Radiant Lit

1

What Are You Thinking?

I thought I handled the blows in my life and to my sense of well-being with a learned Southern charm and grace: “Well, okay—if that’s what you think” or “If that’s what you say, then it must be true.” After all, why would anyone intentionally wound me or cause me to question his or her words or actions?

I slowly came to realize, though, that not everyone—including my loved ones—understood the power their words had over me or understood that I allowed their words to dominate my thinking and what I believed about myself. Over time, I came to understand that there were feelings and emotions deep inside that I couldn’t account for. I didn’t remember how or why they resided in my heart, but I wanted to banish them and the damage they had caused.

I didn’t know that my thoughts and my behavior were linked in any way. So when I had a specific thought about a person’s actions or a word that was spoken to me, I didn’t realize how much it affected the way I lived.

The effects of these words and actions also affected the way I viewed relationships—my relationship with myself and my relationships with others. I knew I needed to reframe (“reframe” is a term I use to mean picturing something in a different light) years of pain and frustration, but I had no role model to follow.

The Truth Chart

The Truth Chart process that I developed was initially developed for my own mental health. I began using it in 1970, but it was many years before I began sharing it with others. Now I have almost daily opportunities to share this method, and I have been surprised and humbled by the results. The participants in the classes I teach and those I counsel in my private practice continue to share that they have had dramatic changes in their thinking patterns and behaviors. These individuals have encouraged me to put these ideas into this book so others can experience what they have discovered regarding depression, emotional anxiety, and personal thought life. They have shared that these ideas are novel, concrete, and practical.

For most of my childhood and into my adulthood, I thought of myself as vanilla—you know, just plain vanilla. No sparkle, no color, nothing memorable. Certainly not jamocha almond fudge or white chocolate strawberry—just vanilla.

Many damaging messages were delivered to me by people who were important to me during the course of my life: “Can’t you do anything right?” “You’re so weak, so stupid, so clumsy . . .” I had internalized those messages, and they had become a major component in my self-talk and poor self-image. Samples of my internal scripts were “I am a zero.” “I never do anything right.”

In addition to these damaging conversations with myself, I had never really internalized God’s view of me either. These became more than just internal thoughts—they became wounds that affected me deeply. The wounds were far deeper than a skinned knee here and there, although there were many of those. The wounds I’m referring to were name-calling, displays of anger and rage, and actions against me.

Since I invited Christ to come into my life as my Savior and Lord many years ago, I’ve been totally convinced that God loves me and has a plan for my life. I knew He had forgiven my sins and answered many prayers. I’ve taught Sunday School and Bible studies since my salvation experience, and I have taught biblical life principles to others and believed them as truth. But when I had feelings of not being special or had feelings of not being of value to God, I didn’t really label those thoughts as lies. I taught others about guarding their thoughts, but I never really internalized the application of these principles into my own thought life. It wasn’t that I didn’t believe I was special to God. But there were wounds—deep internal messages from others—that superseded God’s messages to me. Fortunately, that has all changed.

Not too long ago I asked God for the name He had for me. I first heard of this concept at a conference by author John Eldredge a few years ago, but I didn’t ask God right then. This idea originated in the passage of Scripture from John 10:3 about how “the sheep hear his voice; and he calls his own sheep by name and leads them out” (nkjv, emphasis added). I knew it was important for me to hear God’s name for me; I just wasn’t sure I really wanted to know. I was confident it would be something vanilla.

Recently, though, I decided I needed to know. I didn’t hear God’s audible voice, but clearly and distinctly, after a time of prayer, came the phrase “Warrior Princess.” Wow! Nothing vanilla about “Warrior Princess!” God had reframed my thoughts even about who I am.

We make choices like that every day—every moment of every day. What are we to believe when we have certain ongoing thoughts and feelings? Thoughts and feelings may feel very real. But are they true?

The purpose of this book is to help you be attentive to your thoughts and feelings, but you must not get stuck in reflections and past hurts. Instead, look at your thoughts and feelings from the truth of God’s perspective. You are not wiping out the real and honest wounds or reflections or even the in-depth processing of these things that come to your heart and mind. They are to be validated; but don’t get stuck there.

Wounds in Action

Once you are able to see your wounds and reflections from God’s point of view, you can be freed from ongoing despondency, depression, anger, and anxiety. Remember the word I used earlier, “reframing”? Here’s a recent personal story to illustrate what reframing is.

It was the week before I was scheduled to speak at a women’s retreat. It was a cold, drizzly afternoon. I had just dropped off my granddaughter at her home and was only a few blocks away. I went through a fast-food drive-through and picked up some large containers of soup, which I put on the floor of my car to take to my mother-in-law.

