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I began a blogging conversation with Melissa Firman of The Betty and Boo Chronicles so long ago that I can't remember the first prompt, the earliest words.  Melissa and I share many things—proximity (at least until a transfer took her west), friends, a love for our children, a love for books—and the first time I actually met Melissa was on a bitter cold night, when she came to a talk I was giving about the impact of place on my work.  She came bearing books, my own.  She has built, over time, an embarrassingly generous Beth Kephart library.  Even as she does so many things, for so many others, and even as she keeps her Facebook friends abreast of the special people in her life.

And so Melissa's words today, about Small Damages, are the words of one who has read an oeuvre with great care.  They are the words of someone who has carefully, patiently watched my work evolve over time.  Reading Melissa's blog post was, to me, akin to reading a scholarly piece.  I learned so much and became so absorbed in Melissa's thinking that it wasn't until the end that I remembered that she was writing about me.  This post was so exceptional that my publicist, Jessica Shoffel, sent an email earlier:  Making sure you saw this one.

I share Melissa's words at the end of a day of many emotions.  We honored our George Shaw this morning at a beautiful service in which grandchildren read, a son eloquently remembered, and family and friends and neighbors knit tight.  How proud George is, looking down, on his gigantic community.  His son referred to George as an extraordinary ordinary man.  My own son, sitting near me in the pews, said later that that is the best kind of man. 

After the service and lunch I came home to read Handling the Truth one last time, for it is bound for copyediting soon.  I'll never quite forget the note Lauren Marino, my Gotham editor, wrote last night to tell me that we are entering the book's next phase.  Having just sat here today and read all 61,000 words through again, I hope it is all right to say here that I am so at peace with Truth.

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The heat was aggressive today.  It knocked the civility out of drivers.  It was implicated in the four accidents I saw and drove the bugs into my ears.  Soupy, swampy, angry, it would not rest until it had exploded (it was quite the sight, it really was) the bottle of Dr. Pepper I had carried with me to the car.  Pssssshhhhh Bang Splat fiiiiizzzzzzzzzzz.  Too bad they don't make interior windshield wipers.

Such sweet things happened, nonetheless.  They may not seem related, but they are.  My friend Heather's baby boy, Ryder, was born at 4:44 PM, a good omen of some sort, I'm sure.  Ryder's going to be loved something fierce by all of us who love Heather, and by Heather herself, so full of love.  Heather's been asking Ryder to come out and play for some time now, and forever now, he will.

All across the country, meanwhile, another mother, this one named Danielle, was tending to her two—taking care, listening, watching them tangle and grow.  Danielle, too, is a very special woman, a person whose priorities in life (and gentleness, and dreams) have so much to teach.  Danielle gives everything—to her family, to this book world, to people like me—and the next day she gets up, and somehow does it all again.

Today I was a recipient of Danielle's exceptional gifts.  I was, and I don't know what to say. 

When I say that I don't know what to say, I really mean that.  I don't.  Kindnesses like hers cannot be answered.

Simply, then, with gratitude, I share her words here, which I found at just the right time of this tumultuous and yet still beautiful day.

I am sending my love to these two mothers right now.  In a world this hot, in a summer this thick with heat, they teach us how to carry on with dignity and grace.

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I was not at home, not with my normal machines, not even with my book of email addresses. 

I was just here.  Being.

And then a message came through on my phone from Serena Agusto-Cox.  She wondered if I had seen My Friend Amy's blog today.  She thought that if I hadn't, I should pay a visit.


I waited until my husband was done with the ancient laptop we had brought along for this short journey.  It crunched and crunched (it takes its time) before the screen filled with Amy's words.  My eyes blurred.  My throat caught.  It took some time for me to read them.

Because.

Because Amy is kinder and dearer to me than I can say.  And her review is more than a review.  Review isn't even the word.  Her review is a gift. 

Yes.  This week is magic.

Thank you, Amy.  For always being there.  For being the first.  For making me lucky.

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