A young man was getting ready to graduate college. For many months he
Had admired a beautiful sports car in a dealer’s showroom, and knowing
his father could well afford it, he told him that was all he wanted.

As Graduation Day approached, the young man awaited signs that his
father had purchased the car. Finally, on the morning of his graduation
his father called him into his private study.

His father told him how proud he was to have such a fine son, and told
him how much he loved him. He handed his son a beautiful wrapped gift
box. Curious, but somewhat disappointed the young man opened the box and found a lovely, leather-bound Holy Qur’an.

Angrily, he raised his voice at his father and said, “With all your
money you give me a Holy Qur’an?” and stormed out of the house, leaving the Holy book. He never contacted his father again for long long time.

Many years passed and the young man was very successful in business. He had a beautiful home and wonderful family, but realized his father was
very old, and thought perhaps he should go to him. He had not seen him
since that graduation day.

Before he could make arrangements, he received a telegram telling him
his father had passed away, and willed all of his possessions to his son.
He needed to come home immediately and take care of things. When he
arrived at his father’s house, sudden sadness and regret filled his
heart. He began to search his father’s important papers and saw the
still new Holy Qur’an, just as he had left it years ago.

With tears, he opened the Holy Qur’an and began to turn the pages. As he
read those words, a car key dropped from an envelope taped behind the
Holy Qur’an. It had a tag with the dealer’s name, the same dealer who
had the sports car he had desired. On the tag was the date of his graduation, and the words PAID IN FULL.

How many times do we miss ALLAH blessings because they are not packaged as we expected?

If this touched your heart, please pass it on

(Received from muslimmessage.net)

The Caliph Haroun-al-Raschid sat in his palace, wondering if there was anything left in the world that could possibly give him a few hours' amusement, when Giafar the grand-vizir, his old and tried friend, suddenly appeared before him. Bowing low, he waited, as was his duty, till his master spoke, but Haroun-al-Raschid merely turned his head and looked at him, and sank back into his former weary posture.

Now Giafar had something of importance to say to the Caliph, and had no intention of being put off by mere silence, so with another low bow in front of the throne, he began to speak.

“Commander of the Faithful,” said he, “I have taken o­n myself to remind your Highness that you have undertaken secretly to observe for yourself the manner in which justice is done and order is kept throughout the city. This is the day you have set apart to devote to this object, and perhaps in fulfilling this duty you may find some distraction from the melancholy to which, as I see to my sorrow, you are a prey.

“You are right,” returned the Caliph, “I had forgotten all about it. Go and change your coat, and I will change mine.”

A few moments later they both re-entered the hall, disguised as foreign merchants, and passed through a secret door, out into the open country. Here they turned towards the Euphrates, and crossing the river in a small boat, walked through that part of the town which lay along the further bank, without seeing anything to call for their interference. Much pleased with the peace and good order of the city, the Caliph and his vizir made their way to a bridge, which led straight back to the palace, and had already crossed it, when they were stopped by an old and blind man, who begged for alms.

The Caliph gave him a piece of money, and was passing o­n, but the blind man seized his hand, and held him fast.

“Charitable person,” he said, “whoever you may be grant me yet another prayer. Strike me, I beg of you, o­ne blow. I have deserved it richly, and even a more severe penalty.”

The Caliph, much surprised at this request, replied gently: “My good man, that which you ask is impossible. Of what use would my alms be if I treated you so ill?” And as he spoke he tried to loosen the grasp of the blind beggar.

“My lord,” answered the man, “pardon my boldness and my persistence. Take back your money, or give me the blow which I crave. I have sworn a solemn oath that I will receive nothing without receiving chastisement, and if you knew all, you would feel that the punishment is not a tenth part of what I deserve.”

Moved by these words, and perhaps still more by the fact that he had other business to attend to, the Caliph yielded, and struck him lightly o­n the shoulder. Then he continued his road, followed by the blessing of the blind man. When they were out of earshot, he said to the vizir, “There must be something very odd to make that man act so–I should like to find out what is the reason. Go back to him; tell him who I am, and order him to come without fail to the palace to-morrow, after the hour of evening prayer.”

So the grand-vizir went back to the bridge; gave the blind beggar first a piece of money and then a blow, delivered the Caliph's message, and rejoined his master.

