For my son, Sacha Ambrose Warhaft, January 1985–October 1988 ‘my little ear of wheat, winnowed and reaped unripe’ (Greek lament)
Dedications
A random assortment of book dedications.
This book is dedicated to our ancestral grandmothers, who braided seeds in their hair before being forced to board transatlantic slave ships, believing against the odds in a future of sovereignty on land.
To my father, who will not be mentioned in the world history books, though he is written in the heart of God as His beloved child: Michael Moussa Chacour from Biram in Galilee, refugee in his own country and one who speaks the language of patience, forgiveness and love. And to my brothers and sisters, the Jews who died in Dachau; and their brothers and sisters, the Palestinians who died in Tel-azzaatar, Sabra and Shatila refugee camps.
To my sister, Dr. Soma Mohammed Mohammed Baroud. I write your name in full, because that is how it appeared on the white body bag that held your remains soon after the bomb was dropped.
For those who supported me through the SOC years; Al Hancock, Linda Merchant, Eric Jones, Larry Doucette, Anna Spychalla, Aaron Burns, Archie Price, Nate Marks, Mike Tillman, Nancy Sorensen, Dale Woolheater and of course my good friend Scott McCoy. Thank you! For those that inspire me always; my dearest wife Monica, and my precious jewels Jonathan, Aaron & Maija. I love you! This book is dedicated to my son; Nicholas Gregory Jarpey December 19, 1995 – January 28, 2014 A son, a brother and friend to all with a bright smile and quick joke to light up someone’s day. I love you and miss you with all my heart. Rest in peace buddy.
For Charles Whitman, who was right.
Selfie by Will Storr
This book is also dedicated to the memory of my mother, Tzilah Bau, murdered in Bergen-Belsen in 1945 my father, Abraham Bau, murdered in the Płaszów concentration camp in 1943 my brother Iziu (Ignacy) Bau, murdered in the Kraków ghetto in 1943 the six million Jews who perished with them Oskar Schindler, without whom this book would never have been written, who died in 1974
Dedicated to my youth-time friends in faith and to Jesus, our imaginary friend
To Tunisia, the best/worst writing assistant— All typos in the manuscript are hers. She loves to rest her hind leg on the keyboard.
For Saddy Who left us much too soon Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.
For Sebastian. My Sebastian. And a commitment to making the decision I can live with if it's wrong.
Agape by CLARET SAGE
This work is dedicated to US Army Specialist Ross McGinnis, US Navy Petty Officer Michael Monsoor, and US Marine Corporal Jason Dunham, who threw themselves on grenades to save comrades.
To orphans whose parents were victims of the sex industry in Thailand, and to those who believe that without dreams, we are all orphans.
This book is dedicated to Alan Kurdi and the many others who lost their lives trying to escape the conflict in Syria. All royalties from the collection will be contributed to Doctors Without Borders/Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF), a Nobel Prize–winning emergency humanitarian medical organization that has helped tens of millions of people since its founding in 1971.
For mad black women everywhere; and for my father, Osei Owusu
Dedicated to the Munnis, Sheilas & Chamelis of the world. May you be as infamous, youthful & slippery (?) as you are supposed to be.
To Lis my partner in life, love, and hope. You make everything possible. it’s 3:23 in the morning and I’m awake because my great great grandchildren won’t let me sleep my great great grandchildren ask me in dreams what did you do while the planet was plundered? what did you do when the earth was unraveling? surely you did something when the seasons started failing? as the mammals, reptiles, birds were all dying? did you fill the streets with protest when democracy was stolen? what did you do once you knew? —From hieroglyphic stairway by Drew Dellinger
Dedicated to the children sent to undo four hundred years of injustice
To all those ravenous fart fiction fans around the world. You know who you are!
To Doctor Sukanya Leecharoen of the Royal Angkor International Hospital in Cambodia, whose wit and kindness turned what began as an agonizing affliction into a strangely entertaining experience.
For Ruth, without whom this wouldn’t have been possible. May she never know this book exists.
For M— You were the blood in my syringe.
In memory of the more than three hundred political prisoners hanged in 1988 for refusing to feign belief in the supernatural
For the women who have lost their lives and the families that have been impacted by honor killings—your struggles and strength have been our inspiration
For all the therapists, practitioners, root workers, space holders and healers who have contributed to creating spaces of safety, impacting generations to come. For those who guide us on our journey back home … back to the Root of our Collective Tree. I see you. For the Spirit of PEP and my Peppers: We are the abolitionists of traditional therapy and the rooted raging descendants of our ancestral healing. Thank you for trusting me and pushing me to decolonize western therapy. I am you. For all the past versions of myself, especially young Jenny from around the way. I adore you. Thank you to all Ancestors who helped bring this book to fruition. I honor you.
