About the author
TERRI BLACKSTOCK has sold over six million books worldwide and is a New York Times bestselling author. She is the award-winning author of Intervention and Vicious Cycle, as well as such series as Cape Refuge, Newpointe 911, the SunCoast Chronicles, and the Restoration Series.
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A Note From the Author
A few years ago when I started writing the Intervention Series, I had come through a long journey with my daughter who had addictions. My portrayal of Barbara, the mother in this series, was inspired by my own experiences and emotions as I tried to help my daughter.
Since that time, I’ve met or heard from many of you who are experiencing the same thing. Drug abuse is a cancer eating its way across our world, and it’s destroying generations. So many of you are heartbroken because you can’t save your loved ones. Believe me, I understand.
Recently, while walking through a valley myself, I discovered an audio series called Faith in the Night Seasons, by Nancy Missler. I’ve been listening to the audio sessions and have found that they minister to me in a wonderful way. I don’t know her, but I thought the series was so powerful that I wanted you to have a chance to buy it. You can find it at www.khouse.org. Type “Faith in the Night Seasons” into the search box, and you’ll see the various products associated with it.
In this series, Nancy Missler talks about a terrible night season she endured when her husband’s business went bankrupt, her house and earthly belongings were destroyed in an earthquake, and her thirty-nine-year-old son died of a heart attack while he was out jogging. All of this happened within a two-year period. She talks about the feeling that God had abandoned her, or that he was punishing her for some reason. Her son’s sudden death was a burden that crushed her, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not come to any understanding of it, and God offered no explanation.
But now, having come through that dark night, she sees the ways God used it. Her own mother came to Christ because of her son’s death. Others were influenced and changed. And the dark night that influenced her to write the books and tapes in this series have certainly ministered to me, and hopefully will to you.
That’s all very nice, but when it’s you in the dark night, when you’re in the depths of your pain, hope is a distant flicker. But the point of my writing the Intervention Series, and the point of Nancy Missler’s series, is to tell you that in those times, we can’t trust our emotions or our circumstances. We have to remember what we know about Christ and His promises—not what we feel. We may feel abandoned and lonely and devastated. We may cry out for answers. We may demand to know the purpose. Sometimes, it just isn’t given.
In those times, our faith is tested more than ever. Some turn away from God. Others grow closer, more dependent on Him. Nancy Missler says, “Pure faith is accepting those situations in your life that you cannot fully understand, and no longer being troubled by them.”
Wow. That is faith. If we can see our trials from a heavenly perspective and trust that God has a purpose even when we can’t see it, then it is truly possible to enter that dark night of the soul when God seems to be silent … and trust Him anyway. It is possible to accept the trials that come into our lives and not be troubled by them.
Possible, but not easy. It takes spiritual maturity, intimate prayer, and a constant feeding on God’s Word. When I’m in a dark night, I don’t feel hungry for God’s Word. But if I had no appetite for food, I’d still understand that I needed it to survive. I need God’s Word in order to survive my trials, whether I feel like reading it or not.
I’d love to tell you I’m at that place where I’m no longer troubled by my trials. That is the case with some of my trials—some of those that seem unaddressed by God. But others still plague me, and I grapple my way through the dark of those nights, still crying out to God for help and explanations and resolution.
One day, I hope I’ll come to that place where my faith is strong enough to trust God completely, and no longer be troubled by suffering. It’s something we can all work on.
But whatever state I’m in, whether I’m walking through a dark night or enjoying the bright light of day, I know this for certain: “As for me, I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the last He will take His stand on the earth” (Job 19:25). All things will be made new, and there will be no more pain. He will dry every tear, and right every wrong.
Come quickly, Lord Jesus!
Terri Blackstock
Preview
A sample from
2011 CAROL AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR
TERRI BLACKSTOCK’S
predator
They would find her sister today. Krista had felt it in her gut all morning as she’d assembled the volunteer search teams to comb the acres of wooded land behind the high school. Their search was for her little sister’s body—not a living, breathing Ella—but she’d clung to the hope that Ella hunkered somewhere unharmed. Elizabeth Smart, Shawn Hornbeck, and Jaycee Dugard had all been found alive. Even after two weeks, Ella could be too.