They passed o­n towards the palace, but walking through a square, they came upon a crowd watching a young and well-dressed man who was urging a horse at full speed round the open space, using at the same time his spurs and whip so unmercifully that the animal was all covered with foam and blood. The Caliph, astonished at this proceeding, inquired of a passer-by what it all meant, but no o­ne could tell him anything, except that every day at the same hour the same thing took place.

Still wondering, he passed o­n, and for the moment had to content himself with telling the vizir to command the horseman also to appear before him at the same time as the blind man.

The next day, after evening prayer, the Caliph entered the hall, and was followed by the vizir bringing with him the two men of whom we have spoken, and a third, with whom we have nothing to do. They all bowed themselves low before the throne and then the Caliph bade them rise, and ask the blind man his name.

“Baba-Abdalla, your Highness,” said he.

“Baba-Abdalla,” returned the Caliph, “your way of asking alms yesterday seemed to me so strange, that I almost commanded you then and there to cease from causing such a public scandal. But I have sent for you to inquire what was your motive in making such a curious vow. When I know the reason I shall be able to judge whether you can be permitted to continue to practise it, for I cannot help thinking that it sets a very bad example to others. Tell me therefore the whole truth, and conceal nothing.”

These words troubled the heart of Baba-Abdalla, who prostrated himself at the feet of the Caliph. Then rising, he answered: “Commander of the Faithful, I crave your pardon humbly, for my persistence in beseeching your Highness to do an action which appears o­n the face of it to be without any meaning. No doubt, in the eyes of men, it has none; but I look o­n it as a slight expiation for a fearful sin of which I have been guilty, and if your Highness will deign to listen to my tale, you will see that no punishment could atone for the crime.”

- The book A Thousand and o­ne Nights (Arabian Nights )

I was born, Commander of the Faithful, in Bagdad, and was left an orphan while I was yet a very young man, for my parents died within a few days of each other. I had inherited from them a small fortune, which I worked hard night and day to increase, till at last I found myself the owner of eighty camels. These I hired out to travelling merchants, whom I frequently accompanied o­n their various journeys, and always returned with large profits.

One day I was coming back from Balsora, whither I had taken a supply of goods, intended for India, and halted at noon in a lonely place, which promised rich pasture for my camels. I was resting in the shade under a tree, when a dervish, going o­n foot towards Balsora, sat down by my side, and I inquired whence he had come and to what place he was going. We soon made friends, and after we had asked each other the usual questions, we produced the food we had with us, and satisfied our hunger.

While we were eating, the dervish happened to mention that in a spot o­nly a little way off from where we were sitting, there was hidden a treasure so great that if my eighty camels were loaded till they could carry no more, the hiding place would seem as full as if it had never been touched.

At this news I became almost beside myself with joy and greed, and I flung my arms round the neck of the dervish, exclaiming: “Good dervish, I see plainly that the riches of this world are nothing to you, therefore of what use is the knowledge of this treasure to you? Alone and o­n foot, you could carry away a mere handful. But tell me where it is, and I will load my eighty camels with it, and give you o­ne of them as a token of my gratitude.”

Certainly my offer does not sound very magnificent, but it was great to me, for at his words a wave of covetousness had swept over my heart, and I almost felt as if the seventy-nine camels that were left were nothing in comparison.

The dervish saw quite well what was passing in my mind, but he did not show what he thought of my proposal.

“My brother,” he answered quietly, “you know as well as I do, that you are behaving unjustly. It was open to me to keep my secret, and to reserve the treasure for myself. But the fact that I have told you of its existence shows that I had confidence in you, and that I hoped to earn your gratitude for ever, by making your fortune as well as mine. But before I reveal to you the secret of the treasure, you must swear that, after we have loaded the camels with as much as they can carry, you will give half to me, and let us go our own ways. I think you will see that this is fair, for if you present me with forty camels, I o­n my side will give you the means of buying a thousand more.”

I could not of course deny that what the dervish said was perfectly reasonable, but, in spite of that, the thought that the dervish would be as rich as I was unbearable to me. Still there was no use in discussing the matter, and I had to accept his conditions or bewail to the end of my life the loss of immense wealth. So I collected my camels and we set out together under the guidance of the dervish. After walking some time, we reached what looked like a valley, but with such a narrow entrance that my camels could o­nly pass o­ne by o­ne. The little valley, or open space, was shut up by two mountains, whose sides were formed of straight cliffs, which no human being could climb.

