{"id":606,"date":"2008-10-06T16:16:25","date_gmt":"2008-10-06T21:16:25","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/\/?p=606"},"modified":"2008-10-06T16:16:25","modified_gmt":"2008-10-06T21:16:25","slug":"my-sister-dilly-by-maureen-lang","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/?p=606","title":{"rendered":"My Sister Dilly by Maureen Lang"},"content":{"rendered":"

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

It is time to play a Wild Card<\/span>!<\/strong> <\/span>Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour<\/a>. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his\/her book’s FIRST chapter!<\/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
Maureen Lang<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/div>\n

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

My Sister Dilly<\/a><\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

Tyndale House Publishers (September 10, 2008)<\/p>\n

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

\"\"<\/a>Maureen Lang has written three secular romance novels as well as Pieces of Silver, Remember Me, The Oak Leaves and On Sparrow Hill. She is the winner of multiple awards including the Noble Theme Award from American Christian Fiction Writers. Lang lives in suburban Chicago with her husband and three children.<\/p>\n

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

Product website<\/a><\/p>\n

Product Details:<\/p>\n

List Price: $ 12.99<\/p>\n

Paperback: 352 pages<\/p>\n

Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers (September 10, 2008)<\/p>\n

Language: English<\/p>\n

ISBN-10: 1414322240<\/p>\n

ISBN-13: 978-1414322247<\/p>\n

<\/embed><\/object><\/p>\n

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

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

The prison was in the middle of nowhere; at least that was how it seemed to me. Not many property owners must want a facility like that in their backyard, even one for women. So there were no crops of housing developments taking up farmland around here the way they seemed to everywhere else. Not that I thought much about farmland, even having grown up in the middle of it. The only green cornfields I\u2019d seen since I\u2019d left for college were from an airplane as I jetted from one end of the country to the other.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you here for the Catherine Carlson release?\u201d<\/p>\n

I looked up in surprise as not one but a half dozen people seemed to have appeared from nowhere. I\u2019d noticed a couple of vans and cars farther down the parking lot but hadn\u2019t seen any people until now. My gaze had been taken up by the prison, a forlorn place if ever I saw one. Even the entire blue sky wasn\u2019t enough to offset the building\u2019s ugliness. Block construction, painted beige like old oatmeal. If the cinder walls didn\u2019t give it away, the lack of windows made it clear it was an institution. The electric barbed wire fencing told what kind.<\/p>\n

Two men in my path balanced cameras on their shoulders, and in front of them a pair of pretty blonde journalists shoved microphones in my face while another thrust forth a palm-sized recorder. One on the fringe held an innocuous notepad.<\/p>\n

My first impulse was to run back to my car and speed away. But Dilly was waiting. I clamped my mouth shut, gripped the strap of my Betsey Johnson purse, and walked along the concrete strip leading to the doors of the prison. There was an invisible line at the gate that not a single reporter could penetrate. But I knew they\u2019d wait.<\/p>\n

At the front door, a woman greeted me through a glass window. Dilly was being \u201cprocessed,\u201d she told me, then said to have a seat. I turned, noticing the smell of inhospitable antiseptic for the first time. Hard wooden benches were the only place to sit. Evidently they thought the families of those in such a place needed to be punished too. I\u2019d have brought a book if I\u2019d known the wait was going to be so long; there wasn\u2019t even a magazine handy to help me pass the time.<\/p>\n

Only thoughts. Of how I would make up for my failures. I\u2019d told Mac, my best friend\u2014and somehow it seemed he\u2019d become my only friend\u2014that this was the first step in fixing things. Keeping a broken past in the past. Dilly\u2019s . . . and mine.<\/p>\n

I remembered the day our parents brought my sister home from the hospital just after she was born. The excitement was as welcome as the warmth of the sun shining through the bare trees that early March afternoon. Everyone smiled, and even though Mom was moving kind of slow up the stairs to our farmhouse, she smiled too. It was the kind of excitement you see when there\u2019s a new and hopeful change, like at weddings.<\/p>\n