Security video near the place where she was last seen showed Ella riding her bike up to the curb across the street from a convenience store. As she waited to cross the street, a black van had driven up beside her, blocking her image for a moment. Then, when the van moved, Ella was gone, and her bike lay toppled over in the street.
In the days that followed, hundreds of volunteers had searched the area around the store, gone door-to-door in the neighborhoods nearby, and trampled every field or wooded area within a five-mile radius.
And they were still looking, hoping beyond hope …
But when the police car arrived and pulled up to the registration table, Krista’s throat tightened. News vans had followed the squad car, and as the officer got out, reporters flurried around him.
Krista froze in the field, staring at the activity, unable to move. Her phone rang, startling her. Her hand was clammy as she pulled the phone out of her pocket and flipped it open. “Hello?”
“Hon, there’s a policeman here,” her friend Carla said. “He wants to talk to you.”
“I see him,” Krista said. “I’m coming.” She stood there a moment as she flipped the phone shut, carefully slid it into her pocket. Then she stepped through the tall weeds, no longer examining every blade of grass for any sign that her sister had been here. She kept her eyes on the officer as she slowly made her way toward him.
The volunteers who hadn’t yet been deployed to look for Ella stood motionless, silent as she approached. Cold wind whipped her hair into her face, and she hugged herself to stop her shivering. “You found her, didn’t you?” she said through chapped lips.
The officer hesitated. “Krista, I’m Lieutenant Baron. Is there somewhere we can speak privately?”
“In my car,” she said and pointed out her Kia on the curb. She glanced at the reporters, wondering what they knew. Pulling her keys out of her pocket, she headed for her car. Lieutenant Baron followed.
As they got in, Krista swallowed the knot in her throat. Ella wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be. It was all a big mistake. Maybe they’d found her alive. Maybe she was okay.
Lieutenant Baron closed the passenger door and looked down at his hands.
“Tell me,” she demanded. “What’s going on?”
“We found a girl’s body.”
Krista stared at him, numb. “Is it Ella?”
“We’re not sure. She didn’t have identification on her … We need you to come and identify her.”
Now the numbness gave way, and a slow, burning rage climbed in her chest. “Where?”
“In a wooded area on Chastain Boulevard, behind the old Martin Lumber building.”
“That wouldn’t be her,” Krista said quickly. “She would never go to that area.” As she said it, she knew it wasn’t rational. Ella was abducted. She had no control.
“She was clearly taken there,” he said
.
Taken there. The rage faded into nausea. She pictured her little sister fighting some killer for her life. Ella, who trusted everyone. The shock of betrayal would have been the precursor to murder.
“It may not be your sister at all, but we have to make sure. We tried to reach your father, but he didn’t answer his phone and he isn’t home.”
“He’s at the other search site, over by Lake Lora.”
He made a note. “We’ll get somebody over there.”
Krista’s voice came out hoarse. “Where is she?”
“She’s still where they found her. The crime scene investigators are still working the scene. We could have waited until she was at the morgue, but Detective Pensky knew you had all these volunteers out searching. He didn’t want you broadsided by reporters who got to you first.”
She looked down at her hands. They were dirty, damp with sweat, even though it was forty degrees.
She nodded then, trying to make her brain work in systematic steps. Step one, breathe. Step two, go to the site. Step three, look at the body. Step four, tell them it’s not Ella.
But she couldn’t seem to move.
“Ma’am, would you like for me to drive you to the site?”
She tried to think. Could she even drive? Her mind veered off, touching on places where she could reach her father. Why wasn’t he answering his phone? He’d kept it with him day and night since Ella’s disappearance. Then again, phone reception was spotty at the lake.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes,” she said, not sure what she was answering. “I mean, no. I’ll drive myself.”