When we were exactly between these mountains the dervish stopped.

“Make your camels lie down in this open space,” he said, “so that we can easily load them; then we will go to the treasure.”

I did what I was bid, and rejoined the dervish, whom I found trying to kindle a fire out of some dry wood. As soon as it was alight, he threw o­n it a handful of perfumes, and pronounced a few words that I did not understand, and immediately a thick column of smoke rose high into the air. He separated the smoke into two columns, and then I saw a rock, which stood like a pillar between the two mountains, slowly open, and a splendid palace appear within.

But, Commander of the Faithful, the love of gold had taken such possession of my heart, that I could not even stop to examine the riches, but fell upon the first pile of gold within my reach and began to heap it into a sack that I had brought with me.

The dervish likewise set to work, but I soon noticed that he confined himself to collecting precious stones, and I felt I should be wise to follow his example. At length the camels were loaded with as much as they could carry, and nothing remained but to seal up the treasure, and go our ways.

Before, however, this was done, the dervish went up to a great golden vase, beautifully chased, and took from it a small wooden box, which he hid in the bosom of his dress, merely saying that it contained a special kind of ointment. Then he o­nce more kindled the fire, threw o­n the perfume, and murmured the unknown spell, and the rock closed, and stood whole as before.

The next thing was to divide the camels, and to charge them with the treasure, after which we each took command of our own and marched out of the valley, till we reached the place in the high road where the routes diverge, and then we parted, the dervish going towards Balsora, and I to Bagdad. We embraced each other tenderly, and I poured out my gratitude for the honour he had done me, in singling me out for this great wealth, and having said a hearty farewell we turned our backs, and hastened after our camels.

I had hardly come up with mine when the demon of envy filled my soul. “What does a dervish want with riches like that?” I said to myself. “He alone has the secret of the treasure, and can always get as much as he wants,” and I halted my camels by the roadside, and ran back after him.

I was a quick runner, and it did not take me very long to come up with him. “My brother,” I exclaimed, as soon as I could speak, “almost at the moment of our leave-taking, a reflection occurred to me, which is perhaps new to you. You are a dervish by profession, and live a very quiet life, o­nly caring to do good, and careless of the things of this world. You do not realise the burden that you lay upon yourself, when you gather into your hands such great wealth, besides the fact that no o­ne, who is not accustomed to camels from his birth, can ever manage the stubborn beasts. If you are wise, you will not encumber yourself with more than thirty, and you will find those trouble enough.”

“You are right,” replied the dervish, who understood me quite well, but did not wish to fight the matter. “I confess I had not thought about it. Choose any ten you like, and drive them before you.”

I selected ten of the best camels, and we proceeded along the road, to rejoin those I had left behind. I had got what I wanted, but I had found the dervish so easy to deal with, that I rather regretted I had not asked for ten more. I looked back. He had o­nly gone a few paces, and I called after him.

“My brother,” I said, “I am unwilling to part from you without pointing out what I think you scarcely grasp, that large experience of camel-driving is necessary to anybody who intends to keep together a troop of thirty. In your own interest, I feel sure you would be much happier if you entrusted ten more of them to me, for with my practice it is all o­ne to me if I take two or a hundred.”

As before, the dervish made no difficulties, and I drove off my ten camels in triumph, o­nly leaving him with twenty for his share. I had now sixty, and anyone might have imagined that I should be content.

But, Commander of the Faithful, there is a proverb that says, “the more o­ne has, the more o­ne wants.” So it was with me. I could not rest as long as o­ne solitary camel remained to the dervish; and returning to him I redoubled my prayers and embraces, and promises of eternal gratitude, till the last twenty were in my hands.

“Make a good use of them, my brother,” said the holy man. “Remember riches sometimes have wings if we keep them for ourselves, and the poor are at our gates expressly that we may help them.”

My eyes were so blinded by gold, that I paid no heed to his wise counsel, and o­nly looked about for something else to grasp. Suddenly I remembered the little box of ointment that the dervish had hidden, and which most likely contained a treasure more precious than all the rest. Giving him o­ne last embrace, I observed accidentally, “What are you going to do with that little box of ointment? It seems hardly worth taking with you; you might as well let me have it. And really, a dervish who has given up the world has no need of ointment!”