I was five, and even at that age I knew my parents had waited a long time for my sister. I heard Mom say once that she\u2019d envisioned a houseful of kids, but the Lord hadn\u2019t seen fit to bless her with a productive womb. I think I wondered, even then, what my mother would have done with a bunch more kids when I seemed to be in the way of other things she did: lunches with friends she\u2019d known all her life; making decorative quilts and pillows she sold at fairs; canning fruits, pickles, and jam; or endless work on the farm. In retrospect maybe it was a surprise they\u2019d even had me and Dilly; she must have been so tired at the end of the day.<\/p>\n

I wondered later if everybody was happier because things you wait for seem better once you finally get them. But in recent years I thought everybody in town might have been relieved there weren\u2019t a whole slew of kids born into our family.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo take a seat, Hannah,\u201d Dad had said to me after Mom told us I couldn\u2019t hold the baby unless I was sitting down.<\/p>\n

I skipped over to Aunt Elsie on the couch and hopped up next to her, holding out my arms as my mother made the careful transfer. It wasn\u2019t like holding one of my dolls, even though the blanket was made of the same soft material my plastic babies enjoyed. Unlike my dolls, my sister was warm and squirmy. Dad told me not to hold her too tight, so I put her on my legs and pulled back the cover to get a good look at her.<\/p>\n

Her eyes were closed, and she wore a pink cotton bonnet. Even then, the straight lines of her brows had been drawn, which later filled in so well. Her cheeks were splotched red and white and her arms and legs moved in four different directions. When she opened her mouth, I saw her flat gums, no hint of the teeth to come someday. I thought she was the prettiest thing I\u2019d ever seen.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe\u2019s a dilly,\u201d I whispered to Aunt Elsie, who\u2019d taught me her favorite word for the things she liked. It came from a song called \u201cLavender Blue,\u201d and while my parents spent so much time at the hospital in those last couple of days, that was what my aunt and I had been doing\u2014going about farm chores singing of things being dilly.<\/p>\n

The name on my sister\u2019s birth certificate was Catherine Marie Williams, but neither Catherine nor Cathy nor even Marie ever stuck. She was Dilly from that day on.<\/p>\n

Nearly thirty years later, here I was, ready to bring Dilly back home to our farmhouse.<\/p>\n

Finally I heard something other than the distant sounds of an institution. Closer than the clatter of plates somewhere, something nearer than the echo of a call down a corridor. I heard the click of an automatic door lock, followed by the swish of air accompanying a passage opening.<\/p>\n

Dilly. Instead of prison orange, she wore regular street clothes. Was it possible she was taller? Did people grow in their twenties? She was still short, having taken from the same gene pool I\u2019d inherited, but I was barely an inch taller now. Spotting me right away, she dropped her black leather suitcase on the floor. For a moment the case looked vaguely familiar, but that thought was lost when I noted a shadow of someone standing next to Dilly. My eyes stayed on my sister. She flung herself at me before I had the chance to go to her.<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks for coming,\u201d she said, and her voice was so wobbly I knew she was fighting tears. I choked back my own.<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks?\u201d I repeated. Thanks? How could I not come?<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a long way from California.\u201d<\/p>\n

I laughed. \u201cYeah, another galaxy.\u201d<\/p>\n

The woman beside Dilly stepped closer and I couldn\u2019t ignore her any longer. She was tall and thin, dressed in jeans but with a more formal black jacket that somehow didn\u2019t look misplaced over the denim.<\/p>\n

I pulled myself away from Dilly and accepted the woman\u2019s handshake.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m Catherine\u2019s social worker, Amanda Mason. We just finished our exit session and she\u2019s all set to go.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dilly held up a folder. \u201cProbation rules, contact names, phone numbers.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cFormalities, Catherine,\u201d Amanda said. \u201cNothing out of the ordinary.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was always something of a surprise to me that others outside of our hometown knew my sister by any name but Dilly. She certainly looked ready to go home, wearing a spring jacket I hadn\u2019t seen before, carrying a suitcase I now recognized as one I\u2019d left behind when I headed to college so long ago.<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t know you\u2019d have luggage,\u201d I said when she picked up the black leather case. I didn\u2019t know what else to say.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe women are allowed to purchase certain necessities during their stay. Clothes, mostly.\u201d<\/p>\n