To Sílvia Mendiola Buj, the free radical that entered my life and made peace with all of the antioxidants.
To C and C— I would poke an angel in the eyes for you.
To Natalie, I love you. If ever I need help to dig up a Black Madonna using only kitchen utensils, you are always my first pick.
TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN F M BROWNE SJ MC AND CAPTAIN G A O’DONNELL MPSI DIFFERENT WARS DIFFERENT FATHERS
For my first seeds, my daughters Maria and Ana, and for my nephew Gabriel, who taught me that children are children of life, never a private property. To Baruch, the man I chose to build a loving-erotic relationship, to enjoy the pleasure of living and to make every minute a golden century.
To keeper of my flame Time is what keeps the light from reaching us. —Meister Eckhart seven lives, then we become light…
To Michael saepe stylum vertas ‘Chaitanya’ sweet as grapes are the stones of jejuri said chaitanya he popped a stone in his mouth and spat out gods Arun Kolatkar Jejuri
For Jack — My impulse purchase. My money-pit. My bed-humping champion. My girl-to-woman-to-mother companion. I love and miss you. Always & Forever.
This book is dedicated to my mother, Cele, for teaching her children that they could do no wrong; To my glorious Thea and our love that changed history; To my beautiful Judith for a second gift of love and joy; And to LGBTQ+ people everywhere for your courage, strength, and endless inspiration.
FOR H, THANKS FOR TRYING TO MAKE ME LOVE RUTABAGA.
For Jack and Jan Carter, who demolished the myth that you can’t be cool and Christian, whose unique Southern Baptist thinking is more catholic than mine, and whose hearts are like a bloodshot sunset.
For Uncle Brian and for Ed. I know neither of you would have read my books, but I hope you both know that I’m the writer I am because of you two. I wish this grief really was just fiction.
To Amanda and Tim, loving allies still, even in the chasm of their absence.
To those who died in the fire because they danced with the flame. To those who perished in the desert because the rain never came. To those who evaporated into nothingness because the sun got down on its knees. And to those who took the bullet in the chest because they managed to believe that not only did love exist, but that somehow they might actually find it in their lifetime. I wrote this book for you.
For the eldest daughters wearing crowns of thorns May you find they were stars all along
To the memory of Oscar Grant, Sean Bell, Amadou Diallo, and the countless brothers who have lost their lives, and dignity, to racial profiling
For Robin: my true friend, my blood, my laugh-maker. And for Julie: my sunshine, my awe-inspirer, my soul-waker. May God grant us the strength and wisdom to do your lives a sliver of justice in the telling. We love you always and miss you every day. Kisses and Revolution.
To John McNeill pioneer and living martyr for the cause of gay liberation in the face of religious oppression
To the future characters I may kill. Run.
For the ones who know survival is not soft—it is sharp, it is bloodied, it is holy. It is teeth bared through tears. It is a vow spoken with a trembling voice. It is endurance wrapped in ruin. You are living proof that even broken things are beautiful.
To my son Tom Ellis, scientist, who will be seventy in the year 2050 and will know for certain what went wrong
FOR MY BROTHERS, OSVALDO, GEOVANNY, AND TIRSO JR., BECAUSE WE FILLED THAT UNFORGIVING MINUTE WITH SIXTY SECONDS’ WORTH OF DISTANCE RUN. AND FOR YOU, TIRSO APOLINAR FERNÁNDEZ, MY FATHER. YOU MANIFESTED THE KINDEST, FIERCEST, AND MOST PRINCIPLED HUMANITY.
This book is dedicated to the generations that came before and the generations to come after— Margaret “Em” Swan, age ninety-four, and Barney Swan, age fifteen And to Peter Austin Malcolm (1956–2009), an Immortal among the Immortals— without him our dream would never have taken shape
To the unyielding spirits of Yemen—whose silence speaks louder than bombs, whose survival is an act of resistance, and whose truth still waits to be heard.
The Mountain Commander: Abdulmalik al-Houthi and Yemen’s Unyielding War by Russell Borna
The three people who make this life worth living: Brenna, Emerson, and Annaliese. Each warrior fighting the daily battle with bipolar disorder. Robert Allan Payne Jr. April 28, 1977 ~ November 9, 2009
for Jem, who gave me this universe
To the Amazing Kathleen, the Love of My Life, Whose Death Left a Hole in My Heart & Soul
To Arthur’s family — who lent their hearts to this project Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. [This is the place where death rejoices in helping the living.] — Motto above the door of the Anatomical Institute, Vienna, where autopsies are performed.
