{"id":1603,"date":"2009-06-09T06:00:32","date_gmt":"2009-06-09T11:00:32","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/\/?p=1603"},"modified":"2009-06-08T12:32:38","modified_gmt":"2009-06-08T17:32:38","slug":"nothing-but-trouble-by-susan-may-warren-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=1603","title":{"rendered":"Nothing But Trouble by Susan May Warren"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a>\"\"<\/a>It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour<\/a><\/strong><\/span><\/strong> book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

Today’s Wild Card author is: <\/strong><\/div>\n
Susan May Warren<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

and the book:<\/span> <\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Nothing But Trouble (Book #1 PJ Sugar Series)<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Tyndale House Publishers (April 2, 2009)<\/p>\n

MY REVIEW:<\/strong><\/p>\n

To read my review on an earlier post click here<\/a>.<\/p>\n

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:<\/strong><\/div>\n

\"\"<\/a>Susan May Warren is the award-winning author of seventeen novels and novellas with Tyndale, Steeple Hill and Barbour Publishing. Her first book, Happily Ever After won the American Fiction Christian Writers Book of the Year in 2003, and was a 2003 Christy Award finalist. In Sheep\u2019s Clothing, a thriller set in Russia, was a 2006 Christy Award finalist and won the 2006 Inspirational Reader\u2019s Choice award. A former missionary to Russia, Susan May Warren now writes Suspense\/Romance and Chick Lit full time from her home in northern Minnesota.<\/p>\n

Visit the author’s website<\/a>.<\/p>\n

Product Details:<\/p>\n

List Price: $13.99<\/p>\n

Paperback: 352 pages<\/p>\n

Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers (April 2, 2009)<\/p>\n

Language: English<\/p>\n

ISBN-10: 1414313128<\/p>\n

ISBN-13: 978-1414313122<\/p>\n

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:<\/span> <\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

PJ Sugar would never escape trouble. Clearly she couldn\u2019t shake free of it\u2014regardless of how far and fast she ran. It had followed her from Minnesota to South Dakota to Colorado to Montana, down the shore to California, and finally over to Melbourne Beach, Florida, where it rose with teeth to consume what should have been the most perfect night of her life.<\/p>\n

She stood on the shore, her toes mortared into the creamy white sand, the waves licking up to her ankles, and with a cry that sounded more like frustration than fury, threw her linen espadrille with her best underhand pitch. It sailed high, cutting through the burning sky, disappeared briefly in the purple haze of night, then splashed into the ocean.<\/p>\n

Gone. Along with her future.<\/p>\n

A seagull soared low, screaming, pondering the morsel it may have missed.<\/p>\n

\u201cPJ, come back inside.\u201d Matthew\u2019s voice sounded behind her as he trekked out onto the beach, kicking sand into his loafers, looking piqued as the wind raked fingers through his brown, thinning hair, snagged his tie, and noosed it around his neck. He dangled her oversize canvas purse from his hand, as if it might be a bomb.<\/p>\n

Ten feet away, he held it out to her like a carrot. \u201cThey haven\u2019t even brought out the crab legs yet. You love those.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, sure I do. Right along with brussels sprouts and pickled herring.\u201d She\u2019d been so soundly ensconced in happily-ever-after land she\u2019d failed to see that the man she wanted to marry didn\u2019t even know she hated crab legs.<\/p>\n

Pretty much all shellfish.<\/p>\n

Thanks to the fact that she was allergic to it.<\/p>\n

Matthew lowered the purse, as if her words stung him. \u201cReally?\u201d<\/p>\n

PJ shook her head, her mouth half-open, not even sure where to start. Behind them, calypso music drifted out of Dungarees Restaurant, festive themes for happy couples. Twinkle lights stringing along the thatched roof overhung the porch, and the piquant smell lifting off the grills on the patio snarled her empty stomach. Maybe she should go back inside, pick up the wicker chair she\u2019d knocked over.<\/p>\n

