurrection, Elise let out a gasp.“That cross!” she whispered excitedly to Catherine. “It’s the cross! The one Michel told me about.”
Catherine waited to see if Elise wanted to explain, but she only moved closer to the group of children. She stood almost transfixed for at least ten minutes. When Steve had finished his story of how the baby in the manger was also the Savior of the world, Elise turned back to Catherine and her eyes were filled with tears.“I’m sorry,” she whispered, handing sleeping Timothy to his mother. “But this is the answer to my prayers. To five years of prayers! It is here, right here. This is what Michel was talking about.”“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”“Michel was Jean-Michel’s father. We weren’t married, but he was good to me, to us. Brought us food and helped pay our rent and took little Jean-Michel places.“Then he grew ill. Very ill.” Her eyes told the rest of the story. “But he met some kind people in the hospital and when I’d go to visit him, he would talk about them. He kept telling me to find the place where Jesus was not hanging on the cross. Where He was alive. He told me to find the cross with the dove. I didn’t know what Michel was talking about—he was often delirious at the end—but for the past five years I’ve lighted a candle for him every Christmas and I’ve prayed to the Virgin—especially on the 8th of December—to help me understand what Michel meant. To help me find the cross he was talking of. And here it is!”Jean-Michel could not quite believe what his mother was saying, as she held his hand firmly and gesticulated with the other, tears running down her cheeks. “This is what your papa was telling me to find! He wanted me to find this Jesus! See, Jean-Michel, you’ve found the secret. The Virgin Marie had answered my prayers through you, my son!”“Oh, no, Maman. It wasn’t Marie. I prayed to Jesus. I asked Him to answer your prayers and to let me talk to the man at the book table again. He answered both of our prayers.”“Do you like to play soccer?” Jean-Michel asked him, trying to start up a conversation.“Not really,” he replied.“Do you play any sports?”He shrugged, “Yeah, I play baseball. You ever heard of it?”“Sure, I’ve heard of baseball. We played a little at school last year. Of course, it wasn’t the real thing, but I thought it seemed like a cool sport. What position do you play?”It wasn’t a real conversation, but it was better than nothing. When his mother was getting ready to leave, Madame Anderson said, “We have a Christmas Eve service here at five in the afternoon. Then those who want are invited to come to our house for the Christmas meal. Everyone brings his favorite dish and we put them all on a table and share. You and Jean-Michel would be welcome.”Jean-Michel saw the interest in his mother’s eyes—and the suspicion. Before she could answer, Madame Anderson added, “You don’t have to give me an answer. But if you decide to come, just show up with something good to eat!” And she laughed happily as she told them good night.Luke was brooding in the corner as Catherine and Jessica cleaned up the cookie table and Steve straightened the chairs. “Son, can you please sweep for me?”Luke grunted. “Why’d you have to invite them to dinner, Mom? That boy is just an old racaille. He’ll probably leave our house with his pockets full of our money.”She worried about the negative effect their living in the city and ministering to the ‘least of these’ was having on her son. She went over and gave him a hug and said, “I know it’s not always easy to feel like welcoming others to our house…”“Welcoming strangers!” he retorted.Catherine hugged him again and silently prayed that the Lord would have a blessing in this Christmas for her son.Elise and Jean-Michel entered the small protestant church on Christmas Eve, surprised to see it full—all fifty chairs or so. Jean-Michel held his mother’s hand throughout the whole first part of the service. They stood together and sang the songs that were projected on the wall. Christmas carols. A woman was playing the piano and a teen strumming the guitar. People were singing loudly, happily, with serene smiles on their faces. They looked to Jean-Michel as if they actually believed what they were singing.