“All right,” he said. “I’ll escort you.” He opened his door, started to get out. “Ma’am, are you sure you can drive?”
Her face burned, though her body shivered. She wiped the perspiration from above her lips. “Yes, I’m fine.” She started her car.
“I’m not going to talk to the reporters,” he said, “but should I tell the volunteers to stop searching?”
Krista looked out her windshield. Most of the volunteers had returned to their starting point and were huddled in a crowd, staring in her direction. The teens from the Eagle’s Wings girls’ center, where Krista worked, had come in a van to help. She had so wanted these inner-city girls to see their fragile prayers answered for Ella. They stood in a huddle with Carla, the ministry’s director, expressions of dread on their faces.
“It might not be Ella,” she said aloud. “Tell them to keep searching.”
Lieutenant Baron got out of the car, and she sat staring as he said something to the crowd, then walked away from the curious reporters and got into his car. He pulled out, and she followed him.
That flame of hope still flickered inside her. Maybe Ella was hiding somewhere, scared to death, afraid to answer the calls for her. Maybe if they just searched a little bit harder …
The police officer turned on his blue flashing light, and she followed him through Houston traffic. She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw reporters’ vans following behind her. Like vultures hunting down corpses, they were going to record this nightmare no matter who claimed the body.
Krista thought of trying to call her father, but it might be better if she waited until she saw the girl. There was no point in crushing his hopes if it wasn’t Ella. He was already distraught enough. Besides, they’d have a policeman at his search site in no time.
In minutes they were at the site—a patch of woods on a lonely, rural road—where a dozen police cars and a couple of television news vans sat haphazardly in front of a roped-off area. She double-parked next to a police car and got out, pushing through the crowd at the crime-scene tape. A reporter was taping a stand-up before a camera.
“Police say the body was found by two ten-year-old kids who were walking through the woods. The girl was partially buried, but part of her head was exposed. We’re waiting to hear if this is the body of fourteen-year-old Ella Carmichael, who went missing two weeks ago.”
Buried? Dizziness swept over her, sweat beaded on her face. Krista looked past the reporter, into the woods where all the activity seemed to be. Through the trees, about fifty yards away, she saw people moving around. Though she strained, she couldn’t see the girl.
The reporter noticed her and led her cameraman over. “Krista, can I have a word with you?” she asked, sticking a mike in Krista’s face.
“No.” Krista ducked under the tape.
“Is it your sister?” the reporter called behind her. “Have they asked you to identify the body?”
Krista ignored the questions and shot toward the activity, but a cop stopped her. “Ma’am, you can’t go back there.”
She was about to shake him off and push through, when Lieutenant Baron came to her side. “It’s okay. They asked for her.”
He took her arm and walked her toward the investigators. When she reached them, she realized the body was another twenty-five yards beyond them. “You can’t go any closer,” the Lieutenant said in a soft voice. “There could be footprints or trace evidence. We can’t risk disturbing the site. Only the CSIs are allowed near the body right now, but they’ll give you the chance to see her soon.”
Nausea rose, but she stood paralyzed, staring toward the mound of dirt where the girl lay. She couldn’t see a thing. Not what she was wearing or the color of her hair …
The girl was still in the hole where she’d been buried. Images flashed through Krista’s mind of Ella being buried alive …
No, she told herself. It isn’t Ella. It isn’t Ella. It isn’t Ella. When would they let her see her, so Krista could set things straight and go back to search for her sister?
Icy wind whistled through the trees, and Krista thought of Ella out in the elements, crushed by dirt, and freezing rain pouring down on her. Who could do such a thing?
Not Ella. Not Ella.
She heard thunder. The sky had grown appropriately dark, as if it mourned the passing of this young life. It was going to rain. They would have to move the girl soon, or whatever evidence was still on her body would be washed away.