Oh, if he had o­nly refused my request! But then, supposing he had, I should have got possession of it by force, so great was the madness that had laid hold upon me. However, far from refusing it, the dervish at o­nce held it out, saying gracefully, “Take it, my friend, and if there is anything else I can do to make you happy you must let me know.”

Directly the box was in my hands I wrenched off the cover. “As you are so kind,” I said, “tell me, I pray you, what are the virtues of this ointment?”

“They are most curious and interesting,” replied the dervish. “If you apply a little of it to your left eye you will behold in an instant all the treasures hidden in the bowels of the earth. But beware lest you touch your right eye with it, or your sight will be destroyed for ever.”

His words excited my curiosity to the highest pitch. “Make trial o­n me, I implore you,” I cried, holding out the box to the dervish. “You will know how to do it better than I! I am burning with impatience to test its charms.”

The dervish took the box I had extended to him, and, bidding me shut my left eye, touched it gently with the ointment. When I opened it again I saw spread out, as it were before me, treasures of every kind and without number. But as all this time I had been obliged to keep my right eye closed, which was very fatiguing, I begged the dervish to apply the ointment to that eye also.

“If you insist upon it I will do it,” answered the dervish, “but you must remember what I told you just now–that if it touches your right eye you will become blind o­n the spot.”

Unluckily, in spite of my having proved the truth of the dervish's words in so many instances, I was firmly convinced that he was now keeping concealed from me some hidden and precious virtue of the ointment. So I turned a deaf ear to all he said.

“My brother,” I replied smiling, “I see you are joking. It is not natural that the same ointment should have two such exactly opposite effects.”

“It is true all the same,” answered the dervish, “and it would be well for you if you believed my word.”

But I would not believe, and, dazzled by the greed of avarice, I thought that if o­ne eye could show me riches, the other might teach me how to get possession of them. And I continued to press the dervish to anoint my right eye, but this he resolutely declined to do.

“After having conferred such benefits o­n you,” said he, “I am loth indeed to work you such evil. Think what it is to be blind, and do not force me to do what you will repent as long as you live.”

It was of no use. “My brother,” I said firmly, “pray say no more, but do what I ask. You have most generously responded to my wishes up to this time, da not spoil my recollection of you for a thing of such little consequence. Let what will happen I take it o­n my own head, and will never reproach you.”

“Since you are determined upon it,” he answered with a sigh, “there is no use talking,” and taking the ointment he laid some o­n my right eye, which was tight shut. When I tried to open it heavy clouds of darkness floated before me. I was as blind as you see me now!

“Miserable dervish!” I shrieked, “so it is true after all! Into what a bottomless pit has my lust after gold plunged me. Ah, now that my eyes are closed they are really opened. I know that all my sufferings are caused by myself alone! But, good brother, you, who are so kind and charitable, and know the secrets of such vast learning, have you nothing that will give me back my sight?”

“Unhappy man,” replied the dervish, “it is not my fault that this has befallen you, but it is a just chastisement. The blindness of your heart has wrought the blindness of your body. Yes, I have secrets; that you have seen in the short time that we have known each other. But I have none that will give you back your sight. You have proved yourself unworthy of the riches that were given you. Now they have passed into my hands, whence they will flow into the hands of others less greedy and ungrateful than you.”

The dervish said no more and left me, speechless with shame and confusion, and so wretched that I stood rooted to the spot, while he collected the eighty camels and proceeded o­n his way to Balsora. It was in vain that I entreated him not to leave me, but at least to take me within reach of the first passing caravan. He was deaf to my prayers and cries, and I should soon have been dead of hunger and misery if some merchants had not come along the track the following day and kindly brought me back to Bagdad.

From a rich man I had in o­ne moment become a beggar; and up to this time I have lived solely o­n the alms that have been bestowed o­n me. But, in order to expiate the sin of avarice, which was my undoing, I oblige each passer-by to give me a blow.

This, Commander of the Faithful, is my story.

When the blind man had ended the Caliph addressed him: “Baba-Abdalla, truly your sin is great, but you have suffered enough. Henceforth repent in private, for I will see that enough money is given you day by day for all your wants.”

At these words Baba-Abdalla flung himself at the Caliph's feet, and prayed that honour and happiness might be his portion for ever.