Maybe one day I will believe it too, he thought, as he sang about the babe in a manger who came to save the world from sin. And maybe Maman would believe too. One thing was sure—she had acted happy and excited during the past week and she was the one who told him that night, “Hurry up, Jean-Michel. We don’t want to be late!”They shook Monsieur Anderson’s hand and he motioned to Luke to show them to their seats. Luke greeted them with that same sullen expression on his face. But Jean-Michel had a plan. Later, he knew how he was going to make Luke smile.At the end of the service, Catherine called to Luke, “Honey, I’m going to need your help at home. Let’s go now, and Dad will walk with the others to our apartment.” She saw her son roll his eyes, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his pants. He started over to her when Jean-Michel came up to him.“Hey, Luke, it was really nice of your parents to invite us to your house. Um, I brought this for you—I hope you like it.” Then Catherine watched as the young boy held out a wrapped gifted to her startled son.“Well, um, thanks. Uh, you didn’t have to bring me anything.”“I know,” Jean-Michel said. “But I wanted to. Your dad said at the party it was more blessed to give than receive. Something like that. Go ahead and open it.”Slowly Luke unwrapped the bulky gift and held up a worn baseball glove. “Wow!” he said with more enthusiasm in his voice than Catherine had heard in months. “Wow! A Rawlings! Where’d you get this? It’s a really nice glove.”“My daddy used to play baseball with this nice American man, and the man gave him this glove. But then, um, my dad died. He left the glove for me. But I don’t play much so when you told me what sport you liked, I thought I’d give it to you.”Catherine could tell that Luke didn’t know what to say. After a moment of awkward silence, he said, “But I can’t take this. It was your dad’s.”“Take it. Merry Christmas. Maybe someday you can teach me how to play…”Catherine blinked back tears as Jean-Michel and Luke joined her on the walk back to their apartment, the two boys talking and laughing as if they were lifelong friends.Later in the evening, as thirty guests were crammed in their small apartment, laughing and enjoying delicious food, Luke came up to his mother. “What can I offer to Jean-Michel? He gave me this cool glove. I need to give him something.”“I think Jean-Michel wanted to give you the glove. He’s not expecting anything in return. And you shouldn’t feel obliged. You know how the Bible says that God loves a cheerful giver.”“But I want to give him something, too, Mom. Honest, I do. He’s a pretty cool kid. Do you think that he and his mom will ever come back to our church?”Catherine watched as Steve patiently talked to Elise, answering all of her questions. Catherine knew it was just the beginning, the first step toward new life for this young woman and her son. She knew it would be long and hard, filled with ups and downs. They had walked this path with many others before. But she felt a deep down joy well up in her heart as she answered her son, “Oh, yes, Luke. I think we’ll be seeing a lot of them in the future. I think that the Lord has answered my prayers through them.”Luke gave her a quizzical look, then shrugged and smiled. “Hey, I know what I’ll give Jean-Michel! I’ve got a great idea…” And he ran off toward his room.Jean-Michel held the Lego toy in his hands, as he lay in bed, turning it over and over in his hands. This had been their best Christmas ever. His mother had received a Bible from the Andersons and Luke had given him a brand new Lego toy—a gift from Luke’s American grandmother. A very expensive Lego. “I can’t take this,” Jean-Michel had said, embarrassed. But Luke had insisted, all the while tossing a baseball in his Rawlings glove. That had made them both laugh.Jean-Michel closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank you, Jesus. For being the answer. Thank you so very much.” He had a smile on his lips as he fell asleep, with the wind howling outside the windows and the moon shining down on the Saône River.
~ Elizabeth Goldsmith Musser, c2004
“I tell you the truth,” Jesus replied, “no one who has left home or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or fields for me and the gospel will fail to receive a hundred times as much in this present age (homes, brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, children and fields–and with them persecutions) and in the age to come, eternal life.” Mark 10:29-30
For all of our years of serving in missions, we have found these words of our Savior to be true. The Lord has blessed us with ‘family’ in France as well as family back at home, and on this Thanksgiving Day, I say a deep, deep THANK YOU and MERCI to the Lord for the many wonderful people with whom we’ve shared Thanksgiving from all over the world. Indeed it is a blessing to love the ones you’re with. Our God is FAITHFUL!
In France…
In America
And my most favorite Thanksgiving memory is when, in 1984, after finishing a Thanksgiving meal with our team in Firminy, France, this amazing guy took me out for a stroll and asked me to marry him. Soooo, sooo thankful for you, sweetheart.
In the middle of the night, I awoke and couldn’t get back to sleep. My mind was replaying a few scenes for my WIP (work in progress) and I decided to get up and type them into the trusty laptop (this does NOT happen often–I like to sleep). My g-mail account flashed on the screen and the first thing I saw was a four-word email sent from my son’s phone: Are you guys okay? He’d sent the message at 2:51 in the morning, France time, from his phone in Georgia, USA.
And I thought, “Why wouldn’t we be okay at 3 in the morning?” So of course, I clicked on CNN and saw the headline: Paris under Siege. I spent the next thirty minutes reading of the horror. And praying. I didn’t get much sleep after that. I called Paul in Lyon (it is no fun to be far apart at times like this) and woke him up. He assured me he had already talked with our workers in Paris and that they were safe.
But so many were not.
This is the world as we know it now. Terrorists massacring hundreds of innocent people.