Traffic was thick, as it always is on this busiest street at the busiest time in the afternoon—bumper to bumper. I have no idea how it happened, really, and I offer no excuses. But before I knew it, I was looking down at the soup that was wobbling on the floor—and I reached for it, consequently bumping the car in front of me suddenly. My car had moved forward—apparently my foot slipped—and I was thrust into one of the most embarrassing moments of my life! It was followed by such personal agony—a genuine shame attack. I am such a disaster. How could I have done that? I will never be trusted ever again to drive my granddaughters. A lot of people saw it. I felt totally exposed! I had stopped traffic, and I felt as if hundreds of pairs of eyes were watching and calling me stupid.

XXX

Hear the wound? Do you hear the stories under the wound? You can hear the ownership of responsibility, but mostly you hear the pain. We’ll reframe this in just a minute. Back to the scene.

The man in front of me was not happy. In what seemed only a second he walked back to my car and stood beside me. Oh, he was angry! And I even knew him—and his wife, who was with him. But he didn’t let that stand in the way! He quickly called the police, which, of course, you are supposed to do. Within five agonizing minutes we were summoned to drive a short distance to a service station on a corner where twice as many people could see us. There wasn’t just one police car—there were two. I was overwhelmed with an all-too-familiar sense of inadequacy and failure, by the feeling of being a bad grandmother. How scary to realize that my granddaughter was in the car only moments before! I’m too bad a driver to be trusted to drive my grandchildren ever again. These messages then multiplied and began to connect with my mother’s damaging accusations from decades before—her avalanche of accusations over the smallest of infractions. That tender place in my heart was hurting so badly.

Picture me: I stood with the police in the cold, wet rain. It was freezing outside, and I had on several jackets; but because I was fresh from a pedicure, I was wearing high-heeled jeweled sandals—and holding my teacup poodle. How silly I must have looked!

For hours and hours Satan whispered additional messages to the ones I was already having, such as “How can you possibly teach the women this weekend?” My agony was profound. It was time to reframe.

Reframing

I went to God and first said, Lord, I hurt so badly. I feel like such a failure. I feel like such a zero, so “legally blonde.” I’m very okay with the traffic ticket and the fine, and I’m fine with replacing the man’s bumper. Those things aren’t what bother me. I just hate feeling so inadequate.

Then I started looking at that accident through God’s perspective—period. I began to say to Him, The truth is—it was serious, but everyone is okay. I was careless, but I am not a failure as a person. God, I am so sorry. I hate what it feels like to be distracted. Lord, could you give me grace to bear this hurt—the grace that I enjoy giving to others but have trouble receiving myself? You are enough for this ouch. Thank you that I am adequate in you; thank you that I don’t have to be adequate in my own strength anyway. I would love to learn from this, Lord. I ask you to help me be a better driver. When I think of this accident, I choose to think of the ways I have already grown and choose now not to assume false shame. Thank you, Lord. You are enough.

This book is about the process of reframing thinking, feelings, and past or present wounds, and it’s based primarily on the following two Scripture passages. It’s also about restoring relationships—through both your self-talk and your other-talk.

Though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds. We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ (2 Corinthians 10:3-5).

If you hold to my teaching, you are really my disciples. Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free (John 8:31-32).

A stronghold is like a worn path—but a path that is created by the enemy of our lives. Have you ever taken a shortcut across the lawn again and again? Pretty soon you have created a marked path. When you know you should go a different way but you keep returning to that same path, that is a stronghold. When someone has a difficult conversation with you, and the damage of the conversation is not repaired, you will continue to feel that hurt, that wound, for a long time. Then you develop sensitivity to similar wounds by others, and that, too, is a stronghold.

Maybe you tend to often take on false guilt or false responsibility from someone else’s words or actions. False guilt and false responsibility are strongholds. If you have a sad thought, then another and another—and they don’t receive attention—it becomes a stronghold. Maybe you’re plagued by recurring anxious or fearful thoughts that don’t get resolved as the wounds deepen. Those, too, become strongholds. You get the idea of how this pattern can deepen and spread to more than just one area of your life. You have not only developed a stronghold but have also established an agreement with your enemy.

It is the truth—biblical truth—that does set one free from these strongholds or bondages. Truth is the only thing that can provide freedom from these “strongholds,” “arguments,” and “every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God.”

Before we explore this, let me clarify that I’m not speaking of truth that some might interpret as positive messages that sound good and cheerful for the moment. Examples of these well-meaning but often damaging messages include “Oh, you can do it!” “You can always get another dog,” “Time will take care of that,” or “Be happy—you have so much.” The reality is that when someone is mad, sad, anxious, or fearful, there’s more important information to be gained from the expressions of emotions.