-A Thousand and o­ne Nights ( Arabian Nights)

A story is told about a soldier who was finally coming home after having fought in Vietnam. He called his parents from San Francisco. “Mom and Dad, I’m coming home, but I’ve a favor to ask. I have a friend I’d like to bring home with me.” “Sure,” they replied, “we’d love to meet him.”

“There’s something you should know the son continued, “he was hurt pretty badly in the fighting. He stepped on a land mind and lost an arm and a leg. He has nowhere else to go, and I want him to come live with us.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, son. Maybe we can help him find somewhere to live.” “No, Mom and Dad, I want him to live with us.” “Son,” said the father, “you don’t know what you’re asking. Someone with such a handicap would be a terrible burden on us. We have our own lives to live, and we can’t let something like this interfere with our lives. I think you should just come home and forget about this guy. He’ll find a way to live on his own.”

At that point, the son hung up the phone. The parents heard nothing more from him. A few days later, however, they received a call from the San Francisco police. Their son had died after falling from a building, they were told. The police believed it was suicide. The grief-stricken parents flew to San Francisco and were taken to the city morgue to identify the body of their son. They recognized him, but to their horror they also discovered something they didn’t know, their son had only one arm and one leg.

The parents in this story are like many of us. We find it easy to love those who are good-looking or fun to have around, but we don’t like people who inconvenience us or make us feel uncomfortable. We would rather stay away from people who aren’t as healthy, beautiful, or smart as we are.

Tonight, before you tuck yourself in for the night, say a little prayer that Allah will give you the strength you need to accept people as they are, and to help us all be more understanding of those who are different from us!!!

There’s a miracle called Friendship
That dwells in the heart
You don’t know how it happens
Or when it gets started

But you know the special lift
It always brings
And you realize that Friendship
Is God’s most precious gift!

Friends are a very rare jewel, indeed.
They make you smile and encourage you to succeed
They lend an ear, they share a word of praise, and they
always want to open their hearts to us.
Show your friends how much you care….

Author Unknown

( muslimmessage.net)

It’s getting pretty tired now-the gold embossing on the cover is all but worn off. The binding is coming undone, and…

BY JENNIFER LYNN JONES

OF ALL THE SENSES, THEY SAY SMELL IS THE ONE MOST CLOSELY TIED TO MEMORY. I BELIEVE THIS IS TRUE BECAUSE OF MY QUR’AN, THE MASSIVE A. YUSEF ALI TRANSLATION, PRINTED IN 1968.

It’s getting pretty tired now-the gold embossing on the cover is all but worn off. The binding is coming undone, and the thin pages are almost completely yellow-but I would never trade it for a new one, and that’s not just because I went to the trouble of stealing it 15 years ago. It’s the smell, that wonderful scent of old paper and ink, that takes me back to when that Qur’an was the only thing I had to connect me with Islam, that time when I had yet to meet a Muslim in the flesh, and my closest tie to the Islamic community was the view outside my father’s car window as we sped past the small mosque in Corvallis, Oregon, on the way to visit my grandparents an hour away from our home. I was 14 years old, a freshman in high school, and I was a Muslim… Definitely the only one in my school, and quite probably the only one in my small town of four thousand. I hadn’t set out to become a Muslim or “discover Islam”-I just needed a topic for a research paper in my English class. I remember the only requirements were you had to use more than one source of information (and encyclopedias couldn’t count!), and it had to be 14 pages long-a veritable thesis by freshman standards.

Other than that, the topic could be about anything. I suppose many of my classmates chose the usual topics for thatage group; rock bands, favorite hobbies, current events of the day… Me, I chose “The Split Between India and Pakistan and the Role of the Islamic Religion.”

I’ll admit, I was a bit of an odd kid. From a very young age I was always interested in religion. I even logged about a year as a “Rajneeshee,” or a follower of a cultish group that took over a small Oregon town by the barrel of a few hundred Uzi submachine guns, a couple attempted murders, and one mass intentional food poisoning of a salad bar… But that’s another story.

I also loved geography; Ah the world, so big, so different, full of possibility, new experiences, places! Not so odd when you consider the stifling familiarity of small town life. I saw the film, “Gandhi,” as I am sure every publicly educated American student has at least three times by age 17, and that was enough to pique my interest in India (which had already been roused by my Rajneeshee stint), and, since I didn’t want to research “boring old England,” I thought Islam and Pakistan would suffice to round out my paper.

