{"id":2489,"date":"2009-09-07T01:44:13","date_gmt":"2009-09-07T06:44:13","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=2489"},"modified":"2009-09-06T16:46:02","modified_gmt":"2009-09-06T21:46:02","slug":"never-the-bride-by-cheryl-mckay-rene-gutteridge-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=2489","title":{"rendered":"Never the Bride by Cheryl McKay & Rene Gutteridge"},"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 authors are: <\/strong><\/div>\n
Cheryl McKay <\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

\n<\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n
AND<\/p>\n

<\/span><\/strong><\/strong><\/div>\n

Rene Gutteridge<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/strong><\/div>\n

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

Never the Bride<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/strong><\/p>\n

WaterBrook Press (June 2, 2009)<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

\"\"<\/a>Cheryl McKay is the co-author (with Frank Peretti) of the Wild and Wacky, Totally True Bible Stories series, which has sold nearly 200,000 copies, and the screenwriter of the award-winning film The Ultimate Gift.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Visit the author’s website<\/a>.
\n
\n<\/code>
\n<\/code>
\n\"\"<\/a>
\nRene Gutteridge has published thirteen novels including Ghost Writer, My Life as a Doormat, the Boo Series, the Occupational Hazards Series, and the Storm Series. Together, McKay and Gutteridge are the authors of The Ultimate Gift, a novelization based on the feature film and popular book by the same title.<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

Product Details:<\/strong><\/p>\n

List Price: $13.99
\nPaperback: 320 pages
\nPublisher: WaterBrook Press (June 2, 2009)
\nLanguage: English
\nISBN-10: 0307444988
\nISBN-13: 978-0307444981<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

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

You don\u2019t know me yet, so there is no reason you should care that I\u2019m stuck on a highway with a blowout. But maybe we can relate to each other. Maybe you can understand that when I say, \u201cEverything goes my way,\u201d I\u2019m being sarcastic. Not that I\u2019m usually dependent on such a primitive form of communication. I\u2019m actually not very cynical at all. I\u2019m more of a glass-half-full-of-vitamin-infused-water person. Sometimes I even believe that if I dream something, or at least journal it, it will happen. But today, at eight forty-five in the morning, as the sun bakes me like a cod against the blacktop of the Pacific Coast Highway, I\u2019m feeling a bit sarcastic.<\/strong><\/p>\n

It\u2019s February but hotter than normal, which means a long, hot California summer is ahead\u2014the kind that seems to bring out the beauty in blondes and the sweat glands in brunettes. I am a brunette. Not at all troubled by it. I don\u2019t even have my hair highlighted. I own my brunetteness and always have, even when Sun-In was all the rage. And it can\u2019t be overstated that chlorine doesn\u2019t turn my medium chestnut hair green. Actually, it\u2019s the copper, not the chlorine, that turns hair green\u2014but that\u2019s a useless trivia fact I try to save for speed dating.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019m squatting next to my flat tire, examining the small rip. Holding my hair back and off my neck with one hand, I stand and look up and down the road, hoping to appear mildly distressed. Inside, I\u2019ll admit it, I\u2019m feeling moderately hysterical. My boss flips out when I\u2019m late. It wouldn\u2019t matter if my appendix burst, he doesn\u2019t want to hear excuses. I wish he were the kind of guy who would just turn red in the face and yell, like Clark Kent\u2019s newspaper boss. But no. He likes to lecture as if he\u2019s an intellectual, except he\u2019s weird and redundant and clich\u00e9, so it\u2019s painful and boring.<\/strong><\/p>\n

A few cars zoom by, and I suddenly realize this could be my moment. Part of me says not to be ridiculous, because this kind of thing happens only on shows with a ZIP code or county name in the title. But still, you can\u2019t help wondering, hoping, that maybe this is the moment when your life will change. When you meet your soul mate.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Like I said, I enjoy my glass\/life half full.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Even as an optimist, I see no harm in being a little aggressive to achieve my goals. So with my free hand, I do a little wave, throw a little smile, and attempt to lock eyes with people going fifty miles an hour.<\/strong><\/p>\n