We need to look long and hard at what our thoughts and feelings are telling us about our heart. Just being positive and cheerful could serve only to minimize pain, implying that there is a fast “cure” that is not realistic. Positive messages we give ourselves or receive from others will not have a lasting effect. Only Christ can permanently relieve the hurt of deep emotional pain. Though you can be available for friends and loved ones, and others can be available for you, cheerful counsel and unsolicited advice are not the answer. The mind of Christ is required.

Careful study of the Scriptures, learning scriptural principles, and looking to the Holy Spirit for guidance give us the wisdom to see truth from His perspective.

Truth: Where Does It Come From?

I believe that God is the author of truth, wherever it is found. As a counselor in the public school system for 12 years, I could not initiate conversations about God or use biblical scriptures, but I could talk with students about more general principles of “truth.”

It’s fascinating to see how truth and reasoning are handled by the secular professionals in our society. In the field of psychology, there is renowned research to show the truth and profound importance of disputing irrational thinking as the main antidote to depression and anxiety. I had been reframing my thoughts and feelings for decades before I found this research, but it confirmed the importance of what I had been practicing to deal with my thoughts. The research states that “cognitive behavioral therapy,” or the “disputing of irrational beliefs,” is superior to pharmacology, which is using medication to aide in someone’s pain management, or even a combination of cognitive behavioral therapy and pharmacology. God’s perspective is the ultimate reframing, and it stretches beyond just knowing that irrational thinking should be disputed. The study of secular research and how it underscores the truth of what I’m sharing with you is discussed in more depth in a future chapter.

For now, let’s explore more fully what reframing of self-talk is and how to develop a mental outline to help when you are continuing the well-worn path of anger, depression, fear, or anxiety. Conquering these results of self-lies is possible.

Making It Personal

1. A suggested prayer: Lord, would you open wide my understanding of the issues of my own heart? Would you help me put a name on my hurts? Would you help me to see the damage? Would you give me the grace to cover this tender time of reflection and exploration of my thoughts and feelings? In Christ’s name I pray. Amen.

2. Don’t rush this next step. Take your time. Think about what might be past and present wounds. You can list people, events, circumstances, conversations, anything in your life that has brought hurt.

Past wounds

Present wounds

3. Are there some common themes? What might they be called? Some examples: abandonment, rejection, feelings of inadequacy. These are possible strongholds.

For Marilyn, Michelle, and Alyssa,

who make me so much more than happy.

Gene Fowler said, “Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”1 A little melodramatic perhaps. On the other hand, there are days when he doesn’t seem that far off base. Because writing is so hard, you need people in your life who make it easier. I am blessed to have a lot of them. Here are a few I would be ashamed not to mention.

Marilyn, my wife, who helps me in so many ways, I couldn’t begin to enumerate them. As the business aspect of my life accelerates, she keeps me organized and pointed in the right direction without ever letting any of it get in the way of our romance.

Lee Hough, my agent, who represents me with integrity and class. Long ago we moved beyond being author and agent and just became friends. We spend as much time laughing, telling stories, and sharing prayer requests as we do talking about my book projects.

Dr. Les Hardin, my friend and “Bible scholar of choice” when I need some deeper insights into a difficult passage of Scripture. He’s forgotten more about the Bible than I will ever know.

Dale Reeves, Lindsay Black, Sarah Felkey, and Lynn Pratt, my friends at Standard Publishing, who are true professionals in every sense of the word . . . and fun too. They somehow plucked a concept out of my head and turned it into something you can hold in your hands.

Diane Stortz, my editor, who blew me away with her keen insights. She understood what I was aiming at in this book and helped me zero in on the target.

Kelsey Kingsbury (yes, that Kingsbury), who wrote the foreword. Kelsey is a beautiful young woman who epitomizes the message of this book. I am so honored that her first published words are in my book. I doubt they’ll be her last.

Karen Kingsbury, a dear friend who gets the credit (or the blame) for my being a published author.

And you, my readers, who always inspire me with your kind e-mails.

Foreword

I grew up always performing. As a little girl I would gracefully dance across our living room floor while loudly singing a beautiful song to Jesus. I really believed that I would grow up to become a beautiful princess, meet my perfect and handsome prince, and we would live happily ever after. And I still do. The Bible says, “‘I know the plans I have for you,’ declares the Lord, ‘plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future’” (Jeremiah 29:11, NIV). My parents gave this verse to me when I was a little girl, and I still cling to the powerful message it holds. God truly has an amazing plan for my future handsome prince and me as long as I keep my eyes toward him.

When I was a freshman in high school, I made the cheerleading team, along with all of my very best friends. I soon realized that others around me considered cheerleaders as uneducated and simply sexy. But I desired to be an example of how a cheerleader—or any woman—really can be so much more than sexy.

