Lynda was confused. Wasn’t ten o’clock supposed to have been his big moment? Had they changed his schedule at the last minute? She went back into the corridor. Jake was nowhere in sight.
Maybe he’d gone to say hello to the nurses in orthopedics. Or maybe his morning therapy hadn’t gone well; maybe he’d gotten discouraged and had decided not to make the attempt to walk today. Maybe the doctor had stepped in to postpone the attempt for some reason. Maybe something was wrong.
She had worked up a fair amount of anxiety by the time she decided to go to the fourth floor to see if he’d gone to say hello to his nurses. Abby, the nurse who had cared for him in ICU, was waiting for the elevator when the doors opened.
“Abby, have you seen Jake?”
Abby set her hands on her hips, as though offended. “That’s it? No hello? No nothing?”
Lynda laughed softly and hugged her. “I’m sorry. It’s good to see you.”
Abby pointed up the hall. “He’s in the chapel, baby.”
Lynda glanced toward the prayer room then brought her troubled eyes back to Abby’s. “Is everything all right?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I just caught a glimpse of him goin’ in. He didn’t speak to anybody up here. Just rolled right to that room.”
Lynda started toward the prayer room, but Abby stopped her. “Lynda, he’s doin’ okay, isn’t he?”
Lynda didn’t know how to answer that. “I don’t know, Abby. We’ll see.”
She hesitated outside the chapel door, bracing herself for whatever she might find inside. Slowly she opened it and stepped into the dark room lit only with candles.
Jake was sitting in his chair near the front row, looking up at the cross on the wall behind the small pulpit.
When she approached him, she saw that his face was tearstained. “Jake, what’s wrong?”
His smile was heavy with emotion. “Nothing’s wrong,” he whispered.
“Then why are you in here? I thought you were going to the parallel bars at ten. I thought—”
“I lied to you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want you to see me fail. I’ve already been there.”
Compassion for his disappointment washed through her, and she sank down on the end of a pew. “Jake, I’m so sorry. But it was just the first try.”
He started to laugh then, and she frowned, confused.
“What is it?”
“I did it,” he whispered. “I walked.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “You did?”
But Jake’s smile twisted at the corners as a new wave of emotion came over him; new tears welled in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. “Four steps, Lynda. I took four steps!”
“Four steps?”
“Yes,” he said. “They said I’ll be able to get around with a walker soon. Then crutches . . .”
“Oh, Jake,” she whispered and reached out for him.
He accepted her embrace and clung to her tightly, laughing softly into her ear as his tears wet her hair.
“But why did you come in here? You looked so sad when I came in.”
He drew in a long, shaky breath and looked at that cross again. “I had somebody to thank,” he whispered.
She pulled back to look at him, afraid to make any assumptions, yet hoping. . . .
“It wasn’t just the walking,” he told her. “I’m grateful for that. But it’s the other things.”
“What other things?”
“The way he reached out and chose me and worked on me and even broke me, just to get me to the place where I could start really living.” He wiped the wetness on his face and moved his wet, red eyes to hers. “And for his forgiveness that didn’t cost me anything—not even a Porsche.”
As he smiled through his tears, she leaned back into the pew, weakened by her glad amazement over what she was hearing.
“And I had to thank him for you,” he whispered.
He pulled her against him again, and this time they wept together, for joy, for sadness, for the future, for the past.
It was a while before Jake could speak again. “Do you think God really spared me because he had a plan for me?”
She felt as certain of that as she’d ever been of anything in her life. “I know he did.”
His arms tightened around her, and as he looked back at the cross, he laid his head on hers. “If it was just to give me one moment like this, it would all have been worth it.”
And though Lynda closed her eyes and thanked God, too, for this very moment, she knew in her heart that there was much more in store for them.
So much more.
AFTERWORD
* * *
A year or so before I wrote this book, I became convicted that my Christian walk had been useless. I had never been available to God, though I had called on him often to get me through my crises (usually self-inflicted). My problem was trust. I thought I believed, I said I believed—but I did nothing to put the belief into action. I was neither hot nor cold, but lukewarm, and absolutely fruitless. One day, someone called to my attention something that Jesus had said: “Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only he who does the will of my father who is in heaven. Many will say to me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in your name, and in your name drive out demons and perform many miracles?’ Then I will tell them plainly, ‘I never knew you. Away from me, you evildoers!’” (Matthew 7:21–23).
These words startled me. Was I one of those whom Jesus didn’t really know? I finally realized it was only through my knowing him that he would know me as one of his own. And to know him, I needed an ongoing, active, intimate relationship with him—the kind of relationship I would have with anyone important to me. I don’t ignore the people I love, and I don’t neglect them, and I don’t forget them. I talk to them every day, and care about pleasing them, and work hard to be the person they need me to be. If Jesus Christ is real to me, then I have to treat him as a real person.