He owed her dinner, at least.<\/p>\n

She stood her ground, forcing him to march her belongings across the sand.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere\u2019s your, uh . . . suitcase.\u201d He held it out to her, letting go before she had her hand on it. It dropped with the weight of an anvil onto the glossy sand.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, that\u2019s my personal survival kit\u2014show some respect.\u201d She scooped it up, realizing she\u2019d been entirely too civil during his execution of their relationship. \u201cYou never know when you\u2019re going to need something.\u201d Laugh all he wanted\u2014if a gal was going to haul around a purse, it should be filled with all things handy. Tape to shut someone\u2019s mouth, for example. Or a flashlight to guide her way home across a black expanse of shore.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry.\u201d He stuck his hands into the pockets of his khakis, his sports coat like a warning flag as it whipped around him. \u201cC\u2019mon, PJ, come back inside. Please. It\u2019s cold out here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSeriously? Because ten minutes ago you were telling me how I wasn\u2019t the girl for you. How, after nearly a year of dating, on a night when I expected\u2014\u201d Nope, she wasn\u2019t going there. Wasn\u2019t going to give him the slightest satisfying hint that she might have come to dinner tonight hoping\u2014convinced, even\u2014that he\u2019d actually take a knee and put words to what she thought she\u2019d seen in his eyes. Devotion. Commitment.<\/p>\n

How could she have cajoled herself into believing that perfect Matthew Buchanan, church singles group leader and seminary student, might see a pastor\u2019s wife in her?<\/p>\n

Maybe she wasn\u2019t exactly the picture of a pastor\u2019s wife, with her curves, dark red hair, too many freckles spraying her nose as if she were still fifteen. She\u2019d never considered herself refined, more on the cute side, her height conspiring against her hopes of being willowy and elegant. But her eyes were pretty\u2014green, and honest, if maybe too wide in her face. And she\u2019d cleaned up over the years. Even if Matthew didn\u2019t think her beautiful, couldn\u2019t he see past her rough edges to the woman she longed to be\u2014a friend of Jesus, a woman of principle, a servant of grace? a girl who\u2019d finally outrun her mistakes?<\/p>\n

Apparently not.<\/p>\n

She should be flinging herself into the surf right behind her espadrille.<\/p>\n

\u201cExpecting what, PJ?\u201d Matthew had a faraway, even stricken, look in those previously warm eyes.<\/p>\n

PJ couldn\u2019t believe she was actually answering him and in a tone that betrayed her disappointment. \u201cI just thought we were heading somewhere.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike the missions trip to Haiti? You wanted to go on that with me?\u201d<\/p>\n

She stared at the place between his eyes, pretty sure she still had her shortstop aim. Her grip tightened on the other espadrille. \u201cNo,\u201d she said slowly, crisply. \u201cNot the missions trip.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh.\u201d Wonder of wonders, he got it then, his face falling as he replayed his rejection. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. It just isn\u2019t working for me.\u201d<\/p>\n

What did that mean exactly? Wasn\u2019t working? Like she might be a cog that fouled up his perfect image? Clearly he\u2019d forgotten the depths from which he\u2019d climbed. Especially since, in her recent memory, he\u2019d been a Budweiser-drinking surfer.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou said that.\u201d PJ hauled her bag up to her shoulder and curled her arms around her waist as her sundress twisted through her legs. She turned away, watching the ocean darken with its mystery. She never really swam in the ocean, just waded. The riptides and the unknown predators that lurked below the surface scared her. She tasted the salt in the cool spray that misted the air, heard hunger in the waves as they chewed the sand around her feet. She sometimes wondered what lay beyond the shore, in the uncharted depths of the sea.<\/p>\n

And if she\u2019d ever have the courage to find out.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s just that, I want to be a pastor, and . . . ,\u201d Matthew said, his voice closer to her.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd?\u201d She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, fighting a shiver.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re just not pastor\u2019s wife material.\u201d<\/p>\n

PJ refused to let his epitaph show on her face and found a voice that didn\u2019t betray her. \u201cDo you remember the last time we were out on the beach together?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? Uh . . . no . . . wait\u2014a couple weeks ago, we got ice cream on the pier.\u201d<\/p>\n

PJ closed her eyes. \u201cThat wasn\u2019t with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Silence. She didn\u2019t temper it.<\/p>\n

\u201cThen, no.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt was the night of the sea turtles. Remember, we had to use flashlights because they made all the residents along the shore turn off their outside lights? We had our arms woven together to keep from losing each other. I remember wondering if it was possible to read your thoughts, because I couldn\u2019t see your face.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe nearly walked on a sea turtle coming to shore,\u201d Matthew said, reminiscence in his tone. She glanced at him, and something like pain or concern emerged on his face, edged in the shadow of whiskers.<\/p>\n

PJ turned away, back to the ocean. \u201cI kept thinking\u2014that turtle mama\u2019s going to bury her babies onshore and never see them again. She was going to leave them to fend for themselves, to struggle back to the sea, tasty defenseless morsels diving into an ocean where they\u2019re the main course.\u201d<\/p>\n

