We woke up this morning to an early dark, punctuated by lightning and its accompanying distant thunder. I heard the rain; the rat-a-tat as it hit the roof felt cozy, delicious. I rolled to my side, pulled the covers to my chin and just as I did, Tim got up and made his way to the bathroom, ready to start the day. His day—and may I just say praise hands for this—his day begins with him making the coffee.

Not long after, I padded to the kitchen knowing my milk would be frothed and my mug, filled and steaming.

And then? I did the unthinkable. Instead of hopping in the shower, I got back in bed, pillows fluffed just so, and I reached for my book to read.

I spent an hour. More than an hour, probably, because I hit that glorious section in a novel in which one chapter ends and you cannot help but binge the next, desperate (as readers are wont to be) to find out then what happened? And then what happened???

I’m reading this:

Written by my friend Patricia Hudson, a writer I met at the Appalachian Writers’ Workshop, Traces is a retelling of the Daniel Boone story from the point of view of the women. It’s a wonderfully engaging novel that renders pioneer life in full color. Historical detail is woven so seamlessly into the narrative you feel as if you are right there. I mean, what was it like for Rebecca Boone, at home with so many children as her husband roved the wild lands of North Carolina, Virginia, Kentucky, gone months and years at a time? How did it feel to lose a son? To have a daughter taken prisoner? To wonder if her husband was ever coming home?

In Traces, Pat paints a picture so real—so vivid—now I know.

It was glorious to begin the day in such a luxurious way, for an hour putting aside the one hundred thousand things on my To-Do list and instead, to journey with Rebecca and Susannah and Jemima as they lived and fought and loved and lost, deep in the wilds of Kentucky. What a joy it was to take this time—to sit, and read, and to imagine.

XXOO

30 Days of Joy