My husband was dying. In the hospital - for five weeks. His temperature was 105 degrees. He was receiving Intravenous Antibiotics. Day and night. Nothing was working. Doctors' medicines were failing. Arthur and Excalibur, Abraham and Isaac, earlier pagan sacrifices stood shadows in my mind as, dismal, I stared into a dying fire one late winter afternoon. People die. I knew that. Only I couldn't spare Sandy. Not just then - his face so noble, so kingly, so caring. I had to stop Fate. Somehow.

So what I did?  I raced all over The House, and from behind cupboard doors frantically grabbed Scraps - Scraps from Thirty Years of Hallelujah Marriage.  Scraps to lay on Pieces of Paper and then scotch tape into my first Mock Up.  Finished by midnight.  Presented the next morning.  And then to watch as down, down Sandy’s temperature dropping - 105º, 104º, 103º - day by day.  Until the Magic of God granted his life in answer to A Scrapbook for Sandy prayer.

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