Once I recommitted myself to making Christ the center of my life, I decided to make myself available to him in every area of my life. That’s when the idea for this book came to me. The characters interested me because their own spiritual battles were so much like my own: Lynda, a lukewarm Christian who would let someone die without witnessing to him; Jake, an agnostic who couldn’t give up the pilot’s seat in his life until it was taken from him; and Paige, a spiritual infant on the verge of belief, who lacked the faith to make the final plunge. I was interested in their awakenings, their spiritual growth, their lessons, and I hoped their struggles might be something others could relate to.
Fortunately, I’ve finally begun to learn from the lessons God has taught me. I’ve learned that true Christianity is about going to him on my knees and asking him to fill up all the empty places inside me with his Holy Spirit. It’s about asking him to forgive me and cleanse me of all the things that will destroy me—things like greed, apathy, anger, bitterness, fear, malice, and selfishness—so those places can be filled with him, too. It’s about deciding what I really believe, then relying on it, totally, completely, in every area of my life. This, I discovered, has little to do with sitting in God’s house on Sunday mornings. It has everything to do with being God’s house, every day of the week.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
Terri Blackstock is an award-winning novelist who has written for several major publishers including HarperCollins, Dell, Harlequin, and Silhouette. Published under two pseudonyms, her books have sold over 5 million copies worldwide.
With her success in secular publishing at its peak, Blackstock had what she calls “a spiritual awakening.” A Christian since the age of fourteen, she realized she had not been using her gift as God intended. It was at that point that she recommitted her life to Christ, gave up her secular career, and made the decision to write only books that would point her readers to him.
“I wanted to be able to tell the truth in my stories,” she said, “and not just be
politically correct. It doesn’t matter how many readers I have if I can’t tell them what I know about the roots of their problems and the solutions that have literally saved my own life.”
Her books are about flawed Christians in crisis and God’s provisions for their mistakes and wrong choices. She claims to be extremely qualified to write such books, since she’s had years of personal experience.
A native of nowhere, since she was raised in the Air Force, Blackstock makes Mississippi her home. She and her husband are the parents of three children—a blended family which she considers one more of God’s provisions.
THE FIRST BOOK IN THE CAPE REFUGE SERIES
Cape Refuge
The air conditioner was broken at City Hall, and the smell of warm salt air drifted through the windows from the beach across the street. Morgan Cleary fanned herself and wished she hadn’t dressed up. She might have known that no one else would. The mayor sat in shorts and a T-shirt that advertised his favorite brand of beer. One of the city councilmen wore a Panama hat and flip-flops. Sarah Williford, the newest member of the Cape Refuge City Council, looked as if she’d come in from a day of surfing and hadn’t even bothered to stop by the shower. She wore a Spandex top that looked like a bathing suit and a pair of cut-off jeans. Her long hair could have used a brush.
The council members sat with relaxed arrogance, rocking back and forth in the executive chairs they’d spent too much money on. Their critics—which included almost everyone in town—thought they should have used that money to fix the potholes in the roads that threaded through the island. But Morgan was glad the council was comfortable. She didn’t want them irritable when her parents spoke.
The mayor’s nasal drone moved to the next item on the agenda. “I was going to suggest jellyfish warning signs at some of the more popular sites on the beach, but Doc Spencer tells me he ain’t seen too many patients from stings in the last week or so—”
“Wait, Fred,” Sarah interrupted without the microphone. “Just because they’re not stinging this week doesn’t mean they won’t be stinging next week. My sign shop would give the city a good price on a design for a logo of some kind to put up on all the beaches, warning people of possible jellyfish attacks—”
“Jellyfish don’t attack,” the mayor said, his amplified voice giving everyone a start.
“Well, I can see you never got stung by one.”
“How you gonna draw a picture of ’em when you can’t hardly see ’em?”
Everyone laughed, and Sarah threw back some comment that couldn’t be heard over the noise.
Morgan leaned over Jonathan, her husband, and nudged her sister. “Blair, what should we do?” she whispered. “We’re coming up on the agenda. Where are Mom and Pop?”
Blair tore her amused eyes from the sight at the front of the room and checked her watch. “Somebody needs to go check on them,” she whispered. “Do you believe these people? I’m so proud to have them serving as my elected officials.”
“This is a waste of time,” Jonathan said. He’d been angry and stewing all day, mostly at her parents, but also at her. His leather-tanned face was sunburned from the day’s fishing, but he was clean and freshly shaven. He hadn’t slept much last night, and the fatigue showed on the lines of his face.
“Just wait,” she said, stroking his arm. “When Mom and Pop get here, it’ll be worth it.”
He set his hand over hers—a silent affirmation that he was putting the angry morning behind him—and got to his feet. “I’m going to find them.”
“Good idea,” Morgan said. “Tell them to hurry.”
“They don’t need to hurry,” Blair whispered. “We’ve got lots of stuff to cover before they talk about shutting down our bed and breakfast. Shoot, there’s that stop sign down at Pine and Mimosa. And Goodfellows Grocery has a light bulb out in their parking lot.”
“Now, before we move on,” Fred Hutchins, the mayor, said, studying his notes as if broaching a matter of extreme importance, “I’d like to mention that Chief Cade of the Cape Refuge Police Department tells me he has several leads on the person or persons who dumped that pile of gravel in my parking spot.”