Being female isn’t easy. Getting ready in the morning can be a huge battle, and ladies, you know exactly what I am talking about! First we take a shower, then we attempt to blow-dry and style our hair, and last but not least is putting on makeup and choosing an outfit—and don’t forget, we need to complete this mission in warp time. The time it takes a guy to get ready is no time at all (and trust me, I have five brothers!).

Women face a lot of pressure to look a certain way. We live in a celebrity-obsessed world, and we tend to look up to the stick-thin models we read about in gossip magazines. This unhealthy way of thinking is completely damaging to us personally and, in the end, to our society. I have gone through the many ups and downs of being a young woman. I’ve had guy problems, makeup problems, days when I felt fat, clothes problems, cravings for material things, and all of these incidents have left me feeling empty and never good enough.

Mark Atteberry’s book explains the importance of beauty coming not only from the outside but most significantly from inside, from our hearts. (My dad has always called me his precious princess, and I think all Christian women should look at themselves as God’s princesses.) While reading this book, I found that every chapter delivers an amazing truth I needed to hear. The way Mark breaks down these everyday issues of always trying to be sexy is brilliant. He gives us an inside look at a guy’s brain and promises us that there are real godly guys holding out for you and me. This book is a great reminder for all women to always hold a high standard for ourselves when dealing with men, dating, marriage, and especially our self-image. God made us in his perfect image; let’s cling to that truth. Whatever our age, we are so much more than sexy!

In God’s love,

Kelsey Kingsbury

daughter of #1 inspirational fiction author Karen Kingsbury

Introduction

“All men think about is sex!”

You’ve heard it a thousand times.

If you’re a woman, you’ve probably said it a thousand times.

But I’m here to tell you it isn’t true. My purpose in this book is to slide a stick of dynamite under this long-held misconception and light the fuse. I think it’s high time to explode this lie and let you in on a dynamic, life-changing secret: millions of men in this world are looking for so much more than sex.

Oh, I can understand why you wouldn’t think so. Sadly, there are just enough classless, immature men out there to make it seem true, and pop culture constantly portrays men in the tawdriest terms possible. In the movie Bruce Almighty, for example, Jim Carrey plays an ordinary guy who gets to possess all the powers of God. And what does he do? Wipe out poverty? Put an end to oppression? Bring peace to the Middle East? Of course not! Instead, he sends a perfectly timed gust of wind so he can get a peek under a pretty girl’s skirt. Then with the snickering glee of a hormone-crazed teenager, he has the brilliant idea of making his wife’s breasts larger.

Tacky, you say?

Of course, but what do you expect? He’s a guy!

Or maybe you remember the beer ad that shows two guys sitting in a crowded bar, dreaming up the perfect Miller Lite commercial. Their naughty little minds conjure up a couple of gorgeous women who start arguing about whether the beer is better tasting or less filling. Before you can say bimbo, the two women are pulling hair, ripping clothes, and tumbling nearly naked into a public fountain. As the scene fades, our typical males are shown back in the bar, nodding in hearty approval, hefting their brewskies, and pronouncing their fantasy a true work of art.

Oh yes, I can understand why you would think that sex is all men care about. But speaking as a man—and one who’s met and talked to thousands of other men across the country—I’m convinced there’s a lie being perpetrated here. I believe that Satan, the father of lies (John 8:44), has three reasons for working overtime to hoodwink you.

First, he wants to sow seeds of disrespect toward men in the hearts of women of all ages. God has given men great leadership responsibilities in the home, the church, and the world. Therefore, anything Satan can do to make it harder for women and girls to respect men strikes a mighty blow against God’s plan.

Satan also wants to sow seeds of sensuality in our culture. If he can convince you—especially when you’re young—that sex is all men care about, it’s inevitable that talking, acting, and dressing provocatively will seem the thing to do. And I can’t think of a word that better describes our culture than provocative. Bare midriffs, plunging necklines, and low-riding, skin-tight jeans are the order of the day. Even preteen girls dress (and sometimes act) like the pop culture divas they idolize.

Third, Satan wants to sow seeds of hopelessness in marriages. Every time a clueless husband is preoccupied, inattentive, or rude all day long and then suddenly morphs into Prince Charming when he crawls under the covers, he unwittingly reinforces the man-as-insensitive-sex-maniac stereotype that culture has already planted in his wife’s mind. She may give in to his advances, but it will likely be with a halfhearted, let’s-just-hurry-up-and-get-it-over-with attitude. Pile enough of those heartless, robotic exercises on top of each other, and any woman would feel empty and hopeless.

