Sherry introduction:

What would possess a young family with three small sons to open their home to a 12-year-old girl? And not just a girl, but a teenager who came surrounded by the dust of an ongoing war between her parents, herself, and their complicated history. Today, I still marvel at Sheryl and James’ willingness to take on the challenge. Even then, in those early days of living with my new family, I realized it was a place of salvation for me. But in truth I also resented that I needed to be saved.

I came to live with this young family in the summer before my seventh-grade year. My genetic mother presented the concept of living with them on a “temporary” basis. My trust in her had been waning over time, and now she was restless to move again. She had a need to replant me with this family and to separate me from my adopted father with whom she still was at war. He had a need to break free of the emotional hold through which we had both usurped his life for so many years after their divorce. I knew enough at that time to see that this was a major shift for me, and I felt a falling away of any childhood illusions. And yet, I was still surprised at the culmination of events, to find myself sleeping in a strange bed, in a dark room, in a stranger’s home on that first night.

Sheryl introduction:

This book is dedicated to the Genevieves in my life. The first is Genevieve Sparks Brush, my mother, who worked hard at loving and shaping me. She wrote in my high school yearbook, “Desire to do a good job whatever the task. Take things as they come with serenity and courage so you are able to meet sorrow and hardship. You will get out of life what you put into it. So set goals, lay a solid foundation and conquer.” She did not talk about faith, love, laughter, empathy or relaxation because she could not. She died when I was in my late twenties. Because of her premature death, she and I had little time to sip tea together and bond in a way only an adult mother and daughter can.

The second is Genevieve Moroney Munzenmaier. She loved me unconditionally. She openly encouraged me with a warm hug, looked deep into my eyes and said with a smile and a nod, “I approve.” I met her in my twenties when I needed her. She listened to me share my experiences with little commentary. She gave me gifts of time, love, encouragement, connectedness and faith. She nursed my wounds of inadequacy and imperfection. Together we drank hot tea, ate cookies and giggled while I entertained her with yet another adventure. We adored one another. Time stood still when we were together.

The two Genevieves shaped who I am today. I have no doubt how each of them felt about me. It was the Genevieves that prepared my heart for the day Sherry walked through the front door.