After the Fire by J. A. Jance Page B

color with a few sparkling dewdrops still lingering on the petals. That rose is something I’ve never forgotten. In fact if I close my eyes right now I can see the tender petals and the dewdrops still gleaming like diamonds in the early morning sunlight.
BENEDICTION
    I gave the Lord my greatest grief,
    My burden, and my care.
    He turned it over like a leaf,
    And soon there blossomed there,
    A flower of faith, a bloom of grace,
    With petals soft and fair.
    The dewdrop sparkling in the sun
    Was once, I’m sure, a tear.
    My life was storm-tossed and confused,
    I couldn’t find my way.
    I asked the Lord to see me through
    And guide me day by day.
    He took my hand and calmed the sea,
    Waves died at His command.
    Then o’er the calm He carried me
    Until we reached dry land.
    And as the storm clouds rolled away,
    Their edges silver lined,
    I watched a rainbow bridge the sky
    And knew God’s grand design.
    He changes weakness into strength,
    Makes courage from despair.
    Our stumbling feet turn into wings,
    When we come to Him in prayer.

Postscript
    The life I live now often seems like a miracle. More than three decades after starting my long-delayed writing career, I still love writing. Almost twenty-eight years after marrying for the second time, my husband and I both cannot believe our good fortune in falling in love and marrying without wasting any precious time in the process. We have lived every day to the fullest, probably due in large measure to our mutual history. We came into this relationship with our hearts broken and with our dreams shattered. We both knew that life is not forever and that we have to make the most of whatever time we have.
    We have homes in two places that we both love, Tucson and Seattle. In Seattle people who hear me being interviewed on the radio or television recognize me by my laughter—the same laughter that was totally absent from my earlier life in Phoenix. I went to Seattle in July 1981 as a single parent of two children. In 1985, after marrying again, I added a husband and three more children. Through the years we have been blessed with six grandchildren and a number of very spoiled dogs.
    There are times when I feel a whole lot like a modern-day Cinderella, but the poems in this book, the ones I took with me to that widowed retreat back in 1985, were vitally important to this happy ending. If some of my readers are struggling with similarly tough issues, I hope they’ll find hope and inspiration here.
    I’ve come a very long way since 1980, when I wrote “The Collector” and thought that the best I could hope for in life was to collect trading stamps.
    As I prepare this third edition of After the Fire for publication, it’s early spring 2013. When my editor asked me to make some revisions, I was shocked to discover that the file containing the original version of this book was still on some long-ago PC rather than on my current MacBook Air. So, for the past two days, I’ve spent hours dictating both the poems and the accompanying essays, word by word, into my iPad. I’m hoping I’ve caught all those pesky auto-corrects, but I’m not sure. I have to say, Siri isn’t much of a poet.
    In the process I have been both surprised and gratified to learn that the poetry I wrote starting forty years ago still speaks to me, and I trust it will speak to others as well. The events portrayed in these poems may have happened in the distant past, but the benefits of those challenging experiences are present with me every day of my life. Living through tough times and learning the lessons they had to teach are what made me the person and the writer I am today.
    I had a chemistry teacher who told me once, “All steps are necessary; no steps may be skipped.” That’s as true of life as it is of chemistry, and After the Fire is a book full of steps not skipped.

Copyright
    First published in 2004 by the University of Arizona Libraries.