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Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch


Right now I want to write about the courage of the human spirit. In particular, the spirit locked within the adolescent breast of my thirteen-year-old son.

Right now I want to write about his witness, about his goodness, about his compassion.

Last night my son stepped into the icy waters of an ice-rimed Ohio lake, in an attempt to save a soul. As gray eyes locked with brown, he watched the light dim from the frightened orbs of another being, yet continued to fight to bring the dying form to shore.

Gently he laid the still body upon frost-covered ground, his heart filled with love for the hapless soul who had minutes earlier breathed in the chill snow-scented air of Central Ohio. Then my son wept.

To some it would have seemed trivial, even comical, and they would have laughed. They would have ridiculed someone who would step into frigid waters to save a wild animal, who would have fought to save a nothing – a pest; who would have struggled to save a rabbit that had just happened to get in the way of a dog bred to the chase…but not my son. He stayed with the tiny animal until someone could come to remove him. Gently stroking the wet fur, my son prayed to Creator to accept His child into His arms. Then my son came home to me, his mother, and wept some more.

Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch

Best Selling Baby Boomer Author, Debra Shiveley Welch of Westerville, Ohio, is a writer to be reckoned with in the literary world! In just a few short months, her book Son of My Soul: The Adoption of Christopher jumped all the way to the Top 20 on

In a recent review by MidWest Books, senior reviewer Shirley Johnson wrote:

"I believe it is true that God anoints the pen of some writers to bring forth words from their heart to those with a specific need. In my opinion, author Debra Shiveley Welch has the anointing of the Lord upon her words in her newest work, Son of My Soul - The Adoption of Christopher, as she tells the story of her adoption of her beloved son, Christopher ... Her story and Christopher's is one you will treasure and remember in your heart for a long time to come...One that will bring a tear and a smile. A story of horror, pain, and rejection that is replaced with courage, hope, faith, love and victory. This is a book every adoptive parent should read, and every person who has a child of their heart, for in this read you will find the true meaning of love."


Order at:,, or"

Beverly Mahone, Founder – Baby Boomer Divas Wall of Fame

Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch
I am Your Mirror
I am your mirror.  When you look into my eyes,
You see how beautiful you are.
When you enter a room, my heart lifts up to meet you;
A smile of greeting lights me up from within.
I am your mirror.  When you look into my eyes,
You see love, as my soul embraces yours,
Revealing to you just how wonderful you are:
My friend, my heart, my son.
Excerpt from Son of My Soul – The Adoption of Christopher

Like most of us, I am sure you have experienced the chance meeting on the street, or in a store, of someone that you have not seen for a long time.  You recognize them, call their name, and they turn to see who has called.  It is then, when they realize who you are, that you decide if you are happy or sorry that you reached out to them.  It’s in their face; their face is your mirror.
What do you see in their reaction?  Is it happy excitement, or is it that “Oh, no, not them” look?  Does it make you feel good about yourself, or do you feel humiliated, embarrassed and sorry you didn’t just pass by without saying a word?
Now, imagine your child entering a room.  When you turn to greet them, what does he or she see in your face, your eyes ... their mirror?
Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch

Rising up from grasses wet with an early dew, a wispy mist floated above the gently sloping earth.

Lightening bugs, like so many twinkling emeralds on black velvet, had long disappeared, and a faint outline of the Appalachian Highway below was just beginning to emerge.

The crow of a rooster, crying out the arrival of dawn, greeted my ear; the faint sound of lowing cattle soon followed. Dogs barking filled the air with a friendly, excited yipping. The farm was waking up, and soon the hungry clamor of grunting pigs and neighing horses, clucking chickens and quacking ducks, would add their voices to the symphony of sounds common to a successful farm.

This would be my last visit to my ancestral, country home atop a hill; this lovely old farm house, which made my heart rise up to meet it from the moment I beheld its white, picket gate.

I settled more comfortably into my favorite chair, slowly set it to rocking with the flick of one canvas-covered toe, and reflected on the many years spent sitting here...right here, on this old, splintered porch.

Like a book of turning pages, memories rose up, one after the other. My tree, where I would climb and watch the gravel road for the approach of my mother's car; the snowball bush, which I would shake, and then twirl beneath it as if I were in a snow storm; the rose bushes, their explosive fire-like blooms blood red against the white of the farm house; the old oak tree, so wide, that five of us cousins could not encompass it when standing around it, hand-in-hand.

Remembering ... remembering: feather beds, and pitchers nested within matching bowls on old, cracked, dressers. The wood burning stove in the winter kitchen, the pump and the sink, fresh corn and big, ripe tomatoes, so huge that one slice filled a plate, running through the pastures, swinging on grape vines, swimming in the creeks - Mawmaw, Pawpaw, love.