When I started writing books several years ago, I never dreamed I’d write one for women. I’m not into Bath & Body Works, HGTV, or any of the other girlie things I see my wife and daughter enjoying. To be honest, I don’t even pretend to understand women. After being married for more than thirty years, raising a daughter, and being a pastor to thousands of women, I still find them infinitely and wonderfully mysterious. I wholeheartedly agree with author Angela Thomas, who writes, “The woman is a mystery that the man can’t unlock. Her desires seem to him like a moving target.”2

But that doesn’t mean I’m blind.

As a pastor I’ve been observing this devilish lie about men and watching it undermine God’s plan for male-female relationships for a long, long time. I’ve finally come to the place where I have to speak up.

In this book I’m going to challenge you to reconsider some things you may have always believed about men and the best way to interact with them. No, I’m not going to try to sell you on the notion that all men are gentlemen. Clearly, many are not. But I do know without a doubt that there are still a lot of us left who can see beyond the swell of a woman’s breast.

Imagine how this new understanding could profoundly change your life.

For one thing, it would take some pressure off. It would allow you to be more real, to concentrate more on the development of your inner qualities rather than always thinking you have to compete with the pretty blonde in the deep V-neck who works in your boyfriend’s or husband’s office. For another, your relationship with your man could be invigorated if, instead of trying to breathe new life into your wheezing relationship with skimpy outfits and the latest perfumes, you started to build some new, more meaningful bridges from your heart to his.

If you’re skeptical, I’m not surprised. I know that many women have experienced the very worst that testosterone has to offer. If you’ve pretty much lost all respect for men and are thinking this book is a monumental waste of paper, I plead with you to keep an open mind.

I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being sexy. (Actually, I’m very much in favor of it!) I’m just saying that many women aim too low . . . that there’s something much higher and much more wonderful for you to shoot for.

Something millions of guys would give anything to find.

Something so much more than sexy.

1

The Myths in the Mirror

Tracy, I’m in love with you, no matter what you weigh.

—Link Larkin in Hairspray

I wouldn’t want to be a woman.

No way.

I wouldn’t be able to take the pressure to always look beautiful. A guy can have a paunch, wrinkles, thinning hair, gray hair, or even no hair, and still be cast as the romantic lead in a Hollywood blockbuster, but any woman with the same physical traits will end up playing the senile grandma with an afghan over her lap, spitting out saucy one-liners between slobbers.

And this foolishness all starts at birth.

Just listen to those proud relatives pressing their noses up against the hospital nursery window. If the baby is wrapped in a pink blanket, they’ll call her beautiful, gorgeous, a little doll, or a real heartbreaker one of these days. But if the baby’s wrapped in blue, they’ll likely predict a college scholarship for the little linebacker. I have no doubt that if you wrapped the girl baby in blue and the boy baby in pink, you’d get the same color-coded comments.

And the pressure builds from there.

It isn’t long before a little girl becomes enamored with the Disney princesses, all beautifully and flawlessly rendered, and ends up shrieking with delight when her parents give her princess paraphernalia for Christmas. You can bet that even before the wrapping paper is carted away, she’ll be stylin’—click-clacking through the house in her plastic high heels and sparkly dress, soaking up oohs and aahs from everyone except her bratty little brother, who’s too busy blowing things up on his new computer game to notice.

Then of course, there’s high school, where so much of the popularity pecking order is based on looks. It’s the pretty girls who are the best bets to be cheerleaders, homecoming queens, and Saturday-night dates for quarterbacks and cleanup hitters.

And don’t even get me started on the many doodads women use on a daily basis to ready themselves for public scrutiny. We guys only need five things in our bathrooms: a comb, a razor, a toothbrush, some toilet paper, and the sports page. We can knock off our whiskers with a dull razor, run a comb through our hair (even this is optional nowadays), brush our teeth, and we’re good to go. Ten minutes tops. But you are expected to address the cosmetic needs of every feature, from head to toe.

The hair has to be perfectly mussed.

The eyebrows have to be plucked or waxed.

The eyes themselves have to be lined and shadowed.

The nose has to be powdered so it won’t shine.

The lips have to be glossed so they will.

The ears have to have the proper bangle (or two or three) dangling from them.

The bra has to perform miracles.

The outfit has to coordinate.

And the shoes have to be cute or sexy. (It doesn’t matter if they cause excruciating pain, just so they’re cute or sexy.)

Finally, there’s the weight issue. It’s much easier to be a little overweight if you’re a guy. Among other things, you’ll be called strapping instead of fat (I don’t know what strapping means, but it definitely sounds better than fat), you’ll get to hit cleanup on the softball team, and no one will dare pick a fight with you—because heavy guys are assumed to be tough, whether they are or not.

