His Open Door

"Ma'am," he said, reaching for the door.  He held it open, his posture as erect and sturdy as a pole.

I eyed the man's uniform, the pins and badges that signified his military rank and position.  At that moment I felt opposing forces wash over me, clashing internally like a cold and warm front meeting in the air.

At first I was hit by a burning sense of respect and gratitude.  How privileged a person I was to have this soldier unbar the way for me, maintaining a clear path that I might advance unhindered.  The symbolism marked by his actions did strike me with remarkable intensity.  How many virtual doors would be shut in my face if not for dutiful soldiers like him?

As I went to step forward, my feet nearly faltered as if they felt unworthy.  It was I who ought to be holding open the door for this gentleman—this representative of great heroes present and past who did fight and sacrifice and continue to do so to keep doors open, paths free and clear for all of humanity.  

I moved through the entrance and thanked him.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

How strange that I should feel such pride while passing through his open door.

~ From the book, Slaying Dragons by Richelle E. Goodrich

                      

Fathers and Trees

When I hear the word fathers I think of trees.  Perhaps because I see in trees the finer qualities all great fathers share.  

The obvious, their strength and sturdiness.  A tree will bear things thrust upon its branches without an uttered word of complaint.  Reaching limbs hold a person up, supporting him throughout many days and nights.  

A tree is rooted where it stands.  One never needs to glance repeatedly out a window to be sure it hasn't walked away.  It is planted firmly.  It is always there.  Its form may sway with the wind, but it never falters.

A tree is dependent upon sunlight; therefore, its majestic form reaches toward Heaven for nourishment.  It does not hide its need for the light, but flourishes beneath the sun for all eyes to see.

A tree bears fruit to feed others, even though it is unable to partake of the fruit itself.  It complains to no one.  And if called upon to sacrifice itself entirely in order to warm and protect another, it does so without a word of protest.

Trees shade and protect.  They shield us from the elements. I have never seen a child fear a tree, but smile up at its grandness, eager to climb into its arms and observe the world from a higher viewpoint.

One can talk to trees without fear or reprisal.  All secrets remain in a tree's confidence despite the passing of generations.  

Out of all God's creations, I admire most the mighty trees. They are a grand sight to behold, and as necessary to us as are fathers.

— Richelle E. Goodrich

Book Two is Out in Beautiful Color!

Prepare to continue the adventure...

Read the continuing tale of Queen Eena in this newly-released book two in the Harrowbethian Saga!

Eena, The Return of a Queen

By

Richelle E. Goodrich

in  PAPERBACK  or  E-BOOK   KINDLE    KOBO   iTUNES

Experience more adventure, peril, mystery, fun, new races, old legends and developing romance in this second volume of The Harrowbethian Saga.  Read the introductory chapters here!  

Synopsis:

The young queen of Harrowbeth, has been saved from the clutches of her enemy, only to fear prophetic nightmares of being captured by Gemdorin again. A red-eyed dragon haunts her dreams frequently, portending doom within his fortune-telling gaze. It is Derian and Ian's job to keep the beast's grim visions from coming true.

Joined by their allies—a large and warring race called the Viiduns—Captain Derian and his militia escort their queen across the galaxy toward home. An unexpected detour takes them to an advanced world where a quirky king might possess the power to rid them of their enemy for good. But is trusting the promise of a stranger a risk worth taking? It will require Eena to face her worst nightmare alone. 

The most difficult challenge

an honest man will ever face

is having to choose between

duty and love.

One creates a man of honorable character–

a life worth dying for.

The other creates a vulnerable soul

that madly yearns for

either death or immortality.

                                 ― Richelle E. Goodrich 

Do More than Just Remember

Memorial Day is set aside for remembering those who gave their lives fighting for their country.  More specifically, fighting to defend a lifestyle of enviable freedoms enjoyed by citizens of the United States of America.  It is important we understand that these freedoms came about because of the willingness of individuals to sacrifice for every human's right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, unalienable rights endowed by the Creator of us all.  

It is important that we remember.  

It is vital we do more than just remember.

How wonderful the occasion is when a banquet is laid out before us, rich with foods and delicacies in sweet variety.  We may feel immense gratitude towards those who spent days preparing the feast.  We may to some extent attempt to understand the sacrifices made by these men and women who made possible our enviable feast.  But what good is all their hard work and effort if those at the banquet do nothing more than sit and admire the end results? Compliments are ill-served if no one ventures to taste the delicacies. 