She stared at her shoe, dangling in her hand. The wind ran its sticky fingers through her hair, tangling what had been a stylish short bob into a nest. Gooseflesh prickled her skin\u2014she was cold and hungry, but she\u2019d wrap herself in seaweed and dig a bunker in the sand before she\u2019d return to the restaurant with Matthew. Probably she could even find something to eat in her so-called suitcase.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you think they made it?\u201d She wasn\u2019t sure why she asked, why she prolonged this moment, their last. Probably trying to unravel time, as usual, figure out where it had snarled, turned into a knot.<\/p>\n

Matthew dug his foot into the sand, watching it. \u201cIf they were supposed to, I guess.\u201d He sighed. \u201cLet\u2019s go inside, PJ.\u201d<\/p>\n

PJ ran her eyes over the profile she\u2019d previously\u2014about an hour previously\u2014told herself she loved. His sharp jaw, that lean rectangle frame. Barefoot, she still came to nearly his chin.<\/p>\n

She wanted a taller man. \u201cYou\u2019ve got to be kidding.\u201d<\/p>\n

He frowned.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not doing this \u2018let\u2019s be friends\u2019 thing with you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBut we were friends before.\u201d He reached for her and she dodged him, raising her shoe.<\/p>\n

\u201cBack away.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhatya gonna do, PJ? Bean me with a shoe?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t tempt me.\u201d<\/p>\n

He shook his head. \u201cSee, this is why we\u2019d never work out. I need someone who is . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPerfect? Doesn\u2019t show her emotions?\u201d<\/p>\n

He raised his shoulder in an annoying shrug. \u201cPastor\u2019s wife material.\u201d<\/p>\n

Now he was going to get hurt. \u201cOh, that\u2019s rich. Coming from a former surfer with a scar where his eyebrow bar used to be. What happened to \u2018Ride the waves, PJ, and see where they take you\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n

His eyes darkened. \u201cI\u2019ve changed.\u201d<\/p>\n

And apparently she hadn\u2019t. \u201cGood-bye, Matthew. And by the way, yes, I hate crab legs. Because I\u2019m allergic to them. Pay attention.\u201d<\/p>\n

She kicked up sand as she marched across the beach, thankful she could see her condo\/motel\/efficiency\u2014depending on who she talked to\u2014in the distance. She\u2019d give just about anything for her Chuck Taylors to run home in. But she\u2019d dressed to kill, or at least for love, this evening in a floral sundress and new espadrilles that gave her a sort of out-of-body feminine feeling. She needed her Superman pajama pants and a tank top\u2014and fast.<\/p>\n

\u201cPJ! Don\u2019t run away!\u201d Matthew\u2019s voice lifted over the surf.<\/p>\n

\u201cRunning away is what I do best!\u201d She didn\u2019t turn.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy do you have to be such a drama queen?\u201d<\/p>\n

Okay. That. Was. It. She spun around, dropped her bag to the sand, and with everything in her, hurled her other shoe at him, a hard straight shot that any decent first baseman could have nabbed or at least dodged.<\/p>\n

His four-letter snarl into the night put the smallest of smiles on her lips as she turned away.<\/p>\n

The restless ocean stirred into the sounds of the club music as she hiked up the beach. She clung to the shadows, avoiding the pool of light from houses and condos, restaurants and caf\u00e9s.<\/p>\n

Not pastor\u2019s wife material.<\/p>\n

She broke into a little jog, hiking up the confining circle of her hem.<\/p>\n

Angling up the sand, she hopped over the boardwalk toward her building. Brine-scented sea grass brushed the walkway, carpeted the trail to the two-story Sandy Acres motel\/apartment complex, the half-lit sign now reading only \u201cSa d Ac es,\u201d a term that seemed particularly apropos as she opened the metal gate alone, again.<\/p>\n

Around the patio area, rusty pool furniture glimmered under the tinny, buzzing fluorescent lights. A horde of moths flirted with death around the heat of the bulbs; the earthy palmetto smell tangled with the coconut oil smeared onto the deck chairs, tempering the sharp odor of chlorine. Hip-hop thrummed under her downstairs neighbor\u2019s door, and wet towels taunted by the wind slapped the metal rail above her as she climbed the stairs to her unit.<\/p>\n

Home sweet home.<\/p>\n

A temporary home. Three years could mean temporary. In fact, until tonight, she\u2019d already been mentally packing, giving away her garage sale wicker and, finally, her Kellogg High School Mavericks sweatshirt. Maybe even Boone\u2019s leather jacket, the one she\u2019d stolen the night she left town. It seemed an uneven prize to all he\u2019d cost her.<\/p>\n