And then I see him. He\u2019s in a red convertible, the top down, the black sunglasses shiny and tight against his tan skin. He\u2019s wearing pink silk the way only a man with a good, measured amount of confidence can. At least that\u2019s the way I see it from where I\u2019m standing.<\/strong><\/p>\n

As he gets closer, his head turns and he notices me. I do a little wave, flirtatious with a slight hint of unintentional taxi hailing. I decide to smile widely, because he is going fast and I might look blurry. He smiles back. My hand falls to my side. I step back, lean against my car, and try to make my conservative business suit seem flattering. There\u2019s nothing I can do about my upper lip sweating except hope my sweat proof department-store makeup is holding up its end of the bargain better than my blowout-proof tire did.<\/strong><\/p>\n

He seems to be slowing down.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Live in the moment, I instruct myself. Don\u2019t think about what I should say or what I could say. Just let it roll, Jessie, let it roll. Don\u2019t over think it.<\/strong><\/p>\n

This thought repeats itself when the convertible zooms by. I think he actually accelerated.<\/strong><\/p>\n

So.<\/strong><\/p>\n

My makeup is failing, along with whatever charm I thought I had. I just can\u2019t imagine what kind of guy wouldn\u2019t stop and help a woman.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Maybe I\u2019d have more hits if I were elderly.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I do what I have to do. What I know how to do. I change my own stupid tire. Yes, I can, and have been able to since I was eighteen. I can also change my own oil but don\u2019t because then I appear capable of taking care of myself. And I\u2019m really not. Practically, yes, I can take care of myself. I make decent money. I drive myself home from root canals. I open cans without a can opener. I\u2019m able to survive for three days in the forest without food or water, and I never lost sleep over Y2K.<\/strong><\/p>\n

But I\u2019m talking about something different. I\u2019m talking about being taken care of in an emotional way. Maybe it\u2019s a genetic problem. I don\u2019t know. Somehow I became a hopeless romantic. A friend tried the exorcism equivalent of purging me of this demon when she made me watch The War of the Roses two times in a row, all under the guise of a girls\u2019 night, complete with popcorn and fuzzy slippers.<\/strong><\/p>\n

That didn\u2019t cure me.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I want to be married. I hate being alone.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I lift the blown-out tire and throw it in my trunk, slamming it closed. My skin looks like condensation off a plastic cup. I can\u2019t believe nobody has stopped. Not even a creepy guy. I stand there trying to breathe, trying to get a hold of my anger. I\u2019m going to be late, I\u2019m going to be sweaty, and I\u2019m on the side of a highway alone.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cYou need some help?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I whirl around because I realize that I\u2019ve just been hoping that even a creepy guy would stop, and since my world works in a way that Only my negative thoughts seem to come to pass, you can see why the glass-half-full is so important.<\/strong><\/p>\n

The morning sun blinds me, and all I see is a silhouette. The voice is deep, kind of mature.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, I did need some help,\u201d I say, fully aware that acting cute is not going to undo the sweat rings that have actually burst through three layers of fabric, so I don\u2019t bother. I dramatically gesture to my car and try a smile. \u201cBut as you can see, I don\u2019t now.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re sure?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cYes. But thank you very much,\u201d I say, for stopping after I\u2019m completely finished. I trudge back to my car and start the air conditioner. Glancing back in my rearview mirror, I study the silhouette. He sort of has the same shape as the guy in my dream last night. My night-mare. It was actually a dream after my nightmare, where you feel awake but you\u2019re not. It wasn\u2019t the nocturnal version of Chainsaw Massacre, but it did involve taffeta.<\/strong><\/p>\n

