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Our novel is about two young men who were once boys of the ocean, but are now running from that same ocean. The title comes from the Gaelic prayer which was adapted from ancient Gaelic runes. We want to honestly express the ups and downs of our constant journey of making The Running Waves known to the world. Even when there are discouraging posts, we hope we will inspire readers to never give up and fight to make their own dreams come to life!

Homecoming

12/25/09 09:12 PM Filed in: Inspiration
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"Has he come? Has he come?" That was the question my father would call out to his children who remained huddled together in anticipation at the top of the stairs every Christmas morning. We would then wait for Dad to inspect the living room to see if there was any evidence that Santa had squeezed his way down our chimney the previous night bearing gifts and holiday joy. Continuing to be good boys and girls, the Murphy six kept quiet, waiting for a signal. Then in a disappointing tone, my father would call out again, "Nope. Sorry, guys. Looks like Santa didn't make it this year." With our shoulders hung low, we dejectedly headed back to our rooms with frowns smeared across our faces.

Deflated and exhausted from tossing and turning the night before, nobody uttered a sound. And, then, like thunder, my father's voice broke the silence, "Wait a minute...wait one minute." Stopping quickly, we turned around and hurried back to the stairwell, clenching one another in desperate hope. "I see something. Wait...Yes! Yes! Santa has come!" he would shout. And then, resembling a scene from Black Friday, we dashed down the stairs, skipping a step or two on our way. Turning the corner, we saw the tree that hovered over piles of boxes and packages dressed with beautiful wrapping paper and dazzling colored bows. The sight was pure Heaven. Christmas always brought us a smile.

Five months ago my father, Jim, had triple bypass surgery. I remember the first time I saw him with Ted after the operation. It was a rainy and windy day, which seemed appropriate considering our frame of mind. As we walked in, I saw my Dad, my mentor, unconscious, bloated and discolored. His body was inserted with dozens of tubes connected to various machines that beeped and clacked. I broke down; even after the nurse assured us that he was doing "great." My brother stayed strong, as an older brother should. Dad looked nothing like the man who threw the football in the front yard or shot baskets with me at the Heights when I was a kid. I was afraid I was going to lose him and I wasn't prepared for such a loss.

A week later he awoke and soon began a difficult and remarkable road to recovery. He went from bed ridden, to a wheelchair, to a walker, and now to a cane. He's risen, and thanks to all the incredible doctors and nurses at Cape Cod Hospital, RHCI in Sandwich and JML in Falmouth, my father will be there when Ted and I sign our first copies of The Running Waves. This Christmas the Murphy kids know that Santa has come. We love you, Dad. Merry Christmas.

-Seton
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