Her skin prickled as she fought the dead bolt.<\/p>\n

Boone had probably forgotten the girl who wound her arms around his waist and dug her face into the leathery pocket between his shoulder blades as he roared them away from Kellogg on his Kawasaki.<\/p>\n

Loneliness met her in the silence, the lights between the slats of the blinds striping the bedsheet that cordoned off her so-called bedroom. Her faucet dripped, and she dropped her key onto the counter, surrendering to the habitual attempt to turn it off. Then she ca-lumped her bag onto the chair, folded her arms, and stared out the window at the dark, hungry ocean.<\/p>\n

Almost without realizing it, she clamped her hand over her left shoulder, high, near the apex, where the word Boone marked her in flowery script.<\/p>\n

Beep. Behind her, the answering machine beckoned her away from the past and what might have been.<\/p>\n

Boone was probably in jail or, worse, reformed and married with children. The great taboo, he wasn\u2019t mentioned in her mother\u2019s phone calls; his name wasn\u2019t scrawled in her letters. She was sure he\u2019d forgotten her, just like everyone else had.<\/p>\n

Beep.<\/p>\n

Forgotten that she\u2019d left Kellogg, Minnesota, accused of a felony\u2014an accusation too easily pinned on a high school senior whose reputation indicted her without trial. Her only crime had been abysmal judgment in men and allowing her heart to trespass into places her common sense told her not to tread.<\/p>\n

A crime, apparently, she kept committing.<\/p>\n

Beep.<\/p>\n

Forgotten that her mother cut a deal with the director of the country club, one that included a full tank of gas and promises of a new kitchen. Her mother\u2019s instructions to her included the phrase \u201cjust until things blow over.\u201d<\/p>\n

Beep.<\/p>\n

Perhaps things had blown over long ago. Perhaps she was the one not ready.<\/p>\n

Beep!<\/p>\n

She pushed the Play button as she opened the freezer. Please let there be ice\u2014<\/p>\n

\u201cPJ, it\u2019s me.\u201d Connie. The fact that her sister\u2019s attorney-solemn voice tremored made PJ close the freezer door.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t panic.\u201d Of course not. Because Connie never called her without some earth-shattering joyful news: I passed the bar. I bought a house. I\u2019m having a baby. I\u2019m getting married again!<\/p>\n

PJ forced herself to remember that dissecting all that joy was the dark news of husband number one\u2019s death. No one, regardless of how successful, thin, wealthy, and smart, deserved to be woken up at 2 a.m. by the police and asked to identify her husband\u2019s remains. Or those of his mistress, with whom he\u2019d been traveling when his car went off the road.<\/p>\n

Still, PJ could hear panic under Connie\u2019s voice. Especially when Connie continued, a little too quickly.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, listen, I know you don\u2019t want to hear this, but . . . I need you to come home.\u201d<\/p>\n

Connie took a breath. And PJ held hers.<\/p>\n

\u201cMom\u2019s been in an accident.\u201d<\/p>\n

Everything went silent\u2014the hip-hop beating the floorboards, the far-off hunger of the ocean, Matthew\u2019s criticism in her ear. The years rushed at her like a line drive knocking her off her feet, regrets scattered like dust in her shadow.<\/p>\n

Then Connie sighed and hung up. The beep and time signature noted no further messages.<\/p>\n

PJ reached for the phone.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Connie sounded as if she might be on her fourth cup of coffee in some cement-lined corridor, tapping out the hour in her Jimmy Choos.<\/p>\n

\u201cPJ, where have you been? Mom\u2019s already had her cast set and is in recovery.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease, Connie, not now. Just . . . what happened?\u201d PJ pressed the phone tight to her ear and paced to the window, the ten-year near estrangement with her mother hollowing her out. Had her mother forgotten her silent pledge to carry on, to be waiting if and when PJ summoned the courage to point her car north?<\/p>\n

\u201cShe fell on the tennis court and broke her ankle.\u201d<\/p>\n

The window\u2019s cool surface broke the sweat across PJ\u2019s forehead. Tennis? \u201cFor pete\u2019s sake, Connie, I thought . . . oh, man . . . Don\u2019t call me again.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPJ!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you want to know how bad it is?\u201d<\/p>\n

PJ sank into a chair. \u201cHow bad is it?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey casted her ankle; her bones are secured with a pin. She\u2019ll be out of the hospital tomorrow. But I need you to come home. I\u2019m getting married in a week, and I need help.\u201d<\/p>\n