He doesn\u2019t wave. He doesn\u2019t move. He just stands there, exactly like the guy in my dream. It\u2019s very d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu\u2013like and I lock my doors. I put my blinker on, pull onto the highway, and leave him behind, driving below the speed limit on my flimsy spare tire all the way to work.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I work at Coston Real Estate. We\u2019re squeezed between a wireless store and a Pizza Hut. We stand out a little because of our two huge dark wood doors, ten feet tall and adorned with silver handles.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I push open one of the doors and walk in. Mine is the front desk. It\u2019s tall, almost Berlin Wall\u2013like. People have to peer over it to see me, and I look very small on the other side. When I\u2019m sitting, I can barely see over the top of it.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I walk toward the break room, past nine square cubicles, all tan and otherwise colorless. Even the carpet is tan. On my left are the real offices with walls.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nicole, inside her cubicle, sees me. \u201cWhat happened to you?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

We\u2019ve been good friends ever since I started working here, ten years ago. She\u2019s African American, two years younger than I am. She has that kind of expression I wish I could wear. Her eyebrows slant upward toward each other, like a bridge that\u2019s opening to let a boat through. It\u2019s part You\u2019re weird and part I\u2019m worried. She has sass and I love it. She\u2019s working her way up to senior agent and is one of Mr. Coston\u2019s favorites, but I don\u2019t hold that against her.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I don\u2019t answer because I\u2019m busy staring at her new eight-by-ten framed family picture. It\u2019s very Picture People: white background, casual body language, all four wearing identical polo\u2019s and jeans. I love that kind of husband, who will wear matching clothes with his family. They\u2019re so adorable.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cJessie, seriously girl, you okay? You\u2019ve got black smeared across<\/strong><\/p>\n

your forehead.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I tear my eyes away from the photo. \u201cBlowout on the highway.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

The eyebrow bridge is lowered, and she chuckles. \u201cHoney, you look like you changed your own tire.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I put my forehead against the edge of her cube wall. \u201cI did.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cOh. Wow. I wish I knew how to change a tire.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you don\u2019t. Trust me.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

She reaches under her desk and pulls out a neatly wrapped gift. \u201cFor you.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I smile. I love gifts. I drop my things and tear it open even though I already know what it is. \u201cNicole, it\u2019s beautiful!\u201d It\u2019s a leather-bound journal with gold embossed lettering and heavy lined paper inside. \u201cWhat\u2019s the occasion?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s February. I know how much this month\u2026Well, it tends to be a long month for you, that\u2019s all.\u201d She points to the spine of it. \u201cIt sort of reminds me of the one I brought you back from Italy four years ago. Remember?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, it does.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cSo, my friend, happy February. May this month bring you\u2014\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cLove.\u201d From my bag, I pull out a folder and slap it on her desk.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is this?\u201d She says it like a mom who has just been handed a disappointing report card.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cJust look.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