For Carly. For taking a chance and believing in me. Also for Emily Doe, and every Emily Doe who’s had their worth, their confidence, and their voice stolen. You are the warriors.
To the Freedom Seekers of Namibia and South Africa who are United in tears, purpose and action; Those Men and Women Either dead or alive Who have fought are still fighting and who will continue to fight For Our Liberation Our True Liberation for the Freedom of Our Minds Liberation beyond building personal castles That is That the People make and unmake governments That Liberation will make Africa “Afrika” Yes, all Africa! Once and for all Knowing that We shall Be Free And Only We Can Make Ourselves Free! J.B.D.
To the memory of over a hundred thousand citizens of Indonesia who were killed by the British, Dutch, and Japanese “Fasces” of 1945–46 Also, to Wangari Maathai, and others like her And lastly, to A. J. (and why not?)
For anyone who treats spiders like vengeful gods of doom— may your fearless, broad-shouldered hero eternally smite those miniature spawns of darkness while you stand on a chair screaming like you just saw the Devil himself.
For those who have ever felt lost in the gray, waiting for the world to turn to color. And for the fierce ones— the scholars, the seekers, and the survivors— who know that sometimes, to find the light, you have to run toward the shadows.
for Osaze, Ebun for my parents my grandfather Epa Adun, whom I never knew and Nigeria in mortification
TO ALL OF THE TRANS KIDS WHO WANT WITH TEETH AND CLAWS
A Hundred Vicious Turns (The Broken Tower Book 1) by Lee Paige O'Brien
To my loyal friend, Catherine the Great, who sat on my table and watched me write. When I typed rapidly, she purred, and when I stopped, she stared with the intensity only a cat can maintain. Get on with it, she seemed to say. Cat, 1980—1999. In pace requiescat.
To Mom and Dad, thanks for having sex so that I could exist.
To Eishar, the best editor, and Lauren, the greatest agent. To Lola, Georgia, and Caitlin. To my grandmother, who faced the worst witch hunters in history and survived. Once again, to the children with happy, flapping hands.
For Newnan Clarence Brown, whose memory reminds me daily that there’s enough I don’t know to make a whole nother universe.
For Paul—in a world of catfish, you have always been my arapaima. I love you so.
For the little girl who stopped asking to be saved. And for Solea and Izaiah - the children who will never have to. My loud, expensive, dramatic little reasons. You don't have to survive me. You get to be loved by me.
To the millions of men, women, and children who have died, and to those who will be persecuted by fanatics, because of religious beliefs, political beliefs, and racial differences. Also, to my wife, Cherie. Without her support, inspiration, and input, I never would have finished this book. And to my children: Lavaughn, Hope-Ann, Derek, Faith, Billy, Jessica, and Alex, all of whom I love and wish to protect. May God bless us all. “Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty.” —John F. Kennedy, inaugural address, 1961
For H.R. Giger Master of the sinister airbrush. Who reveals more about us than we wish to know. From ADF and points west.
TO THOSE WHO LOST THEIR LIVES AT JONESTOWN
For my darling boys—Max, Asher, Charlie, and George—who have all grown up in the considerable time it has taken me to finish this book. I am eternally thankful to you for reminding me that dancing in the kitchen, competitive quizzing via Zoom, laughter so intense it forces carrots down your nose, top trumps, bottomless appetites, and arthouse films with giant cinema popcorn are the happy and compelling stuff of which life is made. I trust you to know that I love you beyond all possible description.
To my daughters…if someday you wonder who I was, read this story. I buried pieces of myself in it so you would always be able to find me. - Dad
To Charles Goodyear (1800-1860), the inventor of the latex condom.
To the four chambers of my heart—the women who taught me to believe bigger. My grandmothers, Lendell Rogers Evans and Pearline Young Veal. My great aunt, Effie Jane Rogers. My mother, my first home, Mary Veal Evans. I pray I can birth the dreams you didn’t have a chance to live.
To Beatrice— darling, dearest, dead.
A Series of Unfortunate Events Collection: Books 1-3 with Bonus Material by Lemony Snicket
I dedicate this book to my mother, Blythe Faye Ricker. I am eternally grateful for your generous spirit, your delight in all living things, your appreciation of beauty, and your insistence on carrying my flags into battle on every front, no matter whether you understood me or not. You loved me out loud and with unabashed ferocity, and that was enough.