But if you’re what the fashion mags call curvy or plus size, the pressure’s on . . . to buy a ThighMaster, to eat like a rabbit, to actually use your ThighMaster, to eat like a rabbit, to walk twenty miles a day, to eat like a rabbit, to sweat to the oldies, and to eat like a rabbit. If you fail to do these things with the fervor of an Olympic athlete in training, or—Heaven forbid—if you’re ever seen eating a doughnut in public, someone (probably a woman who’s never had a weight problem) will comment on how sad it is that you’ve given up or let yourself go.

Somebody, somewhere dubbed women the fair sex. I think maybe the unfair sex would be more appropriate because of the outrageous pressure you are under to live up to culture’s current definition of beauty. I say “current definition” because the standard constantly changes.

The very first Miss America, sixteen-year-old Margaret Gorman, won her crown in 1921. I assume men back then considered Margaret to be a babe, yet any man looking at her picture today would have a hard time controlling snickers.

In the 1950s, all eyes were on a voluptuous Marilyn Monroe. Ten years later, all the magazine covers featured ninety-five-pound Twiggy. Fifty-year-old women were once considered way over the hill, but now women such as Michelle Pfeiffer, Oprah Winfrey, and Lauren Hutton—all over fifty—epitomize beauty, grace, and style. In fact, in 2005 Big magazine invited Lauren Hutton, at the age of sixty-one, to appear in its pages nude, something that would have been unthinkable a few years earlier.

No one can predict how beauty will be defined by our culture ten or twenty years from now. Who knows? Shaved heads might be the hot new trend. Absolutely nothing will surprise me. The only thing I’ll bet on is that whatever culture is demanding, women will still feel pressure to try and deliver it.

[A head] Mirror Myths

Lest you misunderstand, let me say emphatically that I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with a woman wanting to look and feel attractive. In the musical West Side Story, Maria sings with exuberance about how pretty she feels. It’s a joyous, refreshingly innocent moment in the story. There’s no haughtiness. No panting sexuality. Just a young woman experiencing what every woman seems to long for. “I truly believe that the longing to be known as beautiful is part of our design as women,” Angela Thomas writes. “God put us together this way on purpose. We are wired to long for beauty and to be known as beautiful.”3 Nothing in my experience with women would lead me to disagree.

And yet . . . I know that what you believe when you look in the mirror can be a myth. In fact, there are three spiritually and emotionally debilitating mirror myths I’d like to explode right now.

[B head] Myth #1: What You See Is What You Are

Wicked Queen Jezebel knew her days as the matriarch of Israel were numbered (2 Kings 9). Her idiot husband, Ahab, was dead, and God had chosen a young man named Jehu to replace her son Joram as king. And not only had God chosen Jehu to be king, he instructed Jehu to wipe out Jezebel and her entire family as punishment for their many sins.

Jezebel knew that Jehu and his men were coming. They had killed her sons and she was next. So what did she do? Run for her life? Assemble her bodyguards and batten down the hatches? Drink the Kool-Aid? No. “She painted her eyelids and fixed her hair and sat at a window” (v. 30).

Interesting, don’t you think?

Did she get herself all dolled up in an effort to seduce Jehu and perhaps change his mind about killing her? Possibly, but I doubt it. More likely she simply thought, If I’m going out, I’m going to go out looking good! And keep in mind, she was the queen. She would have owned the finest garments and the most expensive jewels. When she put the finishing touches on her do and pirouetted in front of the mirror, I’m sure she was pleased with what she saw.

But she was still a hag, and everybody knew it.

A beautiful face or body doesn’t make you a beautiful person, because your character is always going to trump your looks. Think about Britney Spears, once considered one of the hottest-looking females in America. There was even a TV commercial that showed a geeky, fast-food burger flipper allowing his burgers to burst into flames while he stared, open mouthed, at an overhead TV monitor where a scantily clad Britney was bumping and grinding like a cheap stripper.

But that was before her life began to unravel.

Britney’s foolish choices and reckless—even brainless—behavior made her a national joke. Her endorsement contracts and public appearances dried up, not because she suddenly became physically ugly, but because her character trumped her looks.

Have you ever wondered why many of the most beautiful Hollywood actors and actresses can’t stay married? You’d think if a guy was fortunate enough to marry a glamorous woman with centerfold looks . . . or if a woman snagged a hunky athlete or matinee idol, they’d never want to let go. Yet many such marriages last only a year or two and often end with much bitterness and hateful mudslinging.

Once again, character trumps looks. The person hasn’t been born who is gorgeous enough to overcome a corrupt heart.

Mark it down: what you see when you look in a mirror is not what you are. What’s in your heart is what you are. That’s why wise King Solomon did not say, “Above all else, make sure your eyeliner isn’t smudged and there’s no lipstick on your teeth.” Instead, he said, “Guard your heart above all else, for it determines the course of your life” (Proverbs 4:23).