A chuckle rippled over the room, and the mayor scowled. “The perpetrator will be prosecuted.”
Blair spat out her suppressed laughter, and Morgan slapped her arm. “Shhh,” Morgan whispered, trying not to grin, “you’re going to make him mad.”
“I’m just picturing a statewide search for the fugitive with the dump truck,” Blair said, “on a gravel-dumping spree across the whole state of Georgia.”
Morgan saw the mayor’s eyes fasten on her, and she punched her sister again. Blair drew in a quick breath and tried to straightened up.
“The Owenses still ain’t here?” he asked.
While Morgan glanced back at the door, Blair shot to her feet. “No, Fred, they’re not here. Why don’t you just move this off the agenda for this week and save it until next week? I’m sure something’s come up.”
“Maybe they don’t intend to come,” the mayor said.
“Don’t you wish,” Blair fired back. “You’re threatening to shut down their business. They’ll be here, all right.”
“Well, I’m tired of waiting,” the mayor said into the microphone, causing feedback to squeal across the room. Everybody covered their ears until Jason Manford got down on his knees and fiddled with the knob. “We’ve moved it down the agenda twice already tonight,” the mayor went on. “If we ever want to get out of here, I think we need to start arguin’ this right now.”
Morgan got up. “Mayor, there must be something wrong. Jonathan went to see if he could find them. Please, if we could just have a few more minutes.”
“We’re not waitin’ any longer. Now if anybody from your camp has somethin’ to say …”
“What are you gonna do, Mayor?” Blair asked, pushing up her sleeves and shuffling past the knees and feet on her row. “Shut us down without a hearing? That’s not even legal. You could find yourself slapped with a lawsuit, and then you wouldn’t even have time to worry about jellyfish and gravel. Where would that leave the town?”
She marched defiantly past the standing-room-only crowd against the wall to the microphone at the front of the room.
Morgan got a queasy feeling in her stomach. Blair wasn’t the most diplomatic of the Owens family.
Blair set her hands on her hips. “I’ve been wanting to give you a piece of my mind for a long time now.”
The mayor banged his gavel. “As you know, young lady, the city council members and I have agreed that the publicity from the 20/20 show about Hanover House a few months ago brought a whole new element to this town. The show portrayed your folks as willin’ to take in any ol’ Joe with a past and even exposed some things about one of your current tenants that made the people of this town uncomfortable and afraid. We want to be a family-friendly tourist town, not a refuge for every ex-con with a parole officer. For that reason, we believe Hanover House is a danger to this town, and that it’s in the city’s best interest to close it down under our Zoning Ordinance number 503.”
Blair waited patiently through the mayor’s speech, her arms crossed. “Before we address the absurdity of your pathetic attempts to shut down Hanover House just because my parents refused to help campaign for you—”
Cheers rose again, and Blair forged on. “Maybe I should remind you that Cape Refuge got its name because of the work of the Hanovers who had that bed and breakfast before my parents did. It was a refuge for those who were hurting and had no place else to go. I think we have a whole lot more to fear from an ex-con released from jail with a pocketful of change and no prospects for a job or a home, than we do from the ones who have jobs and housing and the support of people who care about them.”
Morgan couldn’t believe she was hearing these words come out of her sister’s mouth. Blair had never sympathized with her parents’ calling to help the needy, and she had little to do with the bed and breakfast. To hear her
talk now, one would think she was on the frontlines in her parents’ war against hopelessness.
“Hanover House is one of the oldest homes on this island, and it’s part of our heritage,” Blair went on. “And I find it real interesting that you’d be all offended by what they do there out in the open, when Betty Jean’s secret playhouse for men is still operating without a hitch.”
Again the crowd roared. Horrified, Morgan stood up. Quickly trying to scoot out of her row, she whispered to those around her, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know she was going to say that. She didn’t mean it, she just says whatever comes to her mind—”
“Incidentally, Fred, I’ve noticed that you don’t have any trouble finding a parking spot at her place!” Blair added.
The mayor came out of his seat, his mouth hanging open with stunned indignation. Morgan stepped on three feet, trying to get to her sister. She fully expected Fred to find Blair in contempt—if mayors did that sort of thing in city council meetings—and order the Hanover House bulldozed before nightfall.
“She didn’t mean that!” Morgan shouted over the crowd, pushing toward the front. “I’m sure she’s never seen your car at Betty Jean’s, have you, Blair? Mayor, please, if I may say a few words …” She finally got to the front, her eyes rebuking Blair.
Blair wouldn’t surrender the microphone. “And I might add, Mayor, that your own parents were on this island because of Joe and Miranda Hanover and that bed and breakfast. If I remember, your daddy killed a man accidentally and came here to stay while he was awaiting trial.”
The veins in Fred’s neck protruded, and his face was so red that Morgan feared the top of his head would shoot right off. “My daddy was never convicted!” he shouted. “And if you’re suggesting that he was the same type of criminal that flocks to Hanover House, you are sadly mistaken!”
Morgan reached for the microphone again, her mind already composing a damage-control speech, but her sister’s grip was strong.