To my mom, who taught me the greatest thing you can do is create music, dance when you hear it, and pull people onto the dance floor with you. Your effervescent energy and unconditional love for life in the face of tremendous adversity is why I know I can find the disco sparkle in the darkness and be good to others, no matter what. I carry your dance deep in my soul. I’ll see you on the other side of the ping pong table. I love you, my Superhero. Marines
For Catherine, first and favorite raisin girl
For every girl who was “too weird to be liked, too pretty to be ignored,” the creepy kids, and the dogs they will always miss And for Haven, who never really left us
For my sons, who taught me grace. For my younger self, who carried so much. For my father, whose absence shaped my strength. And for the woman still learning how to choose herself—this passage is for you.
my sister M Who begged me to kill Mallory
To Josh Carney, the friend whose kindly voice inspired my timid pen with hope. And To my wife Emily, my companion in calm or chaos, brave enough to be true, true enough to be singular, one who says what she thinks and very often thinks what she says.
This book is dedicated to my loving mother who lived the “long goodbye” of dementia with grace and beauty. Her death taught me everything I need to know about living: I am human, brilliantly alive, and relentlessly dying.
To Zoe Flaminia, the only true Roman in the family, romana de’ Roma, birthed alongside this book, raised among the revisions.
Antonio Pietrangeli, The Director of Women by Emma Katherine Van Ness
For those who bore the future when survival demanded the unthinkable. For the mothers of a world that could not wait. And for the children who will never know what it cost to keep them alive.
For Becca and the Dread Pirate Robert, who give the best horse-drawn carriage tours in Savannah, mainly because they include cupcakes, coffee, parrots, ghost stories, mummified squirrel sightings, and quality time with the best in-laws a girl could hope for.
To the people who look at the numbers and choose to see the faces. To the sisters who protect one another, and to the truth that refuses to stay hidden.
TO MAMI & PAPI. I WOULD FIGHT ANY UN-BONDED DRAGON FOR YOU.
To the Welsh, Scots, and Irish who built America while the English weren’t looking
To the brave barefoot woman, whose name I don’t know but whose rational arguments saved me from being sliced by a mob of angry men with machetes
This book is dedicated to the memory of my son, Jo'el Nahshon Patterson-Jordan, a victim of a homicide ruled self-defense by a corrupt police detective. This book is also dedicated to the many murdered victims, whose killers were allowed to go free under Stand Your Ground laws across the United States.
For the Sake of Jo'el: a Father's Story by REGINALD SEBASTIAN PATTERSON
For my sweet husband. Every absurdly tall hero I write is at least a little bit you.
For Nancy Friedman Because the only thing better than hanging fifty feet over a smoking volcano with nothing but a thin sheet of plastic between you and it—with a pilot whose idea of fun is to tip the helicopter over on its side without warning and cheerily yell, “Don’t worry, you won’t fall out!” —is having someone to share that with.
For all the Kānaka kids growing up in the diaspora trying to find the path back home. Look to our ancestors; they guide the way. And for my Aunty Marie, who visited me in a dream to let me know my papa was safe on the other side.
For Linda Peerenboom, who stood at the oblong panels with “the peace of great doors”
To three very charming men. Stan Kulak, who taught me the two Polish sentences. And the original Stefan Szyszko, who loaned me his name, appearance and allergy to horses. And our son-in-law Roger Johnson, who wrote the song for our daughter, Liza.
For Justin, the father of our five precious children—three in God’s dwelling place, two in our own. You are the best daddy I know, and it is a miracle to share this life with you. I love you.
For Matthew Shepard
For my rage-filled little darlings who have had it just about as much as I have for the system and for the rules that keep us down. In the famous words of Margaret Atwood’s characters, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down” – but please do let my bastards grind on you a little bit. I promise it’ll be so worth it.
To His Holiness Pujya Swami Chidanand Saraswatiji, who showed me the path to my true self and through whose blessings I am now able to show the path to so many others. It is not easy for a world-renowned Hindu monk to create the space for a white, American woman to step into spiritual leadership in India. Not only have you created the path for me, but through me you have also lit the way for countless other women of all races and religions to break stained-glass ceilings and walls and step into their highest purpose.
For Charles Ryerson III (1933–2016), who arranged my marriage with India
To the memory of Paul Farmer, MD, PhD 1959-2022 whose dedication to patients most in need embodied medicine’s highest commitments to justice and service As co-founder of Partners In Health, Dr. Farmer focused attention on social inequalities as drivers of health inequities and worked tirelessly to deliver high-quality care and build public health capacity in resource-poor places around the world.