[B head] Myth #2: What You See Is What Others See

Check out these words from plastic surgeon Michelle Copeland. I found them right at the beginning of chapter 1 of her book Change Your Looks, Change Your Life:

Take a long, honest look in the mirror. You can do it for real (turn on that harsh overhead light and peel off some clothing), but my bet is that you’ve done it often enough to know what it is about your body or face that you’d like to change.

What is it, for you? Maybe you’ve caught sight of that wattle that blurs your chin line (or worse, that hangs over your crisp white collar) too many times. Maybe it’s the crow’s-feet that grab makeup and make a spray of fright lines at the corners of your eyes. Maybe it’s your nose or earlobes, both of which sag as we age. Maybe it’s your “Hi Janes” (the fleshy underside of the arm that continues to wiggle after you’ve stopped waving hello to your friend Jane); do they make you avoid wearing your favorite sleeveless blouse or halter top? Maybe it’s your breasts—how far down has gravity pulled them? Maybe it’s your stomach—are you willing to expose your midriff? . . . Maybe it’s your hips: Is there no A-line skirt out there that can hide hips that bear witness to every Krispy Kreme you’ve wolfed down? Maybe it’s those pesky spider veins, crisscrossing the backs of your legs like road maps of the East Coast. I could go on and on. . . .

That’s the bad news. But we’re positive thinkers here, and we’re going to leave harsh reality behind. Instead, let’s conjure that wonderful phrase again: “What if?”4

This does indeed seem to be how many of you look at yourselves. You ignore the big picture (which can be very attractive) and become obsessed with the details (which are never ever going to be perfect). I’ve listened to many beautiful women put themselves down because of this or that flaw. Sometimes I’ve stared and thought, Huh? What are you talking about? I literally could not see what they believed to be so obvious.

I once heard a young woman talking about how fat she was and how she needed to go on a diet. I asked her how much she weighed (yes, she was a good friend or I wouldn’t have dared), and she said, “I’m up to 120.” I shook my head. “Do you realize how ridiculous that sounds?” I asked her. “There’s not another person on this planet who would call you fat.” And she began to argue with me, explaining that her clothes were tight and she had flab on her rear end and the backs of her thighs.

Please get this: what you see when you look in a mirror is not what everyone else sees. (Unless, of course, you’re the world’s tallest woman, but that’s another story.) Most people—guys especially—see the big picture. Yes, we are famous for checking out certain parts of the female anatomy, but that’s in our God-given DNA. I still contend that most of us are not looking for or expecting perfection. We’re smart enough to know that the glossy centerfold has had her pimples and moles and cellulite airbrushed into oblivion . . . and without her makeup on looks pretty much like any other woman.

I believe one of the best and healthiest things you could do for yourself would be to give up the microscopic scrutiny of every square inch of your body . . . and the whining and complaining that go along with it. I also believe God would appreciate not having to listen to you dis his handiwork. Remember, that nose you hate is a one-of-a-kind original designed by the master artist himself.

[B head] Myth #3: What You See Makes or Breaks Your Love Life

The movie version of the Tony Award–winning Broadway musical Hairspray released in theaters all across America in July 2007. My wife, Marilyn, loves musicals and so do I, so we were among the first to see it. We enjoyed it, but what really blew us away was how stridently it contradicts the message pop culture tries to hammer into our heads.

Set in 1962, the story focuses on Tracy Turnblad, a high school girl with big hair and even bigger dreams. She fantasizes about being one of the featured dancers on a locally produced American Bandstand–style television show. She also happens to think the lead dancer, Link Larkin, is the hunk to end all hunks. But alas, Tracy is considerably overweight. All the other dancers on the show are slim and trim, especially Link’s girlfriend, a snooty, drop-dead gorgeous blonde who happens to be the lead dancer. Even Tracy’s overweight mother (played hilariously by John Travolta) discourages her from trying out for a spot on the show, because she fears Tracy will only be humiliated. And as far as Tracy’s crush on Link goes, everybody knows a good-looking guy would never be interested in a girl with a weight problem.

But two hours and several production numbers later, the movie closes with Tracy and Link kissing center screen while snooty Miss Drop-Dead Gorgeous pouts in the background. Final score: size 16–1, size 5–0.

Unrealistic, you say?

I beg to differ.

Open your eyes and look around. The world is full of Tracy Turnblads, women who are not prototypical beauties according to society’s standards but who more than make up for it with character and personality. They often end up riding into the sunset with the love of their lives, while more than a few so-called beauties in this world spend their lives bouncing from relationship to relationship and never find true happiness.

The other day Marilyn and I were in a restaurant when a family of four walked in and took a table nearby. Dad was a handsome guy, fit and clean-cut. The kids were preschoolers, cute as they could be. And mom was, well . . . let’s just say she wasn’t going to win the Mrs. America pageant anytime soon. But there she sat, with a handsome husband, two cute kids, and a smile on her face.