Krista waited, willing back the numbness, certain she wouldn’t recognize the girl. As the first raindrops fell, a man in a medical examiner’s jacket took in a gurney, and Krista watched as they pulled the body from its shallow tomb. She saw the pink-striped shirt that Ella was wearing that last day. Blonde hair matted with blood and earth.
Her knees went weak, turned to rubber. She dropped and hit the ground. At once, a crowd of police surrounded her, asking if she was okay. She blinked and sat up, let them pull her back to her feet.
Ella!
She heard footsteps pounding the dirt.
“Aw, no! No! It can’t be her!” Her father’s voice, raspy and heart-wrenching, wailed out over the crowd. She wanted to go to him, comfort him, but it was as though her hands were bound to her sides and her legs wouldn’t move.
As they brought the girl closer, Krista saw the bloody, bruised face. Ella’s face.
The search was over. Her sister was dead.
two
The limousine was cold. Krista stared at the careening raindrops on the window. Her father sat next to her, wiping the tears from the folds of his mouth. She’d only seen him cry once before Ella disappeared. That was the day they buried her mother, fourteen years ago. Three days after Ella’s birth.
How would he survive this? How would she?
Her gaze strayed through the windshield, to the hearse just ahead of them, holding her sister in a shiny black coffin with pink roses blanketed across it. Ella had always loved pink. Her room had been painted that color since she was ten, and the comforter on her bed had the same flowers.
Anger bludgeoned Krista’s chest, coiled up like smoke, burned her heart, her throat, her eyes. She needed to say something to her father. The right thing.
“Dad, I’m going to find him,” she whispered. “Somehow, I’ll track him down. He was following her GrapeVyne page. He’s there, somewhere, in that long list of h
er friends.”
“Hush, Krista.” Her father’s tone was devoid of spirit, but stern and final. The silence that had permeated their home for over two weeks fell heavier over them, stifling out her breath. She closed her eyes, free-falling through that silence, unable to catch herself.
When they reached the gravesite, Krista slid out and stood stiffly next to her father, as the pallbearers—boys from their church’s youth group—carried Ella to the tent. For all she knew, one of them could be the killer, masquerading as a trusted friend.
Every tear was suspect, every pained face questionable. She shivered in the cold, thankful that her father had decided to inter Ella in an above-ground tomb. Neither of them could stand to watch them lower her back into the ground—and bury her again. It rained all around them, wind blowing mist under the tent. Still, at least three hundred people had turned out.
Even some of the girls from the center where Krista worked had come. Though many of them had lived through murders of family members, as well as rapes and terrors of their own, they had piled into Carla’s van to give their condolences.
The pallbearers walked up one at a time, putting their roses on the coffin. The mourners stood shuddering in the rain, wiping their noses and hugging. She hoped they never forgot.
From the depths of her pain, a purpose emerged. She would make it her business to remind them.
three
The house filled up quickly with friends, relatives, and strangers armed with casseroles and offering hugs and tears. At twenty-five, Krista had had little experience with funerals, except for her mother’s. She supposed they’d done the same the day they’d buried her, when Krista was eleven, but she hadn’t been expected to host them then. When she’d locked herself and the newborn Ella in her bedroom to insulate them from shattering condolences, no one had forced her to come out.
Today she felt an obligation to welcome people in and help them when they didn’t know what to say. Their struggles to make sense of such a senseless death drained her, and she longed for them all to go home and leave her and her father to their grief. But relatives had traveled long distances and were determined to stay, and the teen girls from the Eagle’s Wings ministry needed some reward for coming. Most of these teens were middle-school dropouts, their parents in prison or on the streets with needles in their arms. Those who were privileged to have at least one parent who loved and cared for them were alone most of the time, as their parents worked two and three jobs just to provide a moldy apartment for them to live in. Some were pregnant, some tattooed, some were on drugs themselves. They didn’t fit in with Krista’s relatives, but she was moved by the fact that they would come. That meant that all the seeds she and Carla had planted in their lives were beginning to flower. It moved her to tears that they would risk their own discomfort in order to comfort her.