Bøger af Pauline Young

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It was at the Pimelea Heights supermarket that Kathleen first noticed the man. He was looking at her intently as she got out her purse to pay the checkout girl. When she had finished paying for her groceries he was still there, and when she wheeled her trolley to the door, he followed. Who could he be? And what did he want with her?

Pauline Young has shown rare vulnerability and courage in sharing her story. She has opened her life with delicacy and candour.Arising from the mists of confusion and mental illness, Pauline describes her journey through fear and grief towards hope, family and faith in God.A revealing insight into the struggle faced by many in our community. Pauline's personal testimony is a resilient account of a woman embracing faith and a positive attitude through the darkest of hours.Pauline's unique poetry adds a wonderful depth to the book, and portrays her personal encounter with a God of tender concern and guidance.

The day was burning hot, with mirages shimmering on the road ahead. On either side, the soil was red and the paddocks contained only stubble, for the wheat had been harvested. Sheep dotted the parched earth, vainly, it seemed to Kathleen, trying to find food in the unforgiving soil.She hoped she had made the right decision, starting her teaching career in a farming town miles from anywhere. She knew practically nothing about Mount George- except that it was small.What was the kindergarten like? Would she get on with the parents and committee? And the children! Especially the children. Would they be hard to manage? What did this year of 1967 hold for her? So many questions. And the answers were not far away. Kathleen's faithful Holden Torana showed she had driven 154 miles from Perth with only thirty to go, until she would be at her new home..

The man drew up outside the shadowy house. He cut the engine. The vehicle glided silently behind the studio which stood apart from the house. He pulled on the hand brake, clutching the Molotov cocktail bomb in his left hand. The summer night was dark. He could hear the trill of cicadas but he ignored them. Silently he made his way to the studio window. The girl had her back to him.His stomach was churning with hate as he lit the rag stuck in the glass bottle, filled with petrol, and pushed the window wider. Then he hurled the bomb with all his might at the shorts the girl was wearing. There was screaming as the flames took hold and running footsteps as the father appeared behind his daughter.The man didn't wait to see more. He raced back to his car and scrambled into the driver's seat, started the engine, switched the headlights on, and put the gears into reverse.Before he steered the car backwards he saw someone lit up by his departing beams.Someone he didn't want to see.

Pauline began writing poetry in 1983. Initially undertaken for therapy, she found that her poetry began to take on a life of its own, until it became so much more. The creation of poems took Pauline to a point where she gained a new and deep satisfaction from sharing her poems, and not just from introspection.They asked me to write my testimony,so I searched my memoryand tried to put in words black and whitethings one only sees with inner sight. But how could I tell them of the strangely burning heart,or the Voice that speaks in some inward part,or the guidance through the maze of life,the answered prayers, the peace in strife? They wrote back unconvincedwith gently chiding words unminced.They told me to tell them of peaceof life back at tremendous cost.They wanted things placed in compartments tight,not knowing the loving heart of the Infinite.

Pauline began writing poetry in 1983. Initially undertaken for therapy, she found that her poetry began to take on a life of its own, until it became so much more. The creation of poems took Pauline to a point where she gained a new and deep satisfaction from sharing her poems, and not just from introspection. This volume is a second edition that incorporates 'As We Journey On'.They asked me to write my testimony,so I searched my memoryand tried to put in words black and whitethings one only sees with inner sight. But how could I tell them of the strangely burning heart,or the Voice that speaks in some inward part,or the guidance through the maze of life,the answered prayers, the peace in strife? They wrote back unconvincedwith gently chiding words unminced.They told me to tell them of peaceof life back at tremendous cost.They wanted things placed in compartments tight,not knowing the loving heart of the Infinite.