On a much smaller scale internationally, yet on an important individual scale, yesterday, a precious family who has been part of our mission agency for years left the country where they serve. Burnout? Lack of finances? Family problems? Nope, none of those. They were expelled; they learned in September that their visas had not been renewed, and they were given 60 days to leave the country.
The day before yesterday, a seventy-year-old widow with more energy that most twenty-year-olds wrote to confirm her ‘retirement’ from her country of service after almost 20 years of truly amazing work among refugees at a Christian Coffee House called ‘The Oasis’. Even as she wrote, she was heading to another European country to visit some of the refugees who had come to Christ through The Oasis over the past 20 years.
This is our world. A world of uncertainty, a world of terror, a world of refugees seeking somewhere to call home. A world of ordinary people doing extraordinary things in the midst of this world.
One worker in Paris told us that his daughter had performed last year at the venue where over 100 people were killed last night. He will be out in his neighborhood today, doing what he does so well, loving people. Scared, shocked, lonely, afraid people.
But it costs them something–all of our workers, all of us who call ourselves Christ-followers.
It costs us love, 24/7, with open hands to God’s plans in the midst of uncertainty.
As we love, during terrorists attacks and refugee crises and expulsion from a beloved country of service prematurely, and going about whatever God has given us to do this day, we reaffirm that, even as the world as we know it implodes, we trust in the One who not only knows the world, but created it and is at work in it and assures us that He will never leave us. The One who says, “In the world you will have tribulation, but take heart, for I have overcome the world.”
We continue on, certain of His love for us so that we can pour out His love on an oh-so-needy world.
Won’t they find out about The Awful Year. . . ?
There is one story novelist Josephine Bourdillion shirked from writing. And now she may never have a chance. Trapped in her memories, she lies in a coma.
. . . The man who put her there is just as paralyzed. Retired military Henry Hughes failed to complete the kill. What’s more: he failed to receive payment—funds that would ensure surgery for his son.
As detectives investigate disturbing fan letters, a young but not-so-naive Page Bourdillion turns to her mother’s tormented past for answers. How bad could The Awful Year truly be compared to the one they’re all living?
Set against the flaming hills of North Carolina and the peaceful shores of the Mediterranean Sea, When I Close My Eyes tells the story of two families struggling with dysfunction and finding that love is stronger than death.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY starred review: “Musser delivers a powerful story about mental illness and forgiveness, connecting the culprit and victim of a violent attack through their strong faith…(a) raw portrayal of life with mental illness and the strength of faith to overcome injury…”
Available Now!
Here Elizabeth read Chapter 1.
Endorsements
“Elizabeth Musser’s beautifully written novels are always unique and inspiring—and this is no exception. Christian novels don’t often feature characters who battle depression—or who are hitmen! Yet Musser breathes life into her characters and makes you care. When I Close My Eyes will keep readers guessing and hoping until the very end. Thoroughly engaging!”
—Lynn Austin, author of Legacy of Mercy
“When I Close My Eyes is an enthralling story about family secrets, regret, and shame. Not only has Elizabeth Musser courageously and insightfully addressed complicated issues of mental illness, but she has done so with compassion and nuance by creating sympathetic characters who are struggling to comprehend grace. This story of redemption is an invitation to travel deeper into the heart of a God who companions us in the darkness and offers us hope. Thank you, Elizabeth, for writing an honest book that will be a comfort to the afflicted and to those who love and long for them.”
—Sharon Garlough Brown, author of the Sensible Shoes series and Shades of Light
“Musser pens an exciting, intriguing story of redemption and truth. When I Close My Eyes flows from scene to scene with her pristine storytelling, enticing the reader from the opening scene to the last.”
—Rachel Hauck, New York Times bestselling author of The Wedding Dress and The Memory House
“Elizabeth Musser has penned a unique story—a tender, compassionate, and bittersweet portrayal of mental illness and redeeming grace.”
—Rachel Linden, author of The Enlightenment of Bees
“Elizabeth Musser’s riveting whodunit offers a haunting look at one sympathetic villain and his victim whose lives become entwined when they discover they’re connected by more than one desperate act. When I Close My Eyes is a beautiful novel revealing truth in fiction as it exposes that ‘faith and mental instability aren’t mutually exclusive.’”
—Ann Marie Stewart, author of Christy Award–Winning novel Stars in the Grass
“I have long admired Elizabeth Musser’s stories, but this one takes my admiration to new heights! Through colorful characters and an ever-twisting plot, When I Close My Eyes takes its readers on an unforgettable journey into the meaning of grace. Thanks for sharing your very soul in this one, Elizabeth.”