Likewise, we may express our gratitude while keeping in our hearts those who have fallen to defend our precious rights and freedoms.  But our gratitude is ill-shown when we fail to use those freedoms to our advantage by creating better homes, better lives, and better communities within our united states. 

On this Memorial Day, take time to remember those who have fallen.  But on every day after, do more than simply remember; put the freedoms they died for to greater and nobler uses.  

Do I Love You?

I stand in the night and stare up at a lone star, wondering what love means.  You whisper your desire—do I love you?  I dare say yes.  But my eyes drift back to that solitary star; my mind is plagued with intimate uncertainty. 

What art thou, Love?  Tell me. 

I contemplate what I know—the qualities love doth not possess.  Love lifts no cruel or unkind hand, for it seeketh no harm.  It shirks from constraints and demands, for tyranny is not love.  A boisterous voice never crosses love’s lips, for to speak with thunder chases its very presence from the heart.  Love inflicts no pain, no fear, no misery, but conquers all such foes.  It is said love is not selfish, yet it does not guilt those who are.  On a heart unwillingly given it stakes no claim.  Love is nothing from Pandora’s box; it is no evil, sin, or sorrow unleashed on this world. 

My eyes glimmer as the star I gaze upon twinkles with brightness I do not possess.  I recognize my smallness—my ignorance of the One whose hands placed that star in the heavens for me. 

He is love.  By His own mouth He proclaimed it. 

Again the whispered question hits my ear—do I love you?  I dare say yes.  But my eyes squint tight, wishing on a lonely star, wondering what love means.

— Richelle E. Goodrich, Smile Anyway

Copyright © 2013 Richelle E. Goodrich

You Breathe....Thank Your Mother

It's almost Mother's Day, and so I've been pondering ways I can convey to my mother the depth of gratitude I feel for those great and numberless tasks she performed for my good when I was a child, not to mention her continual influence still shaping my thoughts and actions today.  My mother has given me much by making sacrifices beyond my comprehension.  She means the world to me.

The truth is, I have a wonderful mother.  

The truth is, not everyone can say those words.

I know people who ignore the holiday entirely.  Some rehearse a mental list of faults possessed by the woman they call mother.  Still others wonder around this time who their mother is....or was.....if only they could have been blessed to know her.  Despite our varied differences and attitudes about Mother's Day, there is one thing we share in common—one precious truth for which we can show our gratitude regardless.  And that is this:

Our mothers—apart from their strengths and defects, their successes and failures, their good and bad behavior, and even their mental, emotional, or physical absence or overbearing attentiveness—gave us the miraculous, valuable, precious gift of life.

Miraculous because we could never have bestowed it upon ourselves.

Valuable because of the endless opportunities and experiences it affords us.  

Precious because we have but one.  

So regardless of blame, faults, and flaws, remember you were given life by a woman.

You breathe.

You feel.

You see

and hear

and smell

and taste

and think

and move

and laugh

and weep

and heal

and dance

and sing

and love.

Thank your mother.

Such a Nasty Bruise

     

     “Such a nasty bruise,” he says, staring straight into my eyes.  I am stunned he can see it.  Delicate to the touch and tender on every side, the bruise is deeper than days.  My hand automatically moves to my chest.

     Science taught me with valid assurance that my heart was fixed in my rib cage, but life has since shown me otherwise.  My heart in fact dangles from a tangle of strings.  The ends are grasped tight by numerous people who yank and release, having caused many painful bruises over time.  I cry because they are invisible to most.

     “Such a nasty bruise,” he repeats, tugging on my poor heart. 

     His kind eyes fall away from mine as I feel a squeeze on my arm.  He twists it enough to show me a small, round patch of purple surrounded by a sickly yellowish corona. 

     “Oh.  My elbow.”  I let the air exhale from my lungs.  Another bruise forms where my heart has hit the floor.  It is jerked up again. 

     “Can I do anything for you?”  I see in his eyes the mirror image of a finger—his finger—wrapped in one of the dangling strings.  He tugs and I feel it.

     “No,” I reply to his question.  But it is a lie.  There is something he could do, along with all who grasp a portion of the web entangling my heart.  I wish they would mercifully let go.

Copyright 2016 Richelle E. Goodrich