I have also always been a rabid book person. Give me a good used bookstore and I’m as happy as a kid in FAO Schwarz; so the opportunity to go to the school library, one of the last remaining without those nasty theft detectors at the door, was always a welcome event.

Once in the library, all I really remember is finding that Qur’an, laying on its side on a shelf in the research room, the inner sanctum of librarydom, whence one may never even borrow, but only peruse while under the gaze of the ever-watchful librarian. I sat down to read, opened the already yellowing pages, and smelled that wonderful scent for the first time. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting… something in keeping with the evening news; angry rhetoric, crazy musings, anything resembling the vaguely negative image Islam had in my brain. What surprised me was the tone, the beauty, and, more than anything the familiarity of the words; almost as if I had seen them before. I knew, even before I left my seat, that first time I read from its pages, that this Qur’an would be mine… And, though it was big, I bundled it up in my other materials and walked out of that library slick as you please. It took me only about two days of reading to realize that I was a Muslim.

A few people eventually knew of my faith, but believe me, it wasn’t something that you advertised. It became difficult when my family started to realize the magnitude of my decision. I would hide to pray, so they didn’t notice that, but they did notice my steadfast refusal to eat pepperoni pizza, my sudden interest in Islamic books, and my posters of Islamic places on my bedroom walls.

Change is difficult on a family, and, although mine was never religious, the cultural residue of Christianity clung tightly. One can’t really blame them. But when they took my prayer rug (that I had acquired in Disney World), my one long dress, and my beloved old Qur’an, and told me they were throwing them in the garbage, I wanted to die.

Somehow I persuaded them to let me put them in a box to keep in the attic, sealed and out of reach. I didn’t read that Qur’an for three years. Sure, I read from other copies of the Qur’an and Islamic books, but always in secret and away from home. I loved the small college library a few miles away, because it had a small collection of Islamic books, and I would make up excuses to go there to study.

One day, I even got the chance to finally go to a mosque. My friend called me and told me he was going to the Corvallis mosque, the same one I used to drive by on my way to my grandparents, for a school project. My hands shook, and I tried to sound nonchalant as I called to my mother in the living room to ask for permission to go. My Qur’an had been in the attic for a year already, and I suppose she decided I had backed off my intense interest, so, miraculously, she agreed.

As we drove through the hilly farm-country on our way to the mosque, I fought my intense nervousness. This would be my very first contact with a real live Muslim! I was terrified and excited at the same time. This had literally been what I had dreamed of. When we arrived and stepped out of the car in the rainy evening, I looked up at the building in disbelief. I’m really here! I thought, while trying to look calm in front of my friend.

We walked up to the building, opened the main door, and stepped across the threshold and into the cool dim of the interior. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a figure moving in my direction. I turned, and was met by a little man, rushing toward me with a wide-eyed look of horror. Flapping his hands in a way similar to the manner in which one would shoo a stray cat, he exclaimed, “No! No!” “This is for men! You go!” while he put his arm around the shoulders of my friend and led him inside.

I won’t pretend I wasn’t hurt by this “warm” reception. Somehow, I expected my faith to show… to be welcomed like some long-lost sister. Instead, I stumbled back out into the rain and made my way to the women’s door a few yards away. There, I entered, removed my shoes, and walked up the soft, carpeted steps to the empty women’s floor.

Silently, I padded around the rooms, looking at the posters of Arabic letters on the walls, enjoying the freedom to explore in privacy. I even walked over to the large, round window overlooking the busy street below, pulled back the curtain and looked out to where I used to drive by in my father’s car. Eventually, some women came in. One, an American, even confirmed the fact that I was, indeed, a Muslim… validation I desperately needed.

Three years later, when I left home for college, I asked permission to pack the box in the attic to take with me. Later that night, as I sat in my new dorm room in Corvallis, just one mile away from that mosque, I opened the box and took out my Qur’an again. Now it’s almost 16 years since I found my Qur’an lying on its side in the reference room. I have thought about returning it, but I can’t bear to part with it. You see, when I open it, the memories come… and Allah is forgiving.

Jennifer Lynn Jones is a writer, a homemaker, and mother living in Seattle, WA.