A new book featuring the work of 18 beloved and bestselling authors releases today with all proceeds benefitting water-disaster relief. In response to the “thousand year flood” of 2015 in South Carolina, Karen White, Lisa Wingate, SC Poet Laureate Marjory Wentworth, and 15 other authors graciously contributed a water-themed story, essay, novel excerpt, or poem to this heart-warming and thought-provoking anthology. Like a winding river, their words meander through memories and nostalgia or swell in a fit of faith, fear, or questioning. Some offer lessons learned by the water or new beginnings because of it. There are even works of fiction—it often speaks the clearest truth. This is a timeless book for water-lovers and storm survivors.  For more information, visit

Contributing Authors include: Lisa Wingate, Karen White, Bret Lott, Cassandra King, Marjory Wentworth, Jolina Petersheim, Denise Hildreth Jones, Signe Pike, Michael Bassett, Fred Bassett, Eva Marie Everson, Batt Humphreys, Nicole Seitz, Julie Cantrell, Shellie Rushing Tomlinson, Dianne Miley, Dorothy McFalls, and Sarah Loudin Thomas.

Behind the Book
October 2015 brought a super blood moon, extreme high tides, record amounts of rain, and a thousand year flood to much of South Carolina. Author Nicole Seitz’ home was spared in Mount Pleasant, but her brother-in-law, just 40 minutes away in Summerville, was not as fortunate. The creek overflowed and entered his home, filling it with two feet of water. Nearly everything was lost, and the family of four was displaced. They moved in with parents while the damage could be assessed and the home rebuilt. The widespread flood damage became personal to Seitz, and she wanted a way to help. She called on author friends—novelists, poets, journalists—and they responded in record time. One month later, When You Pass Through Waters was created. The anthology is inspiring and thought-provoking as the 18 beloved and bestselling authors share their water-related memories, fears, and wisdom. The cover artwork was done by Nicole Seitz, who is also an artist, illustrator, and art teacher. All proceeds support water-disaster relief efforts.




The Longest Night

By Dianne Miley

Hail pelted the windows in the middle of July. Lightning pierced the pitch black night. The wind whistled and howled. A clap of thunder jolted me straight up in bed.

I heard my mother crying. I was seven years old. The year was 1969.

We didn’t have early warning systems or cell phones. Our family was so poor, we didn’t even have a house phone.

That night, we didn’t have electricity either.

We had no way of knowing what was happening in the northeast Ohio world outside our windows – no way of contacting anyone – no way to reach my daddy.

We didn’t dare walk to the neighbors’ house. It was the middle of the night.

Hail turned to pouring rain – rain that came down in buckets and wouldn’t stop – rain that flooded our yard, our driveway, and our neighbors. Branches, hunks of bark from our sycamore tree, and slabs of shingles from our roof sailed through the air like missiles in the roaring wind.

Lightning splintered the black sky, lighting up the yard outside our darkened windows. I stood against the back of the couch, staring out the window. I cried for my daddy and watched for any sign of his car, any car, any sign of life across the wind-whipped and water-logged landscape.

Thunder cracked with booming ferocity.

I nearly leapt from my skin.

“Get away from the windows!” My mother picked me up and set me and my little sister on her lap in a chair across the room. We watched the dark windows.

Each time lightning lit the flooded lawn, we stood for a better view.

Mommy told us to go back to bed and not to worry. But I could tell she was scared. Her voice cracked and her eyes were red and watery. I heard her crying before, even though she pretended everything was fine.

I didn’t want to go back to bed. I wanted to wait up for my daddy too.

Mommy didn’t argue too much. I think we kept her company and made her feel a little less alone and scared.

My daddy worked second shift from three o’clock P.M. to eleven o’clock P.M. in a town eight miles away. Only eight miles, but that night, it could have been the other side of the world. He should have been home hours ago.

So we sat in that chair, my mother, my sister and I, in the middle of the night, and prayed.

Over and over, I prayed the same thing.

“God, please bring my daddy home.”