Our Story in my Hand

I received a box of crisp new books in the mail today.

As I held the final copy of White Horse to Bucharest in my hands, my mind winged back to Romania, where all these stories were born. Tapped out on my Neo keyboard on bumpy van rides, through tears in airport waiting areas, or on swaying overnight trains through Ukraine. Labored over in our cozy fourth-floor apartment, or stuffy hotel rooms, or chilly Romanian train stations. Composed to the tune of gypsy music, to the scent of flowering plum trees, to the taste of Italian espresso with milk and sugar.

Now, thirteen years and nine days after we first stepped off the plane in Romania, our story is officially told. I can't change it. Can't explain or expound or correct. What a worry. What a relief. 

Here's one more sneak peek, this time on issuu.com, before the book becomes available from Gospel Publishers and other bookstores. 

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Cuvintele sunt lacrimile celor ce ar fi voit aşa de mult să plângă şi n-au putut. 
 
“Words are only the tears of those who so much wished to cry but couldn't.”    
 
-Lucian Blaga, Romania philosopher and poet