Carefully, like something might jump out and insult her, she opens the folder. She picks up three glossy photos of several potential loves of my life.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re hot, aren\u2019t they?\u201d I ask.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cToo hot,\u201d she says.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cThere\u2019s no such thing as too hot.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cSuspiciously too hot, like an airbrush might be involved.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I grab the photos from her and turn them around for her to see. With my finger, I underline each of their names: Cute Bootsie Boo, Suave One You Want, One Of A Kind Man.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cJessie Cute Bootsie Boo. Mmm. Doesn\u2019t have a good ring to it.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s their instant message names, Nicole.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cYes. And that makes it better?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I sigh. \u201cYou have got to get into the twenty-first century, you know. This is the best way to meet a guy.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cYou can tell a lot about a man by what he names himself.\u201d She looks up at me and shakes her head. \u201cSeriously. You set up a date with one of these and they\u2019ll show up with a beer gut, a walker, or a rap sheet.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cNone of them rap.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nicole stands, grabs my arm with one hand and my stuff with the other, and whisks me to my desk. She nearly pushes me into my chair and drops everything in front of me.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cChill out,\u201d I say as she walks away. \u201cThis service guarantees background checks. But if you happen to end up needing a restraining order, they\u2019ll pay for it.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nicole gasps and whirls around.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m kidding.\u201d But I have her attention now. I lean back in my chair, looking at the ceiling as my hands feel the leather on my new journal. \u201cThis\u2019ll be the year, Nicole.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cYou say that every year. Especially in February, which is why I got you the–\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I snap forward. \u201cBut I\u2019ve never taken control like this before. Three online match sites, one dating service. They find what you want or your money back.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nicole walks back toward me and leans over the counter. \u201cI didn\u2019t realize QVC sold dates. If you order in the next ten minutes, do you get two for the price of one, plus an eight-piece Tupperware set?\u201d She reaches for my chocolate bowl.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I scowl at her but lift the bowl up so she can reach it. \u201cWhat do you know about it? You got married right out of college.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t remind me.\u201d She carefully unwraps her candy and takes a mini-bite.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cYou never even had to try.\u201d I grab a piece of dark chocolate out of my candy bowl and get the whole thing in my mouth before she takes another bite of hers.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nicole shrugs and leans against the counter. \u201cSometimes you just gotta leave these things up to fate.\u201d She goes back to nibbling on her chocolate.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I swirl my hands in the air. \u201cFate, God, the universe. They\u2019ve all been asleep on the job of setting up a love story for me.\u201d I stand up. \u201cNo. I am going to make this happen myself.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nicole doesn\u2019t look up from her candy. \u201cDo you even know what it means to be married? To be chained to another person for the rest of your life? To pick up socks and wash underwear and care for a grown man like he\u2019s just popped out of infancy? Huh?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I glare at her even though she\u2019s got eyes only for her candy. \u201cIt\u2019s got to be better than being alone. Or being a bridesmaid eleven times.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

She bites her lip and finally glances at me. \u201cBut you know how\u2026you kind of need everything to be a certain way.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I nudge my stapler so it isn\u2019t perfectly perpendicular to my sticky notes, just to show her I\u2019m able to handle disorder. I try not to stare at it because now it\u2019s really bugging me. \u201cAre you saying I\u2019m a control freak?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cWith OCD tendencies. You can\u2019t expect everything to be exactly how you want it if you want to live through a marriage.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I stand and start walking slowly toward the bathroom. \u201cI know what \u2018compromise\u2019 means.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nicole follows. \u201cThen why do you get mad when I have to check with my husband before we go out? That\u2019s what marriage is. You can\u2019t even poop without someone else knowing.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I glance at her to see if she\u2019s serious. She is. Part of me wants to tell her about my dream last night. I always tell her about my dreams. But she\u2019s really pooping on my parade today. We get to her desk and she sits down. I walk on.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I have these dreams. I\u2019m talking nocturnal, not journal. Yeah, I dream in my journal. I admit it. I\u2019ve written in one since I was fourteen, when I found a strange delight every time I drew a heart with a boy\u2019s name attached in squiggly letters.<\/strong><\/p>\n

But back to my nightmare. It started with me in a wedding dress. That\u2019s not the nightmare. That part was actually cool because I was in a dress I designed in my journal when I was twenty-two.<\/strong><\/p>\n

The march was playing. I love the \u201cBridal March.\u201d Nothing can replace it. I cringe every time I hear a country song or bagpipes or something. My wedding, it\u2019s got to be traditional.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I was making my way down the aisle, rhythmically elegant, one foot in front of the other. My shoulders were thrown back, my chin lifted, and my bouquet held right at my waist. I once saw a bride carry her bouquet all the way down the aisle holding it at her chest. I shudder just talking about it.<\/strong><\/p>\n

The train fluttered behind me, like it\u2019s weightless or maybe there\u2019s an ocean breeze not too far away. It was long, bright white, and caused people to nod their approval.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I smiled.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Then the \u201cBridal March\u201d stopped, halting like a scratched record. I looked up to find another bride in my place, wearing my dress, standing next to my guy. I couldn\u2019t see what he looked like; he was facing the pastor. But the bride, she looked back at me with menacing eyes, overdone with teal eye shadow and fake lashes.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I screamed. I couldn\u2019t help it. I closed my eyes and screamed again. When I opened them, I could hardly believe what I was looking at. A church full of people, looking at her. And what was I doing? Standing next to her in a bridesmaid dress.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Gasping, I looked down. Hot pink! With dyed-to-match shoes! I glanced next to me and covered my mouth. It was me again, standing next to me, in green. Dyed footwear.<\/strong><\/p>\n