Code of Medical Ethics of the American Medical Association by American Medical Association
To my son, Nicholas C., whom we lost long before we should have, and whose name I intend to keep alive with my writings. Am I my brother’s keeper? Genesis 4:9
To the memory of my daughter, Dawn—a well-loved piece of forever
For Jim, my love and my rock. So much of life’s goodness begins with him. For Stacy, with fierce love. From her first breath, she was an inspiration. And for all those who have experienced faith-based sexual violence and religious institutional betrayal. You are not alone. You matter.
To the original Four who were, in reality, Five. To the new Four who now number Eight.
For my loving husband, Chris. Who’s always wanted me to write about zombies and orgies. Sorry, babe. This still isn’t it.
For Louise, To my dying day and my last free breath, Every heartbeat is for you. Fairy tales are real.
To the last humans who will ever realize what they’ve created.
To those who turned their pain into ritual and called it survival.
For Grandma Ruth and Grandma Jet. I wish we’d had more time. And for my mom. I’m sorry I covered your mouth when you sang.
This book is dedicated to the countless Chinese people who lived and worked in the Napa Valley between 1870 and 1900. You worked so hard, and we should have treated you much better.
For Jack Coulter. You would have made an amazing king. I wish I could have saved you.
In memory of Tom Richardson (1942–2020) That morning you died a bird sang the lonesomest song I've ever heard.
For Osabu (Osabu Olaitei, Ogidigidi, Gbègbèètégbèèté, Katamansu Ta Tsè, Nuunko-Nuunko, Bo chukuò ni Bo nyagãa) and Atrékor Wé for witnessing Osabu’s everlasting flame and in whose hearts and minds Osabu kindled a spirit for resisting injustice and surviving improbable odds. Hiao! Hiao! Hiao!
To my grandpa Earl Strawbridge Lance, 1924–1999 NCDU team 10, who specialized in rocket launchers and underwater explosives and pushed me for hours on the rope swing he built in his yard
To Rob, Anabel, and Tess, my inspiration in all things adolescent—and otherwise. And to my parents, who continue to guide me — every day. For Mania and RK, who took me through adolescence; Larry, who accompanied me out; and Emma and Sam, who give it new meaning.
For Laura, Jay, Danny, and Sylvia, the best decisions I ever made.
For Darryl, Josh, Rosie, Jeffery, and Cecy, for making our home a place of continual grace, love, laughter, and creativity. All that I do is for you, and because of you. And for my mom, who has taught me that cultivating a happy, healthy, secure family is a work of art, and a revolutionary act.
In memory of my mother Sybil Tope who died just as the final pages of this book were being written
To the creative and courageous youth of Egypt who are engaged in an epic struggle to liberate their minds on the way to reimagining a new system for Egypt and the world
This book is dedicated to my father, Payson Hurwitz, a World War II veteran and inspiration for this book, and to my wife, Rachelle, and my children, Asher and Felicia, for their love and support through some very dark days when my ability to write this book was very much in doubt.
To my dad From whom I learned the art of reinvention while sticking to your core
In honor of Brevard Childs Who was dedicated to connecting the Testaments for Christ and teaching others to do the same. Who restored a young man’s love of the Spirit in study within a single hour. “Herein lies the secret of interpretation … wherever the Spirit is not present, there is no great explanation possible.” — Brevard Childs
To my grandchildren, who will have to live with the policy decisions we make.
For my dad, Richard Stoddard. Please send me good tidings from wherever you are. I love you.
To the memory of my father, whose favourite was Bambi, who chased Chops around the dining table yelling ‘chor pakdo!’ and who shuffled into the garden to scatter flowers on the hoodlum’s grave.
Bambi, Chops and Wag: How three dogs trained a family by Ranjit Lal
To the Memory of Pope Francis “Certainly the most decisive turning points in world history are substantially co-determined by souls whom no history book ever mentions. And we will only find out about those souls to whom we owe the decisive turning points in our personal lives on the day when all that is hidden is revealed.” — Gaudete et Exsultate, 8
Although this is a work of fiction, many fellow Cantabrians, and others, still live in the hope of insurance justice after experiencing devastating earthquakes in 2011. Ten years on, this story is dedicated to those who died with those hopes vanquished as well as those still in insurance battles, who, more than anyone, understand the maxim, justice delayed is justice denied.
To the families who lost their properties through eminent domain so that New York City residents could have drinking water and to the workers who lost their lives while building the Neversink and Rondout Reservoirs.
To my dad—Professor Dr. Tara Prasad Joshi—who now lives in the stars.
