A Promise of Rest is a collection of linked vignettes in which hematologist–oncologist Ron Lands looks back over a life spent around illness, death, and ordinary grace. Moving between childhood memories in small-town Tennessee, early training in rough-edged public hospitals, years of oncology practice, and later work in palliative care, he tells brief, concentrated stories about patients, family, colleagues, and his own younger selves. Together they form a kind of quiet spiritual autobiography of a doctor learning how to see the “poetry of the commonplace” in exam rooms, farmhouses, ICUs, and front porches.
As a reader, I was struck first by the texture of his attention. Lands notices smells, gestures, the way a nurse’s stockings crease or how a boy pinches the bridge of his nose to keep from crying. The chapters are small, but they feel dense with lived time; you can sense the decades of work behind a single sentence about an IV line or a CT image. I appreciated how unsentimental he stays while clearly caring deeply, he lets scenes sit, without forcing me to feel a particular way, which weirdly made the emotion land harder.
What resonated with me most, though, were his admissions of uncertainty and regret. The story of treating his uncle’s cancer, for instance, is not framed as a triumph but as a painful lesson in what happens when love and professional judgment tangle. His early awe of hospitals, the later grind of oncology, and his eventual move toward palliative care all fit together into a portrait of someone continually revising what “helping” means. The book suggests that medicine at its best is less about heroics and more about staying in the room, bearing witness, telling the truth without cruelty, and honoring the small, stubborn will to live that shows up in very different forms.
I’d hand this to readers who gravitate toward medical memoir, narrative nonfiction, physician essays, end-of-life care, palliative care stories, anyone curious about what cancer medicine actually feels like from the inside, but also anyone who thinks about vocation, aging, and how to be present for other people’s suffering. If you appreciated Atul Gawande’s Being Mortal, you’ll recognize a similar moral clarity here, filtered through a more intimate, Southern, small-town lens. A Promise of Rest is a quiet but potent book that teaches you how much can change when one person truly sees another.
Home follows Amy Smyth Miller from a present-day crisis in a Bellingham ICU back through a childhood marked by poverty, neglect, and intergenerational trauma in the Midwest. The book opens with her husband’s heart attack and her spiraling panic, then moves into three arcs, “Roots,” “Rootless,” and “Transplanted,” tracing a line from her great-grandmother’s steady care, through her parents’ addictions and constant moves, to her later work as a teacher and her search for effective trauma therapy. Along the way, she threads in clear explanations of complex PTSD, especially the idea of it as a problem of how memory is stored, and she shows how lifespan integration and other somatic approaches help her piece her life into a coherent timeline and finally feel at home in herself.
The writing is gripping. The scenes are built with simple images that stuck with me. The plastic seat covers in the Buick, the smell of Pond’s cold cream and peppermints in Granny War Bonnet’s room, the dragonflies over the pond, the housekeeper ironing a floral dress on the night of a suicide. These details felt precise, not decorative, and they kept pulling me back to the emotional core of each chapter. The structure works well, too. The prologue sets a very tense, contemporary problem, and then the book steps backward into childhood and returns again to the present with more context. Sometimes the metaphors pile up, and the prose becomes lush. Overall, though, the voice is steady, kind, and unflinching, and I trusted it.
I appreciated that Miller does not turn her parents into simple villains, even when she describes clear neglect, hunger, and frightening behavior. She sits in the mess of loving them and being hurt by them at the same time, and she lets that tension stand. I liked how she shows what grounding or timeline work actually feels like in the room, and how she owns her missteps, including the painful texting episode with her husband. There were moments when the interplay of narrative and research slowed the pace, but I felt grateful for the educational layer. It made the book feel useful as well as moving.
Miller is very clear on the notion of complex PTSD as a long shadow cast by many smaller and larger wounds, and she keeps returning to the question of meaning. Not in a tidy, everything-happens-for-a-reason way, more in a “I refuse to let this be pointless” way. Her focus on protective figures and small stabilizing rituals, especially her great-grandmother’s stories and “angel crowns,” pushes back against the common narrative that survival is purely individual grit. I also liked her insistence that healing is not erasing the past but putting it in order so it stops crashing into the present. As someone reading this as a memoir rather than a clinical text, I appreciated how accessible the psychological parts felt. She explains concepts in plain language and grounds them in specific episodes from her life, so I never felt lectured at.