I knew that, because Mom had told me I could send Dilly money\u2014no cash, just cashier\u2019s checks or money orders, no more than fifty dollars at a time\u2014but somehow I never connected that money with actual purchases. It wasn\u2019t like there could be a regular store inside a prison.<\/p>\n

\u201cSocks,\u201d Dilly said with a grin. \u201cMy feet still get cold.\u201d<\/p>\n

When we were little, we shared a full-size bed, before our parents finally bought a set of twin beds. I still remember her icicle feet in winter. \u201cYou have a suitcase full of socks?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust about. They never let me keep them all in one place till today. Guess I didn\u2019t know I had so many.\u201d Then she turned to the other woman and set the suitcase down again. \u201cThanks, Amanda. You\u2014\u201d Something caught in her throat, and she stopped herself. \u201cYou did so much for me.\u201d She put both of her hands on the woman\u2019s forearms, and the social worker didn\u2019t even flinch.<\/p>\n

Amanda shifted her arms to take Dilly\u2019s hands in hers. \u201cI haven\u2019t done enough,\u201d she said. \u201cNot nearly enough.\u201d<\/p>\n

They hugged and I watched, wondering if the prison movies I\u2019d stopped watching since Dilly\u2019s arrest had given me the wrong impression. No hint of inmate animosity toward those in power here.<\/p>\n

\u201cKeep praying, though, will you? I won\u2019t stop needing that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t even have to ask.\u201d<\/p>\n

Then Dilly slipped away and I had to turn and follow her or be left behind.<\/p>\n

Prayer. That was what Dilly had asked for. All our life we\u2019d been told to pray. On our knees, right after we got up, right before going to bed, and as often as possible in between. I might have had faith as a child, but by the time I was in high school, I began wondering what I was praying to. Some light in the sky that saw all the suffering in this world and didn\u2019t lift a finger\u2014a supposedly all-powerful finger\u2014to do something about it?<\/p>\n

I\u2019d given up prayer years ago; spiritually, long before I left home for college. Physically, once I stepped foot outside my parents\u2019 home. I eyed Dilly, trying to see if she\u2019d been serious about the request or said it because that was what the other woman wanted to hear. But Dilly was looking ahead, walking out the door.<\/p>\n

The reporters were still there when we stepped outside. I meant to warn Dilly, to make some sort of plan about getting to the car as fast as we could, telling her in advance which way to go.<\/p>\n

But when Dilly came upon them, instead of hustling past, to my amazement she stopped. For a moment she looked to the ground, then to me, and I thought I saw a hint of uncertainty before she took an audible breath. \u201cI just want to say one thing.\u201d Her voice trembled slightly, and she paused long enough to look down at the sidewalk again, then at each one of the reporters.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen I did what I did so long ago, I didn\u2019t have any hope. When I stepped into this place, I didn\u2019t have hope. But that\u2019s all changed now because of the Lord Jesus.\u201d<\/p>\n

I stared, aware of the silence that followed as the reporters waited to see if she was finished. But that wasn\u2019t why I couldn\u2019t find words or even the gumption to pull her along to the car. What was she talking about? Between this obviously rehearsed statement and the request for prayer, it was as if she\u2019d \u201cdone found Jesus,\u201d as Grandpa used to say.<\/p>\n

A barrage of questions shot from the reporters.<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you going to see your daughter?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you going to try to regain custody?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHas your husband forgiven you for what you did?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dilly didn\u2019t answer a single question. Instead, she looked at me, then toward the parking lot. It took the briefest moment for me to realize she didn\u2019t know where to go, which car was mine, so I led the way. I pressed the keyless remote to unlock her door before she reached it. She struggled a moment to get her bag into the rear seat, then settled herself just as I slid behind the wheel.<\/p>\n