And there I was again, standing next to my lime self, this time in canary yellow. On and on it goes. I counted ten of me before I woke up, gasping for air, clutching myself to make sure I was wearing cotton pajamas.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cThank God,\u201d I said, but as I looked up, I saw a man in my room. He was backlit against my window, like the moon was shining in on him, but I don\u2019t think the moon was out. A scream started forming in my throat, but I recognized that he was not in a stance that indicated he was going to stab me to death. There was no knife. Nothing but an easy, casual lean against my windowsill. Truly, no less scary.<\/strong><\/p>\n

The scream arrived as I clamored for my lamp. I yanked the string three or four times before it turned on, but when it did, the man was gone.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I realize I am standing in the middle of the hallway near Nicole\u2019s desk. She is gabbing on the phone but looking at me funny. I go to the coat closet next to the bathroom. I always, always keep a spare change of clothes at work, just in case I have to do something like change my tire. Or someone else\u2019s. It\u2019s happened. I take out my least favorite suit, which is why I keep it here. It\u2019s lilac with a boxy neckline that makes me feel like I should be a nanny. I head toward the bathroom.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cStone, get me the ad copy for the new Hope Ranch listings.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

This is my boss, Mr. Coston, dragging me back to reality. He pops his head out the door as I pass by but yells at me like I\u2019m down the hall. I don\u2019t think he even remembers my first name.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cAlready on your desk, sir,\u201d I say.<\/strong><\/p>\n

He\u2019s in his sixties, with a loud but raspy voice and shiny silver hair that tops a permanent look of disappointment. \u201cWhat happened to you?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cBlown tire.\u201d I hold up my suit. \u201cI was just going to change.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cFine. Then get me a latte. Lighten up on the sugar, will you?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cRight,\u201d I mumble as he disappears. \u201cLighten up on life, will you?\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019m the office equivalent of a bat boy. I\u2019m the coffee girl. It\u2019s this one thing that sort of drives me crazy about my job. I do a lot of important things, but when I have to run get coffee, I feel like I\u2019m falling down the rungs of the occupational ladder. It makes me wonder. If I had a job I could get passionate about, would I be so desperate for a husband? I could drown myself in work rather than my dreams.<\/strong><\/p>\n

Well, either way, I\u2019m drowning, and that\u2019s never good.<\/strong><\/p>\n

After I change and decide I really, really dislike the color lilac, I grab my purse and head for the neighborhood Starbucks. It\u2019s five blocks away and I like that. It gives me time to walk and think on such things as to why Mr. Coston has been married for thirty-four years, the exact number of years I haven\u2019t been married. He doesn\u2019t mention his wife much and doesn\u2019t even have a picture of her in his office. He doesn\u2019t wear a wedding band, and when he does take a vacation, it\u2019s with his buddies to golf resorts.<\/strong><\/p>\n

It just seems like the world could better balance itself out, that\u2019s all.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019m nearly to Starbucks. People are leaving with their white and green cups of bliss. The putrid smell of coffee will soon replace the putrid smell of old rainwater evaporating underneath the sun. I\u2019m not a coffee fan. I\u2019m high strung. The feeling everyone wants by drinking coffee I have naturally, just like my chestnut hair.<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019m about to open the door, and then I see him, in all his glory.<\/strong><\/div>\n

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

To read my June 15 review of Never the Bride<\/a>, click here<\/a>.<\/strong><\/p>\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":[8,39,41],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2489","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books","category-chick-lit","category-romance"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2489","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"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=2489"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2489\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2497,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2489\/revisions\/2497"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2489"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2489"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2489"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}