Guest Blogger Mary Manners

Marathons, Manuscripts and Mothers

What do the three M’s…Marathons, Manuscripts and Mothers have in common? Well, as a former marathon runner, I’m convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt that the countless hours of running and training during my marathon days prepared me for the other two.

Marathon running is a solitary endeavor that requires 100% dedication, commitment, follow-through and sacrifice. You have to run when you don’t feel like it…when your legs ache and your heart feels like it will leap right out of your chest, when the weather is hot, humid, cold, rainy or just plain dismal. You run in the light, in the dark, and when a strong north wind tries to sweep you right off the path. You keep your focus, and stay true to the goal. There’s no turning back…only looking forward.

The same can be said of writing. It’s a mostly-solitary endeavor that requires 100% dedication, commitment, follow-through and sacrifice. After all, what reader would enjoy a book that has no ending…no plot, direction, or character arc? What publisher would pay for such a book? So you write even when you don’t feel like it…when your friends are going to the movies or out to dinner, when you’d rather read than plot, when warm rays of sunshine beckon from your office window and your heart longs to run and play. You write early in the morning when the rest of the world is sleeping and late at night when the rest of the world is sleeping. You write when the refrigerator beckons you to have just one more snack. And when writer’s block strikes you push through it instead of pushing away from the desk, no matter how painful.

Being a mother…well, sometimes it’s a solitary endeavor that requires 100% dedication, commitment, follow-through and sacrifice. Saying no to a child has never made any mother popular. You overlook your own needs to care for your child. You mother early in the morning, late at night, and every hour in between. You stay strong when the storms of terrible two’s and the teenage years rage, when you see your life flash before your eyes while teaching your teen to drive or your toddler throws a tantrum in the grocery store check-out line. Along the way, you enjoy and savor rays of sunshine that peak through the chaos. You mother when you’d rather take a warm bubble bath or curl up with a book instead of cooking dinner or playing the hundredth hand of Old Maid or Go Fish.

My life’s journey has been a blend of the three M’s. My daughter will enter college next August. We’re in a period of countless changes. The child I once drove to basketball practice and choir rehearsal now chauffeurs me. I have learned, depending on the day (sometimes even the hour), that I know nothing…and everything. Recently, a college friend of mine sent a photo that was snapped our sophomore year (1982). Looking at the photo, I thought my daughter was staring back at me. Was I ever that young, thin and…unwrinkled? My daughter took one glance and gasped, “Mama, is that really you?” as if I could have never—possibly—been that smiling young woman in the picture. And, after a good laugh, I thought about the passage of time and how happy and truly blessed I am to have experienced the three M’s…Marathons, Manuscripts and, especially Motherhood.

About Grace’s Gold

Brent Peterson returns to Mount Ridge, Tennessee with a single goal—to win back Grace Spencer. He’s loved her since kindergarten, and should have told her how he felt, but Dan Turner swooped in and stole Grace away before Brent had the chance. Now Grace is a widow with a young son, and while it’s been three years since her husband’s death, Brent isn’t sure he should make his feelings known.

When Brent comes around the family bakery, Grace longs to restore their friendship, but the thin gold wedding band on her finger—and memories of Dan—stand between them.

Can Brent’s gentle patience coax Grace to let go of her memories…and the ring, or is it time for Brent to move on alone, and leave Mount Ridge forever?

Excerpt from the First Chapter

Brent couldn’t pull his gaze from Grace as she spooned lemon‐scented batter into a greased bread pan. Blonde hair spilled over her neck in a sassy blunt cut that kissed her shoulders as she moved gracefully between the counter and oven. Blue eyes sparkled in sunlight that cascaded through the front window of the bakery, but a hint of sadness lurked beneath. Brent knew she still thought of Dan, the husband she’d lost in a construction accident three years ago—Adam’s father.

And he aimed to change that. A pre‐dawn ride through cool mountain air in the Cove had cleared cobwebs from his head and strengthened his resolve. As the sun had risen over the horizon to kiss a clearblue morning sky, a need intensified that could no longer be denied.

He wanted Grace.

He’d had a thing for her since the first day of kindergarten, when he saw her across the story circle. Her blonde hair and blue eyes had captivated him, even though he didn’t know what the odd tugging in his belly meant at the time. And that “thing” had roared into much, much more over the years they’d spent hanging out together, swapping lunches and swimming in the creek that bisected his horse farm. Theirs was an easy friendship that had grown into something deeper…at least for him.

He’d taken things slow during all the days they’d spent together roaming the pastures that fit together like giant puzzle pieces spanning the farm, assuming he had forever to make his feelings known. Their friendship grew strong as the roots of the old oak that stood as a sentinel behind his parents’ barn. But when Brent was with her, beside her—watching the sun glint off her huge blue eyes as she laughed at a little joke he shared—and he thought of taking it to the next level…of kissing her…his gut squeezed so tight he grew lightheaded and couldn’t seem to gather a breath.

As days eased into months, then years, Grace traded ball caps and pigtails for makeup and a sleek hairstyle, and something else—something wonderful—changed, also. The way she wrapped her arms around him, pressed a warm cheek against his neck while they rode one of his parents’ prized black racing mares through the Cove, told him she felt the same. Yet a little voice niggled…what if he pushed too hard—too fast? Would it ruin everything?