One of the reporters, the one I\u2019d mistakenly believed harmless because the only technology he held was a pad of paper, had followed us to the car. He tapped on the window. I saw Dilly reach for the button, but quicker than her, I touched the window lock.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was only going to crack it,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you really want to hear what he has to say?\u201d<\/p>\n

He was yelling now, his young, impassioned face nearly pressed to the glass. \u201cDid it take prison to teach you you\u2019re not the one to take matters into your own hands? that your daughter\u2019s life is just as important as anyone else\u2019s?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dilly and I exchanged glances. I put the car in reverse; there was something militant about the young man that made me want to get away from him, spare Dilly from anything else he had to say. I\u2019d seen judgment in people\u2019s eyes before and I was sure Dilly had too. This guy might be a reporter, but he wasn\u2019t an unbiased one. If such a kind existed.<\/p>\n

Dilly stared at him, the brows everyone noticed on her, so thick, so dramatic, now drawn. A moment ago she\u2019d found the courage to speak about something most people kept to themselves: faith. Now she looked like the Dilly I\u2019d known when we shared the same roof. Timid, malleable. Maybe hoping I would take her away as fast as I could.<\/p>\n

I backed out of the spot even as a thousand questions came to my mind too. I wanted to resist asking, though, unlike the guy with the notepad. His emphasis had been all wrong. He\u2019d asked about the effect of prison, unconcerned about what Dilly really believed these days.<\/p>\n

I still felt awkward after being away from her so long. But even that wasn\u2019t enough to keep me quiet. Once an older, wiser sibling, always so. I figured it gave me the right to be nosy.<\/p>\n

\u201cDid you mean what you said back there?\u201d Since I was navigating out of the now-busy parking lot, I had to focus on driving, avoiding the need for eye contact.<\/p>\n

\u201cAbout Jesus?\u201d She looked behind us at the reporters now packing up. \u201cWouldn\u2019t have said it if I didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat did you mean?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust what I said.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t know how to rephrase the question to get an answer I could understand, so I found the silence I probably should have stayed with. Once we pulled away from the prison grounds, Dilly touched my forearm much as she had the social worker\u2019s. I spared a quick glance, keeping both hands on the wheel.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve changed, Hannah. God changed me.\u201d<\/p>\n

I wasn\u2019t yet sure I believed her. I wasn\u2019t the only one who\u2019d grown up in a house where rules were more important than people, work more important than any kind of play, keeping up an appearance of holiness more important than living a holy life. We\u2019d both vowed never to set foot in a church once we moved out of our parents\u2019 house, and I\u2019d kept my end. I thought Dilly had too. I knew she\u2019d stopped going to church after she got married. But lately . . . Did they even have church in prison?<\/p>\n

\u201cSince when has God done anything for either one of us, Dil?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wanted to write you, tell you all about it\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cRight.\u201d Even I heard the cynicism. I\u2019d received exactly three letters from her the entire six years she\u2019d been in prison, despite the hundreds I\u2019d written. Well, one hundred, anyway. That first year. After that I just sent money orders as I made my plans. True, I\u2019d made those plans without input from her, but I\u2019d made them to benefit both of us.<\/p>\n

Her eyes, brown like two spots of oversteeped tea, shone with sudden, yet-to-be-shed tears. \u201cYou know me, Hannah. I\u2019m a talker, not a writer. I tried a thousand times to write, but every time I did, my brain froze. I can\u2019t explain it on paper. It\u2019s something I wanted to tell you in person.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about last Christmas? I visited you then.\u201d<\/p>\n

She let out something that sounded a little like a Ha! but not quite as cynical as me. \u201cIn front of Mom and Dad? Are you kidding? I couldn\u2019t explain it with them there.\u201d She sat back in her seat, and laughter squeezed out one tear, leaving her eyes dry. \u201cNot that everybody wouldn\u2019t have liked to see a good argument\u2014from Mom and Dad about what grace and forgiveness really mean and from you about . . . about everything. The inmates would\u2019ve laid bets for a winner, except if nobody drew blood they wouldn\u2019t have been able to figure out who won.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t know if she was being sarcastic or not, since our family didn\u2019t argue. We hid all our resentment and anger, especially from each other. Even now I held my tongue. For a moment I felt like I was back home, preparing to listen to one of Dad\u2019s endless sermons at the family altar he\u2019d set up in the corner of the living room.<\/p>\n