I would recommend Home to readers who come from chaotic or painful families, to people living with complex trauma, and to therapists, teachers, and caregivers who want a lived-in portrait of what CPTSD can look like from the inside. It is not a light read, and there are frank depictions of suicide, emotional abuse, and neglect, so I would be cautious recommending it to someone in a very raw place without support. For readers who can hold that weight and are looking for a story that blends honest hurt with genuine hope, this memoir feels like a companion, not just a case study.
Jackie Myers’ Stop Snoring Dad! is a hilariously charming children’s book that turns a familiar bedtime struggle into a lively little adventure. The story centers on Louie, a young boy who lies awake night after night because his dad’s snoring rattles the room. Sleep feels impossible. Louie refuses to give up. He launches a parade of inventive plans to silence the noise, each one more absurd than the last. Garlic makes an appearance. Tadpoles get involved. Louie tries everything he can dream up. The results? Total failure, delivered with escalating, laugh-out-loud payoffs. In the end, Louie lands on a simple solution that finally helps him drift off.
The book shines because it mirrors the way kids actually think. Big ideas. Zero limits. Jackie Myers captures that untamed imagination with warmth and wit. Louie’s strategies are delightfully ridiculous, and young readers will love watching each scheme unfold. The pacing stays brisk. The writing stays clear. Short, direct sentences keep the story accessible for early readers and ideal for read-aloud time.
Jack Foster’s illustrations add a whole extra dose of fun. The artwork is expressive and packed with detail, giving Louie’s plans a visual punch that often delivers its own jokes. Louie’s face says everything. Dad snoozes on, blissfully unaware. The chaos builds, page by page. Kids will stay hooked even before they can fully read the text.
Under the humor sits a thoughtful lesson. Louie learns he can’t control his dad’s snoring. Effort doesn’t change it. Persistence doesn’t fix it. What does change is Louie’s response. That message lands gently, without turning preachy. The book also celebrates creativity and bold problem-solving. Louie’s ideas don’t work, yet they matter. Imagination leads the way. Trial and error becomes part of the fun.
This children’s book is a guaranteed giggle-maker with real value underneath the laughs. Stop Snoring, Dad! is playful, clever, and full of heart, an easy win for bedtime routines and family bookshelves alike.
Maude’s Magical Ear Trumpet by Chris Husband is a whimsical, deeply heartwarming children’s book. It offers a gentle reminder: listening can change everything. The story introduces Maude, a kind, cheerful older woman who has begun to struggle with her hearing. Her doctor provides a most unusual ear trumpet. Maude quickly learns it is no ordinary device. A magical twist transforms it into something extraordinary. The trumpet lets her hear more than words. It reveals the truth beneath them.
What follows is a tender, uplifting journey. Maude uses her new trumpet to truly listen to the people around her. She offers comfort. She gives kindness. She makes space for understanding wherever she goes.
The book’s strength is its simplicity and warmth. Short, easy-to-follow sentences keep the pace light and inviting. The language feels almost poetic. The gentle rhythm draws young readers in and helps the message land naturally. Through Maude’s encounters with her daughter, shopkeepers, friends, and neighbors, children see that listening is more than sound. It is attention. It is care. It is empathy in action.
The illustrations by Corryn Webb add another layer of charm. Each page features soft, expressive artwork that brings Maude’s world to life. Her bright coat. Her spotted hat. The quiet emotional exchanges that unfold in small, meaningful moments. The visuals support the tone beautifully and guide young readers toward what characters feel, not only what they say. That reinforcement matters. Emotions deserve notice.
One of the book’s most memorable elements is the closing revelation. The magic was never truly in the trumpet. It lived in Maude herself. Her caring heart. Her willingness to listen with intention. That message lingered with me long after the final page.
This is a lovely read that children are likely to adore. Maude’s Magical Ear Trumpet teaches empathy, compassion, and the quiet power of listening in a way that feels magical and deeply human. It leaves young readers calmer, kinder, and a little more inclined to listen closely to the world around them.
The What If Book is a quick ride through a pile of playful questions about the world. Each page tosses out a wild idea and then pokes it with another question. Superpowers, walking fish, talking dogs, ice cream oceans, and storybook jumps all show up. The book ends by handing the mic to the reader and asking for their own what-if.