A Hundred Flowers to Awareness and Death by Dr. Mohan Prasad Joshi
To Josh For listening to me ramble about the colour of the gods
For my own true beloved DIANE who taught me that wholesomeness and happiness need not be boring
To anyone who has ever felt the burn of wrath over injustice.
For the dreamers, the late-night grinders, and the heroes who feel invisible—may you always see yourself in frame, and may your story roll on, one epic scene at a time.
This book is in memory of Jens Hasfeldt. It commemorates our twenty-year friendship begun in Darfur, Sudan, in 1989 until Easter 2009 when he died of cancer. When he died, Jens was preparing a final mission to Papua New Guinea, a journey I continued in his stead.
For my Dad: Thank you for teaching me to garden, and for letting me sit on your lap and read theology over your shoulder. I’ve always been proud that you were my pastor. And for Matthew: I met you in the final days of spring, and we’ve walked side by side all this long, hard summer. Take my hand as we enter the close of autumn, and, finally, the snows of winter. There is no one I would rather travel with than you.
To the parent who strives to disciple in the home: YOU ARE A HEBREWS-11-CALIBER HERO OF THE FAITH.
To Mum, Dad, Amen, Ota and Iredia, much love always. To all the misfits who dare to tilt worlds.
For David Scott. Sometimes all I want to do is lie down—blur-blind, life-weary—and survive with you.
Dedicated to my nona. She wasn’t a krsnik, but she didn’t need magic to be awesome.
For Hannah, my fellow palindrome, to the moon and back
To my son Scott, for my first parachute jump and the pictures that went with it. An experience I knew I would put in a book. And to Lawrence, my chute buddy from Coffs Skydivers, who made it such fun that I was never, ever scared. And to Dr Andrew Bisits, teacher, clinician, believer in women, who is the true inspiration whenever I think of natural breech birth.
To my daughter Antara, who has climbed her own Everest
To my Penny, who is fierce and funny and full of heart. And to my brother Sam, who always bought me pink cookies.
For my grandparents, James and Alice Goodson, their eleven daughters and their twelfth child, my dad, Fred. ‘We’re a very persistent family.’
For the Moonbeamers, the Esther Williams and the March Flies
For Danielle DeVor, the baddest quiet vampire I know.
To Charlie Whose Kisses Still Make the World Fade Away.
For Betty Bailey, and chicken and mushroom pie.
For Sandy, who believes in blue hippos
For my wife Joyce, who breathes life into my poetry, and who breathes poetry into my life
For my husband, Dr. David C. Dorr, S.A.C.S., who like Luke was a physician. He believed strongly enough in the good news of the gospel to give seventeen years of his life to medical missions in the Middle East.
To the forgotten girls of the House of Refuge for Women at Hudson
To the Christian martyrs throughout church history (including today) and to my students around the world, some of whom may become martyrs. The world was not worthy of them... These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been promised. God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect. (HEBREWS 11:38-40)
for Eloise who will inherit this earth
In memory of Dad, who always wanted to be a cowboy
To C, who needs a gold medal for putting up with my constant rambling during the writing of this book. May your ears rest in peace.
Dedicated to Sarbi the Australian Army explosive detection dog, Cairo the American Special Forces dog, Endal the British service dog, and all other dogs who have served humankind in peace and war. And in loving memory of my own labrador retriever, Zeberdy. With special thanks to Zoe, Catriona and Richard, and, as always, to my Louise, my commander-in-chief.
For Aidan, my best, most important reason for figuring out how to find calm. I love you with all my heart.
Joshua Antar – my magnificent son Who hung on long enough on the inside To make it all worthwhile on the outside
Contemporary Politics in the Middle East by Beverley Milton-Edwards
This book is dedicated to the Brooklyn that was and never was.
This book is dedicated to that aspect of self residing in each of us that continually tries to shed light on the darkness, connect the fragments of our understanding into a meaningful whole, and reintroduce us to our abandoned talents and discarded loves: to the dreamer within.
Dedicated to the brave and caring members of the State Emergency Services, who are volunteers; and other first attenders — police and ambulance officers — who often go home with tears in their eyes.
For Zoe and Abby, who bring me more joy than they will ever know. For Steve, who is my partner in all things. For my law students, who inspire me every day. For Sandra Day O’Connor, who first smiled at me one day in 1998, instilling in me a great love for justice, a better understanding of the law, and a true passion for the United States Supreme Court. In loving memory of the Killer Bs and Thurgood Tucker McElroy.
To any who feel like the world is trying to extinguish them, remember that you are a dragon. Never forget that you can set the world on fire.