I sucked in a breath. \u201cOkay, let\u2019s have it, then.\u201d<\/p>\n

But Dilly didn\u2019t reply. She shook her head, her whole body facing me instead of the dashboard. \u201cI will tell you, Hannah. Everything. But not right now. Not yet. I need to know something first.\u201d<\/p>\n

I glanced at her again, prepared for the questions I knew she\u2019d ask.<\/p>\n

\u201cHave you seen Sierra?\u201d<\/p>\n

I nodded. \u201cYesterday.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey let you? Nick\u2019s mother let you\u2014you know, in the same room? You talked to her? How is she?\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head. \u201cI went to her school. They wouldn\u2019t let me into her classroom, but they told me she was there. That she\u2019s all right. Then I waited outside until the buses came, and . . .\u201d I was tempted to lie, to tell her I\u2019d seen Sierra close enough to prove what the school receptionist had said, that Dilly\u2019s daughter was okay. \u201cI saw all the kids get on their buses, and they looked happy.\u201d<\/p>\n

Whatever joy, whatever light I\u2019d seen in Dilly\u2019s eyes since the moment she mentioned her daughter\u2019s name began to fade before I\u2019d even finished talking.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo she wouldn\u2019t let you see her?\u201d<\/p>\n

There was no way I\u2019d describe the phone conversation I\u2019d had with Nick\u2019s mother; I didn\u2019t use that kind of language. Nick had never really taken charge of his own daughter\u2019s care, but his mother had taken full responsibility for Sierra. One thing she\u2019d stipulated: no visits from anyone in our family.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got to see her,\u201d Dilly said, so low I barely heard her.<\/p>\n

I knew seeing her daughter was only the beginning. I knew what she really wanted, but I wasn\u2019t sure what I wanted. Did I really want a fight to restore everything to the way it used to be or should have been? What if we won?<\/p>\n

But I reminded myself that when determination was greater than fear, people could do just about anything, even take charge of someone like Sierra.<\/p>\n

All I had to do now was make sure that determination stayed stronger than my fears. All I had to do was convince myself, and then Dilly, that I wouldn\u2019t let my fears stand in the way.<\/p>\n

Because if I knew Dilly\u2014and I still did, even when she seemed different\u2014my guess was that our future held three of us together. Somehow, in some way.<\/p>\n

Me, Dilly, and her daughter, Sierra.<\/p>\n

But not God.<\/p><\/div>\n

MY REVIEW:<\/h3>\n

My Sister Dilly<\/a> is a gripping narrative about two sisters who have returned to their home town after years away. Dilly has come home after several years in prison for a shocking crime and her sister Hannah has come back to support her. It is a story that deals with some hard issues that may encourage the reader to view similar situations with more compassion in the future.<\/p>\n

Hannah’s strong sense of guilt and false responsibility caused her to put her entire life on hold at Dilly’s imprisonment. Willing to give up everything that mattered to her, she vowed to make it up to Dilly whose response was unexpected. Yet in the midst of difficult family dynamics and events, God’s grace and mercy overflowed.<\/p>\n

Maureen Lang’s realistic characters and settings made it easy for me to empathize with them. I found myself a bit impatient with Hannah as she struggled with her issues and sympathetic with Dilly’s reaction to her attempts to help. I enjoyed the book with the exception of one small matter. As a life long country girl, I was bothered by the definition given for chitlins. I’m sure it is a petty thing, but I wish authors would be a little more careful with their research.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his\/her book’s FIRST chapter! You never know when […]<\/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-606","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/606","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=606"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/606\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":617,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/606\/revisions\/617"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=606"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=606"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.daysongreflections.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=606"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}