I liked the tone of the book right away. It feels curious and bouncy. It sounds like a kid thinking out loud. The writing is clean and light. No heavy lessons. No finger wagging. I felt a little spark of curiosity and imagination on every page. Some questions made me laugh. The dolphin ride to school felt sweet and silly, and I loved the kindness question near the end. The ideas feel open and kind. There is room to dream without rules. The book trusts kids to think. It does not explain too much. It lets the questions hang.
Every page has a charming illustration that pulls the question off the page and makes it feel real. The colors are bright but soft and cozy at the same time. Each scene feels friendly and inviting and never too busy. The pictures do a great job of guiding my imagination without boxing it in. They add personality and heart, and my kids enjoyed pointing out several details on the page. The ice cream ocean scene was wonderful and could be a poster all on its own.
I would hand this picture book to young kids who like to wonder. It works for bedtime chats and classroom circles. It fits families who enjoy asking questions and laughing together. If you like children’s books that open doors instead of closing them, this one is a great pick.
My Twelve-Year-Old Wife: Erased Memories drops the reader straight into a world where time folds, grief bites hard, and reality keeps shifting under the characters’ feet. The book follows Dan, a man who loses his wife brutally, then hurls himself backward through time to save her. He lands in 2003 and discovers a teenage version of Celia, a younger and sharper incarnation of the woman he loved, and a chilling truth about Lang, the man who killed her. As Dan struggles to protect her, time glitches, memories warp, and past and future versions of Lang collide. The story moves fast, and the stakes sit right at the throat from the opening chapter.
I kept feeling the tension coil in my chest whenever Dan slipped between timelines. His heartbreak is loud. His fear is louder. I found myself rooting for him even when he made choices that scared me. The writing surprised me with small, quiet moments tucked between scenes of dread. A breakfast. A joke. A breath of calm before the ground cracked open. They made the danger feel personal instead of mechanical, and I loved that steady tug between ordinary life and cosmic consequences. There were times when the dialogue carried more weight than the action itself, and those were the moments that resonated with me.
Time travel is usually all rules and logic, but here it felt messy and emotional, which I liked. Time behaves like a living thing. It twitches when Dan pushes it. It punishes him when he presses too hard. I also appreciated how the author handled trauma. Nothing is graphic, but the emotional fallout hit real. Celia’s distrust, Dan’s guilt, the thin places in the world that react to their fear, all of it landed with a strange mix of warmth and dread. I kept forgetting to breathe during the scenes under the bleachers, especially when the masked figure flickered in and out of sight. The writing there felt sharp and cold in the best way.
I would recommend this book to readers who enjoy psychological thrillers with a strong emotional core, and to anyone who likes their time travel tangled with heartbreak instead of gadgets. If you want a story that creeps under your skin and sits there long after the last page, this is a good one. Author Dan Uselton turns time itself into a monster, and the result is unforgettable.
I Always Knew We Were Meant for You follows two hopeful bear parents as they wait, watch, and prepare across the seasons for the children they know are destined to join their family. What was the inspiration for your story?
The inspiration for I Always Knew We Were Meant for You was born during the waiting period of our adoption journey—a time when your heart holds an immense, quiet space of love for a child you have not yet met. While we were waiting, my heart ached with longing and hope, and I often found myself thinking about my future children and what this journey might feel like for them.
One evening, during a moment of deep reflection, I realized the message I most wanted to give them: that this love was always meant for them, and that our family was destined to find one another. I wanted my child to know that wherever they were in the world, there was a mother and father preparing, believing, and loving them long before we met. This story became my way of saying, I always knew we were meant for you.
The book centers on waiting with hope rather than anxiety. Why was that emotional tone important to you?
Hope has always been the foundation of this journey, and it is something I intentionally center in my writing. My path to motherhood came with challenges, and hope sometimes waivered—however, it was something I had to learn, lean into, and grow through my faith. Over time, I came to understand that hope is one of God’s greatest gifts, especially within the adoption journey, where trust and love are being built long before a child arrives.
