ABC Post 4--Thirty Little Fingers--Review and Giveaway

Update: We have a winner! Connie Stoll!
Please contact me at dorcassmucker@gmail.com with your mailing address.
Thanks to everyone who entered the drawing. If you didn't win, I encourage you to write to Sheila and invest in a copy of your own.

This is supposed to be a book review of Sheila Petre's Thirty Little Fingers, and a giveaway.



But first I'm going to go down a rabbit trail.

If you are Plain, be it an Amish woman in a white kapp and a long dress, or a Mennonite man in jeans and a plaid shirt, people who are not Plain will often expect you to be A Certain Way. Sort of other-worldly, serene, holy, unfailingly gentle, and superhumanly good.

If you act like a normal human being, they are surprised. They might be delighted, disappointed, or something in between, but they will definitely be surprised.

By acting like a normal human, I mean getting tired and grumpy, laughing loudly, feeling impatience or envy, or buying bread instead of making your own.

I've run into this myself a hundred times when I meet The Reading Public--people have told me they're surprised that, for example, I would get impatient with my children. Some expressed shock and disappointment. Others were glad, such as the woman who told me she's an atheist, and she decided if a Mennonite woman can get annoyed at her children, then there's hope for her.

I happened to be reading Amazon reviews of an ex-Amish tell-all book one time--a bad idea, just so you know--and a reviewer said something like: "This book can't be true. The author says her mother called her a brat. An Amish woman would never do that! They are gentle, kind people!"

You see what I mean.

So. Let me just say, lest you were not aware of this: Plain people are just people. They have the same range of emotions as anyone else. They have good days, bad days, and plenty of days that are a mixture of both, just like you.

I have known Amish women who were catty and manipulative, Mennonite men who were kind and empathetic, and a whole lot of Amish and Beachy and Mennonite people who did the best they could with what they were given, and some days they handled life quite successfully and other days they really blew it.

There are proper Amish folks who quietly abuse drugs, alcohol, and their children, and others who sacrifice every single day to make life better for everyone around them.

So let's toss those Amish novels in the recycle bin and lay to rest any lingering notion that Plain people are so different, at heart, from the rest of the world.

Which brings us to Sheila Petre.

You would assume she was Amish, at first glance, if you weren't raised in the culture and thus you can't pick out the subtle distinctions. But her book will convince you, like few pieces of writing out there, that you and she really are not so different after all. In lifestyle, somewhat. In the deep humanity of your soul, not at all.

At the same time, Sheila swims against the American cultural stream as a wife and mom who embraces both roles and rejoices at another pregnancy. But so do many women who might wear jeans but have said No to the culture's bizarre expectations of how a woman should work, look, dress, eat, mother, and spend her time.

Sheila is smart and funny and honest. She's also dedicated and sacrificial, but not in a dreamy, angelic way. More like she loves God and her family, and this is how she has chosen to be.

Sheila wants to reach a wider audience than only young moms, but I feel like that's the group that really needs to read Thirty Little Fingers. I'm convinced they will laugh and cry with gratitude that someone understands them, at last.

Read on for Sheila's post and ordering information.

GIVEAWAYS:
Sheila will give away three copies of Thirty Little Fingers. One winner will be chosen from comments on this post, another from commenters on Facebook [look up Dorcas Smucker], and a third from Instagram [@dorcassmucker].

US addresses only, please.

Giveaway ends Monday, April 13, at 9 a.m. Pacific time.

I'll let Sheila speak for herself now.
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Once upon a time, I thought I would grow up to be an old maid.

If I grew up at all. I was born a Lehman in Maryland; my mom was a Swartzendruber from Oregon. My sisters and I, one fine sisterly morning in the early 2000’s, decided to predict each other’s futures. Sheila, they said, is the type to die a tragic early death. Then they looked at each other, repentant, and revised their prophecy, lest it be fulfilled. Maybe, they amended, she’ll be instead a reclusive letter-writer.

I’m a letter-writer; they got that. As for reclusive, I’d rather hole up in my house, barefoot, with my own family, than put my sweater on and mingle with others, virus or no virus. I’ve been compulsively writing letters for over twenty years now, like some people keep buying shoes, hoping that perhaps this time I can perfectly capture a few steps of my journey and showcase them to another in a way that pleases us both.

So I’m a letter-writer, but I never achieved old-maidenhood. A man named Michael Petre intervened.
No nineteen-year-old girl can resist a handsome welder who falls in love with her by reading her poetry, before he knows what she looks like (or what sort of sisters she has). We married on a rainy April morning in 2006 and I’ve been bearing his babies and singing his praises in my letters to friends ever since.

(Here we are, during the years I was writing the words that would become Thirty Little Fingers. Yes, the photo cropping is strategic; only one person in our marriage has maintained a consistent waist size through going-on-fourteen-years and it’s not me. I would share a photo of my children, but they are adorable, and I’d rather not encourage kidnappers.)