—Ann Tatlock, novelist, blogger, children’s book author
When Bobbie Blake gets the news that she is terminally ill, she decides to go back with her niece Tracie, to The Oasis, a ministry center for refugees in Austria where she worked years ago. Back to where there are so many memories of love and loss.
Bobbie and Tracie are moved by the plight of the refugees and in particular, the story of the Iranian Hamid, whose young daughter was caught with a New Testament in her possession in Iran, causing Hamid to flee and putting the whole family in danger.
Can a network of helpers bring the family to safety in time? And at what cost?
Author’s Note
My goal is to write the best literature I can, with real characters and themes that strike a chord in the reader’s heart and force the reader to think, to ask questions, to laugh and cry and hope. To be entertained way down in her soul.
This applies to all of my novels, but specifically in The Long Highway Home, I hope readers will be inspired to do what they can in the midst of the complexities of today’s world.
May we Christians be known for our love, not our hate. We are all on a journey ‘home’ and this journey is filled with peril and heartache, whether we’re living in suburbia USA or escaping persecution in a country at war. But our Sovereign Lord is at work in each of our lives in mysterious and marvelous ways to ultimately lead us home.
Beautiful scenery, important issues, real characters, and a bit of suspense make The Long Highway Home a must read – Romantic Times, 4½ stars, Top Pick
Tour
Release day brought a special opportunity to guest post on Inspired by Life and Fiction. Visit to read How Research Changes You!
On my agent’s blog I spoke to My Long Journey Home (Or “Do Author’s Really Need an Agent?”).
I’ve shared the art of Launching Your ‘Self’ without Losing Your Soul on International Christian Fiction Writers.
Iola’s Christian Reads graciously hosted me for a fun Friday Fifteen.
A book review and author interview from Reading Is My Superpower.
My guest post on The Refuge of Reading on Just Commonly.
See my devotion What Is Given Him From Heaven on ACFW.
Publisher’s Weekly book review as well as Romantic Time’s book review.
For Book Clubs
The glimmering Huguenot cross she so innocently wears leads her deep into the shadows.
When Gabriella Madison arrives in the French village of Castelnau in 1961 to continue her university studies, she doesn’t anticipate being drawn into the secretive world behind the Algerian war for independence from France. And the further she delves into the war efforts, the more her faith is challenged. The people who surround her bring a whirlwind of transforming forces – a wise nun who knows more about the war and Gabriella’s past than she’s saying, a lost little girl who is carrying secret information, and a debonair man with unknown loyalties who pursues Gabriella.
When she discovers a long-hidden family secret, it leads to questions about trust, faith in action, and the power of forgiveness to move beyond the pain of the past.
Ah. The danger. The drama. The thrill. Two Crosses was a fantastic read! – Dee, GoodReads
Tour
An interview in Christian Fiction Online Magazine, May 2012
Two Crosses review on Labor Not In Vain
Interview on the blog Writing for Christ
Review on Pam Depoyan’s blog Apples of Gold
Historical Novel Society‘s review of Two Crosses
On Susan Meissner‘s blog for a visit
Radio interview with Gate Beautiful
Heroine interview on Margaret Daley’s blog
Christian Library Journal review of “The Secrets of the Cross’ trilogy
Burton Book Review for Two Crosses and Two Testaments
Nice Things People Say
One intriguing era in France’s history, one unforgettable cast of characters, and one of the best writers in CBA today all add up to one incredible read! In Two Crosses, Elizabeth Musser has achieved another literary triumph. – Ann Tatlock, award-winning author Promises to Keep
A wonderful tale of love, sacrifice, war and courage, written in stunning detail. Elizabeth Musser is an amazing storyteller. – Susan Meissner, author of A Sound Among the Trees
Elizabeth Musser reminder me of Francine Rivers. The characters are real, the drama is gripping, and the Spirit rises up from the grass roots of the story. You’ll love Two Crosses. – Creston Mapes, best-selling author of Nobody
In a novel rich in historical detail, Elizabeth Musser spins an intriguing story of the lives and loves of young people caught up in the Algerian revolution to win independence from France in 1954-1962. It was a costly conflict, and we are invited to see it through the eyes of those living on both side of the Mediterranean. Christian convictions and patriotic loyalties are put to the test as God works His plans for individuals and nations. I enjoyed this book and look forward to reading the rest of the trilogy. – Ruth Stewart, AWM missionary for forty years in Algeria and France.
Elizabeth Musser 