A Vow of Crown and Flame: The Dragonbond Chronicles by E. L. Garcia
To the forgotten but precious Native people of North America… especially the Navajo people, who have taken me in as family and shared their life stories with me.
To Sophie Christopher I wish you could be here to see this published. Thank you for being a tiny ball of energy and constant writing champion, for your absolute, never-ending belief that I would be an author one day, and for always being the optimism to my pessimism. We used to read out our names in the acknowledgments of books with pride to one another, so I hope you would have loved seeing your name here. I miss you and I will be forever glad I had you as a friend.
For a story that knew its way to my heart—long before I knew how to write it. For a name I never thought would turn into a habit. And for the feeling I’ll always be slightly biased about—between now and always.
This book is dedicated to Winter, for her unwavering support and limitless friendship. The smoke has cleared; The mirrors have shattered. I stand behind enemy lines, An unwitting patriot of an unholy land. — s.g.
This one goes out to my dad, who has insisted for years that I would achieve instant superstardom if I wrote about a dog. I created Murrow just to (lovingly and respectfully) shut him up, but ultimately Murrow was the key to understanding Sebastian. So . . . thanks, Dad. (Disclaimer: Dedication is contingent upon superstardom status. The author reserves the right to retroactively bestow this dedication upon Paul Rudd.)
To my father, Glenn. 1904–1988 With love and affection. So … What do you think?
For all who served in the Battle of the Atlantic, especially those who lost their lives. Twilight and evening bell And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell When I embark.
To my Dad, always frugal, never cheap
To my friends who didn’t make it to the 21st Century. I miss you.
Bob Blair, Bill Roth, Walt Russell, Dallas Willard These are among the Dunedain Men of Old, Men of Valor
In Memory of Clover May 29, 2007–September 10, 2012 This book is dedicated with love and gratitude to each and every one of my readers at Chickens in the Road. You carried me through this journey on your wings of unflagging support and encouragement. Thank you always.
This book is for my grandmother, Barbara Shaw, who sees a story everywhere she looks
To those who survived adversities without selling their soul.
TO MY MOTHER AND FATHER, who in different places and different ways fought against the Fascists and the Nazis, lost many of their closest friends, and were never thanked
To MiShaun Who once upon a time was brave enough to ask her unpublished, aspiring-writer friend to put her in a book
To my sister, Nikki, for being part of so many conversations about our family’s weird and unhealthy relationship with stuff. Over the years, the words settled into small spaces and created the foundation for this book. Things are always things, and they are also rarely just things.
To Sandy, who gave up London for this
For Kevin and Kimberly, my children, delivered to me full-grown; and for Debi, their mother, my world
For Daniel who had to translate himself several times in his young life
Dedicated to the memory of my abuela Daisy Concepción de las Nieves Ojeda Capote Socorro Quiñones Alonso, an instrument of God’s peace and love
To Lynn Harper and her colleagues, courageous scouts on the frontiers of knowledge And to the memory of Carl Sagan, pioneer and friend
My beautiful adopted son Christopher who, upon DNA analysis was discovered to be my 4th and 7th cousin, And to Mary Polly Greentree 1815 – 1880 Our closest common ancestor And to my beta readers Debbie Leach, Cynthia DePlonty, Janet Huderski, and a special thank you to Crystal Easterwood for all of her hard work – thank you so much!
In Memory of Jaap Durand (1934–2022) Theologian, Mystic & Mensch and Suellen Shay (1961–2022) Extraordinary Friend Hopeful, Joyful, Compassionate
For my sister, Lara Putnam, who’s been helping me keep my story straight for nearly fifty years
For Nan, who worked harder on this project than I did.
Dedicated to Larry Burkett (1939–2003), cofounder of Crown Financial Ministries. A close friend and godly man, who was used by the Lord in an extraordinary way.
For the friends I’ll walk into a nightclub with, No matter what’s waiting there for us… And for my family as always.
In memory of my maternal grandfather, the late Christopher Fulcher, who helped to keep the “Whisky Sixes” running the roads of Saskatchewan.
This book is dedicated to my wife, Gina G. Connor, who has loved me with a deep and abiding love and has taught me how to do the same.
For Rebecca – a charge fulfilled. This book is dedicated to my children and grandchildren in the hope that they never have to face the horrors of war.
To my grandchildren, Maggie and Robert, who will have a dangerous future if we don’t face the realities of the modern Chinese Communist Party’s tyrannical rule.
