Letters from a Distant Shore

About Letters From A Distant Shore Tragedy shattered Marie Lawson Fiala’s life as a wife, mother, and lawyer when her 13-year-old son, Jeremy, was felled by a massive hemorrhage from a ruptured artery deep in his brain. Within an hour, Jeremy was in a coma, sustained only by machines.  This memoir of a mother’s ferocious care and fierce determination to bring her child home alive and functioning despite devastating loss will win the hearts of families who have ever suffered from physical trauma with loved ones. Just when Marie believed all hope was lost for her son to talk and to walk ever again, her family organized three world-wide prayer vigils for Jeremy, using the internet support network that had been following Marie’s email updates on Jeremy’s condition posted from his hospital bedside.  After each prayer vigil, Jeremy showed dramatic healing, far surpassing his doctors’ predictions.  Was this a coincidence or a miracle? Readers will find their own faith in things unseen as Marie tells her tale of Jeremy’s recovery and homecoming.  Letters from a Distant Shore  is both a profoundly spiritual work and a gripping read.  The suspense is relentless and the author’s observations as sharp as a scalpel.

Marie Lawson Fiala’s account is lyrical, moving, and utterly absorbing.  In the tradition of Joan Didion’sThe Year of Magical Thinking or Martha Beck’s Expecting Adam, she details how ordinary existence can change in an instant.  The reader learns how a family’s terrible challenge can bring great wisdom, renewed spiritual strength, and even moments of joy and beauty.

—Gretchen Rubin, Author, The Happiness Project (New York Times #1 Bestseller)

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From Marie’s Blog…

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• The Geese on Lyman Pond

  I did not know what it was about the geese that moved me so, on the shore of a small lake in Minnesota, deep into October, under a wide Northern Plains sky washed milky-blue and stippled with bright puffs of cloud. The air was clear and keen as a crystal knife, the trees burned like torches with cold autumn fire. I was adrift at the center of all that brightness and clean light, iced with sadness before winter even came on.

  I was new to the Midwest, had come here with my teenage son to visit a college campus. For the past six months, Jamie, a high school senior, and I had been searching for the right school, the place that would be his next home. Just that morning we had flown east from San Francisco, across the high western basin and mountain ranges, and then the Great Plains. Which are just that—great and plain, a low ocean of land without relief. I rested my forehead against the airplane window and looked for landmarks, but found no clues to our direction, only a vast mosaic of alternating patterns, light and dark, dark and light. Read more…

  
  

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