Married. Of course. PJ had seen a picture of Sergei, Connie\u2019s fianc\u00e9, and seriously wondered why a double-degreed lawyer might be marrying her tae kwon do coach. But who was she to question\u2014after all, she, a near felon, had dreamed she might pass as a pastor\u2019s wife.<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you two were eloping.\u201d PJ had managed to catch her breath and now returned to the freezer, cradled the phone against her shoulder, and dug out the Moose Tracks. As she opened the lid, crystallized edges and the smell of freezer burn elicited only a slight hesitation. She lifted a spoon from the dish drainer cup in the sink.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe were flying down to Canc\u00fan, but Sergei\u2019s parents couldn\u2019t get a visa for Mexico, so I planned a little soiree at the country club. But the thing is, I have vacation time coming, and if I don\u2019t use it, I\u2019ll lose it. So we need to get away now if we want a honeymoon, and Mom certainly can\u2019t watch David while she\u2019s in a cast. I need you, Peej.\u201d<\/p>\n

PJ leaned a hip against the counter and cleaned the sides of the carton, the chocolate swirls melting against the roof of her mouth\u2014sweet with only an edge of bitter.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo let me get this straight\u2014it\u2019s okay that you weren\u2019t going to invite me to the sunny sands of Mexico to watch you tie the knot with Mr. Muscle, but you want me to leave my life and return home at your whim?\u201d She kept her eyes averted from the threadbare wicker and the chipped Formica table and stomped the floor once, real loud, hoping the boyz in the hood might hear her over the rap.<\/p>\n

On the other end of the phone, Connie\u2019s voice wadded into a small, tight ball. \u201cI know how you feel about Kellogg and Boone and especially Mom, and frankly I don\u2019t blame you. I\u2019ve even tried to respect your decision. But it\u2019s time to come home. You have family here. I need you. David needs you. . . .\u201d<\/p>\n

PJ tossed the empty container into the sink, licked off the spoon. Down the street, a car peeled out in a hurry, and a dog barked in disapproval.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know how I feel? Really? Because you got to stay, Connie. After graduation, you went on to college, to a life. I left town right after the ceremony, a Tupperware bowl of fruit on the seat beside me, praying my ancient VW Bug would make it to the South Dakota border. I\u2019ve spent the past ten years wandering from one tank of gas to the next, trying to figure out where I should land. You lived the life Mom dreamed for you\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou lived the life you dreamed for yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

PJ flinched, Connie\u2019s voice sharper than she remembered. She stared out the window, wondering if Matthew still stood on the beach, a hand to his bruised head. \u201cIs that what you seriously believe?\u201d<\/p>\n

Silence on the other end made PJ rub her fingers into her eyes. Connie had become an unlikely ally over the past ten years, mediating between PJ and their mother, once in a while sending her enough to cover her rent. However, it still wasn\u2019t so easy to share the limelight with the sister who was wanted.<\/p>\n

As opposed to being the one left on the proverbial doorstep. Being adopted sounded so endearing to everyone but the adoptee. The fact that Connie had been born just a few months later, close enough to share the same classes in school, constantly earning better grades and more awards, only served as a constant reminder that PJ hadn\u2019t been good enough, even from birth.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d PJ said, letting a sigh leak out. \u201cI\u2019ve had a rough night.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen come home, PJ. If only for a couple weeks. Or longer. You can stay with me until you find your own place.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you ask Mom?\u201d PJ winced, hating the question and that she didn\u2019t yank it back. Hadn\u2019t she learned anything?<\/p>\n

\u201cI asked. Even if Mom won\u2019t admit it, she needs you.\u201d<\/p>\n

PJ stood at her screen door, staring out at the now star-sprinkled night glistening on the rippled landscape. The Milky Way streamed across the sky, heading north.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease?\u201d Admittedly, it was the closest to pleading she\u2019d ever heard from Connie. \u201cI need you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow long before your wedding?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSix days. Sunday at two.\u201d<\/p>\n

PJ hung up without promises and walked back outside, over the boardwalk to the beach. The wind had chased the clouds, and a diamond chip moon hung in the sky, surrounded by the jewels of the night, brilliant and close enough to wrap her fingers around. She pressed her bare feet into the sand, then lifted them out, listening to the water slurp, then fill the imprints. Finally, she stared out again at the ocean and wondered how many turtles really made it back to the sea.<\/p>\n

Excerpted from Nothing But Trouble by Susan May Warren. Copyright \u00a9 2009 by Susan May Warren. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[8],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1603","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1603"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1603"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1603\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1610,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1603\/revisions\/1610"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1603"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1603"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1603"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}