Together we’ve weathered eight births, seven new in-laws, five new books, three new-for-us vehicles, two complete pea crop failures, a brother’s death, the purchase of a house and a business, a chimney fire, the onset of a pandemic coinciding with the onset of teen parenting, two Muslim exchange students, three seasons of postpartum depression, five road trips across America, countless moments of coming utterly to the end of ourselves, facedown upon the mercy of God…

…Does it seem a lot? Make a list of what you have weathered. Most of my acquaintances could easily construct a more arduous list than ours.

And here is how I know: Not a one of us is alone. Ever since I began writing letters, and increasingly after I moved into a house with a man who provided so much rich subject material and so few qualms about my sharing it, I have lifted stories from my letters and arranged them into personal essays for wider publication. The more I wrote and shared, the more my readers shared glimpses of God’s work in their lives in return…and the less alone we all discovered we were.

A few years ago, I began considering the publication of a book of my collected personal essays, poems, and the more universal bits from my letters. Oh, and recipes—because I’m a mom, I devote eighty-five percent of my time to the care and maintenance of small digestive systems.

Carlisle Press published the book, Thirty Little Fingers, in late 2017. A new book is not a fraction as miraculous as a new baby—trust me, I know—but it’s easier to share. I can press it into the hands of friends or strangers or pawn it off for more valuable resources—in December 2017, I hosted a book-food exchange on Tuesdays and Thursdays at my house. Local moms dropped in with food in exchange for a copy of Thirty Little Fingers. My freezer filled rapidly; for about two months, I only needed to devote sixty-five percent of my time to the care and maintenance of small digestive systems.

The first feedback I received on Thirty Little Fingers, five days after it was published, came not from a mom, but from an unmarried friend (Pauline Hoover), one of those noble women whose ranks I never, after all, joined:

I bought your book at Clay Bookstore as a gift for my sister, mother of four. Course I had to make sure it was fit to give.
    The one feeling that remains most strongly since I’ve closed the book is an ache. An ache that life, no matter how beautiful, will never be completely okay this side of eternity. An ache for your griefs and mine. Yet it is a calm aching, a trusting one.
    You mentioned that one of your goals might be to reassure people that their lives are normal. My life is not like yours but strangely, you reassured me that my heart is normal.  I read and thought, If I were married with children this is probably very nearly the kind of mothering I would be doing. (That, in fact, is one ingredient of the ache. But it’s okay.)
    Since I’m now a student of linguistics I enjoyed hearing you explore foreign languages and cultures.  I enjoyed the creative work with words and liked the places where you surprised me into laughing out loud, possibly most heartily at the idea that the Adamic nature is the gift of fathers to their children. I connected with the insecurities (I’m so glad other normal people worry ridiculously about their health) and worries that peeked out here and there. I tasted the joy of innocent childhood. I am always ready to side with anyone who has a difficult time appreciating dentists.  But for whatever reason I come away feeling that my heart has been tenderized. Perhaps because you have honored me by inviting me to into some of the sacred places of your heart.

Every writer should have such thoughtful readers.

If I could condense my book’s goal to two words, they would be: Build Community. So when Dorcas generously offered this opportunity to write about this book here, I wanted to build community. And I’m taking my cue from Pauline. Maybe you’re a mom who would be interested in reading Thirty Little Fingers. I’d love if you would, and it’s available for purchase. (Or if you live near Mercersburg PA, contact me to trade for a kettle of your good chicken noodle soup; I can use my broom to push a book toward you across my porch, re social distancing). Do men read your blog, Dorcas? Here’s an undisguised hint for them if they do: Mother’s Day is coming. But my special discount offer this time is for single women who love to share meaningful gifts with others, on a limited budget.

 Thirty Little Fingers is available online or from Carlisle Press. U.S. readers can order an autographed copy from Sheila Petre, P.O. Box 127, Mercersburg, PA 17236. Price: $12 each, plus $2 shipping per book.  Contact me at sjpetre@emypeople.net for special quantity pricing or to preview a small essay and a fantastic recipe from the book. If you are unmarried—with or without children—and you buy two or more copies of Thirty Little Fingers, intending to give at least one to a young mom you know, I will mail them to you for $8 each, plus $1 shipping per book. (Discount offer expires the last day of May 2020 and is only available for orders directly from the author.)

Warning: Thirty Little Fingers does not contain advice or answers for any aspect of motherhood (excepting its recipe for the best oatmeal bread ever). I am not a teacher. I am a friend, writing from my little house in PA, babies bumping my elbows, while we wait to hear the footsteps of our favorite person at our door. From here, I craft stories of comfort and humor and tuck them into envelopes for other moms, asking “Has your life turned out like you expected it would?” and saying “Mine hasn’t either, but tragic early death has not claimed me yet. Here we are with God, so let’s walk on together in hope.”

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Remember to comment below to be included in the giveaway drawing.

I'm long past the baby stage, but I laughed in deep understanding
at all the things Sheila imagined (twins, a tumor, etc) before
she went in for that ultrasound.