Pictures flashing through my mind, in a kaleidoscope of images and sounds and smells, which totaled up and added together,

Rising from my rocker, I slowly walked to my car. Turning for one final look, I realized that I would be writing about this old house...perhaps for the rest of my life.

Writing to ease my soul, taking each essay, each poem, each memory, and placing them in an envelope tied with ribbon, pressing them forever close to my heart.

Posted By Debra Shiveley Welch

Shakespeare said, "The course of true love never did run smooth." I was about to find out just how true these words were.

My true love was a real "jock," the type that can excel in any sport. I'm the opposite: clumsy, off balance, awkward. I started ballet lessons when I was nine, but my teacher soon noted my clumsiness, and suggested that I take up tumbling instead. If I ignored her advice, she said, I'd never live to see twelve. Thankfully, I'd listened and had survived several tumbles down stairs, missteps off of curbs, and close-encounters with various hard surfaces. Surviving past the predicted time of my demise to my present age of 30, encouraged me to agree to an excursion, which I knew in my heart, was asking for trouble. My true love was taking me skiing. I took great care in what I selected for my new adventure. My theory was that if I looked good enough, no one would notice that I could not ski! I pictured myself on the slopes in my new scarlet and gray ski jacket, my pert little woolen hat, my blond hair streaming behind me as I performed a perfect downhill run.

The fateful day dawned clear and crisp with the smell of impending snow in the air. "Perfect skiing weather," Mark exclaimed, as he loaded our gear onto the top of his "Copper Kettle," the nickname he had fondly given his brown, 1979 Toyota Celica.

I knew I was in trouble when I saw that I had to use a towrope. Operated by a motorized winch, this contraption pulled people to the top of the hill. One would grab on with both hands, bend their knees, and "ski" to the top. I might have been okay had I not been behind an eight-year-old who decided to let go. Tumbling downhill, entangled with a pre-adolescent snowball, I was plopped into the center of the large, all-encompassing branches of a huge pine tree. Suddenly, I remembered that I was allergic to evergreens.

Sneezing my brains out, hair snarled by hundreds of sticky needles, and trying to extricate myself from a pine needle prison, I finally crawled free, skis dragging behind me, to the merriment of those who had watched my struggles. Mark, laughing with the others, informed me that I had to try the towrope again.

Taking a deep breath and grabbing hold a second time, I began my ascent to the top. Eyes darting wildly, so intent was I upon scouting for my eight-year-old nemesis, I forgot to release my hold. Someone was shouting "Let go! Let go!" It was Mark. I was coming perilously close to the top pulley through which the rope was threaded. I found myself suspended above the ground by God knows how many feet. I let go, landing, to my astonished relief, without injury. Straightening, I attempted a dignified waddle, skis still miraculously intact, to the top of what Mark called "the Bunny Hill"

Bunny Hill? Below me stretched an almost vertical slope of deep, glistening snow. Scattered about this dazzling visage of white, were pine trees, tall with dark trunks, their branches reaching out to entrap me once again. Frost-tipped air pinched my cheeks, causing my eyes to tear. I felt dizzy, and belatedly, remembered that I was also afraid of heights. I immediately had an asthma attack.

I had also forgotten to take into consideration that I suffer from four types of asthma: allergy, exertion, stress and temperature-induced. Mixed with my innate clumsiness, my tendency to fall over for no reason, and a general lack of balance, it became quite clear to me that my new outfit might not be enough to carry off the day.

Okay, Debra. You can do this, I whispered to myself. I made the sign of the cross, sent a plea to Jehovah, asked Allah to guide me, fingered my rabbit's foot and down I went.

This isn't bad, I thought, as I slowly worked my way downhill. I was feeling quite cocky until I heard Mark scream "Turn, turn!" Confused, I started to look back and then I heard someone else scream "Stump!" I felt a jolt and was airborne. My pert little woolen hat flew off and I landed with a thud. Years of tumbling saved me once again, as I landed in what to me, was a very comfortable position.

Now, I've sat in the W position all of my life. Turning my legs outward instead of inward, I can touch my heels to my hips when sitting or lying on the floor. I guess the skier who had just slammed into me didn't know this, because when he got up and saw my skis nestled against my ears, he threw up.

It certainly had not been a smooth run and at this point I was rather upset with my true love, but I think the final straw was when I saw a two-year-old on skis a foot long, skipping by me like she was strolling through the park. I decided immediately that the best part of skiing was the hot chocolate (with peppermint schnapps) and the cozy fireplace in the lodge. My cute little ski outfit would look great in the lodge ... if I could just manage to get there.




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Debra Shivel...
Central Ohio


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