For my Dad and my Uncle Dick for letting me in on the secret
My family for their love and support. The Global Prayer Line in which I’ve had the honor of praying with for over 9 years to date. May we continue to pray and not faint. My dear friend, Anastasia Baxter, whom I met in the DeVos Urban Leadership program in 2006. Thank you for pushing me way past my comfort zone by asking the hard but necessary questions to write this book. I thank God for your many hours of reading with me and our conversations. Your editorial skills and your heart for souls are so valuable to the Kingdom of God. I love you all. Peace and Blessings to everyone.
For all the women who make crafting communities a space of comfort, charity, and hope.
Dedicated to the fifteen passengers and crew members of the steam merchant Alphacca who died when she was torpedoed off Cape Palmas, Liberia, on 4 April 1942.
For Mom, Dad, Brendan, Mike, and my darling wife, Cosette. You are my Pillars. Thank you so much for loving and supporting me. -This one’s for the goofballs who try their best- -Keep going-
To my parents, who gave me my first typewriter and the belief that anything is possible
To Skeeter, the first horse I ever loved.
For first responders everywhere —thank you for helping those who cannot help themselves— and for the loved ones who pray for your safe return
To my husband, Doug, whose shoulder trouble inspired poor Quinn’s injury. Thanks for doing such dedicated research for me on this one, darling. I love you.
For Eva I hope you have lots of adventures and never, ever settle for less than love.
To the memory of my psychoanalytic teachers: Enid Balint, Nina Coltart, André Green, Paula Heimann, Adam Limentani and Harold Stewart, all of them truly independent people.
I dedicate Richard Harris: Raising Hell and Reaching for Heaven to my beloved late mother and father, Phyllis and Joe Jackson. They blessed me with the kind of shadowed family life without which I would never have connected as deeply as I did with Richard Harris.
This edition is dedicated to all the pilots and aircraft owners who have kept flying in the face of difficult economic and regulatory conditions, especially those who have spent hard-earned money to upgrade and keep their aircraft looking good and safe. And to all of the pilots who have maintained their stick and rudder skills and still hand-fly their airplanes because they love flying. And finally, to my wonderful wife Susan Sparks who tolerates my flying and spending money on the Cherokee 180C I have owned for more than 35 years.
This book is dedicated to a beautiful new baby in our family. Welcome, Adrian. You make Grandma’s heart just sing.
This book is dedicated to the thousands of students with whom we have worked. They have taught us about compassion and caring and have permitted us to help them become leaders. To each of them, we say "thanks" for helping us to grow a part of our hearts. Most importantly, we also dedicate this book to our favorite "grandbuddy," Wyatt. Like his parents, Wyatt warms our hearts every day simply by being who he is. We hope his life is filled with great joy and wonderous adventures. His presence in our lives is our greatest present.
To my wife, Linda, for her encouragement and enduring patience while writing this book. In memory of Anthony B. Muller. Mentor, colleague, and dear friend who introduced me to isotope geochemistry.
For my most excellent editor, Megan, who is a joy to work with.
For Dr. Paul B. Snider — teacher, mentor, friend
To Andy and Sarah, my favorite space cadets — H. P. For Ellie and Ben, with love! — L. A.
Amelia Bedelia & Friends #6: Amelia Bedelia & Friends Blast Off by Herman Parish
To Jeff and Michelle Murphy Thank you for being faithful partners in our Pathway to Victory ministry. I am grateful for your commitment to be “salt” and “light” in a decaying and darkening world as we partner together to share the good news of Jesus Christ.
“Ga drinken en u wassen aan de bron” “Go to the spring, drink of it and wash yourself there” “Ve a beber y a lavarte en la fuente” “Allez à la source, boire et vous y laver” IC of Mary (25-02-1858) Dedicated to the Immaculate Conception, to my wife Zahira and our daughter María Bernadette; to our Parents, Family and Friends.
Autotrophic Nitrogen Removal from Low Concentrated Effluents by Javier Adrián Sánchez Guillén
Thank you, dear reader, for choosing my story in this busy world. I appreciate it more than you can know. A special thanks to my esteemed publishers, Claire and Rebecca, for their awesome support and standing behind this series that I am so excited to share with all of you. To Rebecca, my brilliant editor and a woman I am honored to call friend—as always, bless your heart for making my stories shine. Many thanks to all the staff and writers at Totally Bound Publishing. To my very own White Knight, Don. How can a simple thank-you ever be enough? It’s an honor to be with you. All my love, always.
As always to my husband Jim. Thank you for being my rock and for holding my heart all these years.
Riley's Rules (Book 2 - The Bounty Hunter Series) by Laurie LeClair
This book is dedicated with love to my daughter Alexa Jaymie Friedman who is a bright light in my life