There were moments when holding onto hope felt difficult, but during those times, God placed people in my life who continually spoke truth into my heart, reminding me, “You will be an amazing mother.” Hearing those words again and again allowed hope to take root. Eventually, I began to feel what I had always known to be true—that this journey was meant for us, and that waiting, when held with hope, could be a beautiful and sacred space. It is my intention to give these loving words of hope to adoptive families, which is precious and sacred to me for these reasons.
There is a gentle spiritual presence throughout the book. How did you decide how much faith to include?
Faith was the quiet thread I held close while writing this book—a way of staying connected to my future adopted children during a season of waiting. Along our journey, I experienced gentle moments and messages that reassured me there was a divine presence guiding us toward our future little ones. Readers will find some of these messages threaded into the story.
At the same time, it was important to me that the book feel welcoming to adoptive families of all faiths and spiritual backgrounds. The spiritual presence in the story is meant to reflect the beauty of what is often felt rather than seen—the deep knowing that love is already at work. My hope is that readers, no matter their beliefs, feel connected to that quiet truth: that love, in its purest form, always finds its way.
Who did you picture holding this book when you wrote it: a parent, a child, or both together?
When I began writing, I pictured a quiet, tender moment of reading this book to our adopted children—holding them close and sharing words meant just for them. As the story unfolded, I began thinking about all the other children who deserve to hear this same message of love and belonging. I imagined adoptive families everywhere reading the book together, building trust and connection through shared moments.
What started as a poem written for my own children grew into something more. I Always Knew We Were Meant for You is meant to offer children a special gift—the reassurance that they were always meant to be connected through the spirit of love. My hope is that the book gently connects children with their adoptive families, reminding them that love was waiting for them long before they arrived, and that they have always belonged.
As Mama and Papa Bear embark on their path building their adoptive family, they are drawn to special spiritual connections through love. In having a special knowing, like a star’s whisper or a flower’s bloom, they await to embrace their future adopted children. Mama and Papa Bear ponder on all the ways their love has been created for their children, finding peace in knowing their adoptive family is a gift from God—first possible, then beautifully true. This beautifully illustrated, heartwarming children’s book celebrates the journey of adoption through Mama and Papa Bear and their beloved cubs. It offers a message of hope, unconditional love, and belonging through a spiritual connection for children awaiting their adoptive families. I Always Knew We Were Meant For You will offer children a special gift that they were always meant to be connected through the spirit of love.
Lunches with Ed is a moving memoir about loving someone through dementia—through home care, nursing homes, Covid windows, final goodbyes, and the small moments that never let go. At what point did you realize this story might help others beyond your own family?
I realized that this story may help others when an unbiased associate read it and became so emotional she called me up in tears expressing how deeply the book touched her. I later found out that she was in the midst of caring for her husband and the book was a comfort to her.
How did your understanding of love change as Ed’s dementia progressed?
I came to really understand the meaning of “in sickness and health”, “for better or worse”. Marital love does not just end because your spouse gets ill. Ed was the same person I loved and he needed me more now than ever. The journey has made me more empathetic and caring.
How did you balance honoring Ed’s dignity while sharing the strange or disorienting behaviors dementia caused?
I sought to portray Ed as the kind and caring person that he always was while trying to present a true picture and not sugar-coat the ebbs and flow of daily life living with dementia. His sensitive, peaceful nature was still there hidden underneath all the confusion. I sought out the best care for him and also tried to shield him from unnecessary intrusions and visitors who were only mere acquaintances.
How do you carry Ed with you now, after telling his story
I carry him in my heart. I think of the good times we had, the laughter we shared. Whenever I think of him I find myself smiling.
When a devoted wife stepped into the role of caregiver for her husband during his journey with dementia, she found solace in journaling — capturing the routines, challenges, and quiet triumphs of daily life. What began as a private coping tool became a heartfelt guide for others walking the same path. Lunches with Ed offers practical insights born from lived experience, not theory. It’s a gentle, honest companion for those navigating the emotional terrain of caregiving — validating the sadness, frustration, and fear that often come with it, while also celebrating the moments of laughter, connection, and unexpected joy. Compact and comforting, this book is designed to be kept close — on a nightstand, in a purse, or tucked into a drawer — ready to remind caregivers that they are not alone. Above all, it’s a tribute to the enduring love that caregiving calls forth, and the strength found in showing up, day after day.