I looked at Marilyn and said, “There sits Tracy Turnblad.”

Don’t think for a minute that because you aren’t centerfold material you have no shot at love. It just isn’t true. The next time you’re in a restaurant, at a ball game, or strolling though the mall, just look around at the couples. You’ll see Tracy Turnblads everywhere.

[A head] Drawing the Line

This morning when I signed on to AOL, a link to seven “beauty secrets” for women appeared. With everything you’ve just read fresh on my mind, I had to click on it. What I found were some very interesting products. Among them:

Control-It! Omega3 Nail Biting Cream. It’s odorless, invisible, and will not stain. But it tastes bad. No way you’re going to munch your pinkies with this stuff on. They say it’s guaranteed to give you beautiful nails in no time. No self-discipline required.

Fake Bake, Sunless and Skinny. The name says it all. It’s a cream that promises to tan, firm, and tone you all at the same time while you kick back and relax. Must be the seaweed it contains that does the trick.

But my favorite was Poutrageous Lip Plumper, “the answer to achieving the perfectly plump pout seen in all the magazines.” That claim alone should guarantee millions in sales.

Knowing where to draw the line in the pursuit of beauty and romantic fulfillment is one of the biggest challenges you face as a woman. All kinds of products, treatments, and surgeries promise to work miracles on your appearance, and their suppliers will try everything they can think of (including trashing your self-esteem) to get you to fork over your hard-earned money. Let’s face it. It’s in their interest to keep you believing those mirror myths I just addressed. The uglier you think you are . . . the more desperate you feel . . . the more you believe your looks will determine your happiness . . . the more you feel compelled to compete with that saucy little number in the next cubicle—the better the chance they have of getting into your pocketbook.

You simply must draw a line.

No, I’m not saying your bathroom should look like a man’s. I realize a girl needs her stuff. But at some point you need to slam on the brakes and say, “Enough is enough. I can be happy, feel good about myself, and have an interesting love life whether or not I achieve the perfectly plump pout seen in all the magazines.”

The challenge is knowing where to draw the line.

Allow me to offer three suggestions.

[B head] Suggestion #1: Embrace Reality

Do not, under any circumstances, deny who and what you are. Not long ago MTV created a show called I Want a Famous Face. It featured young people who were willing to undergo plastic surgery in order to look like their favorite celebrities. Ridiculous, you say? Indeed! But before you bang the gavel and pronounce yourself innocent, realize that you can make the same mistake in nonsurgical ways.

In her book God Chicks, Holly Wagner talks about the time she abandoned her God-given nature in an effort to become like a couple of older women who were successful Bible teachers:

I imitated these women in their teaching styles, their mannerisms, and their dress—all because I felt that if they were successful, then I needed to become like them. What an idiot I was!! One day as I was wrestling with my fifth pair of panty hose, and I was complaining about the sadistic man (I’m sure it was a man!) who invented them, I heard the Spirit of God laughing at me. (He does laugh, you know!) I felt that God was asking me what I was doing. I assured Him that I was getting dressed so I could go teach, and I was putting on panty hose because my two heroes wore panty hose and I needed to be like them in order to fulfill my destiny on earth. The Father quickly assured me that He didn’t need me to be like them. They were fine being themselves, and He didn’t need anyone else doing their jobs. He did, however, have a job for me to do on the planet, and He would empower me as soon as I was comfortable being who He created me to be.5

It’s not unusual to see both men and women living in denial when it comes to their appearance. The guy who wears a severe comb-over or the woman who’s still squeezing herself into size 8 jeans even though she hasn’t actually been a size 8 since the first Bush became president—both are living in fantasy worlds. So is the sixty-year-old grandma with bleached blonde hair and short shorts. So is the teenage girl with the bare midriff who looks like she just swallowed a football. Holly Wagner says she sensed God laughing as she, a non-panty-hose kind of girl, wrestled her panty hose like a python.

I can buy the notion of him chuckling at some of our fashion misadventures, but I can’t help wondering if there comes a point where he finds it all a little heartbreaking. When we refuse to be ourselves, aren’t we saying something about his handiwork?

I speak for a whole bunch of guys when I say that a woman who recognizes and embraces her reality is far more attractive than a woman who goes around every day wearing what amounts to a Halloween costume.

[B head] Suggestion #2: Build Your Look from the Inside Out

The apostle Peter wrote, “Don’t be concerned about the outward beauty of fancy hairstyles, expensive jewelry, or beautiful clothes. You should clothe yourselves instead with the beauty that comes from within, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is so precious to God” (1 Peter 3:3, 4). When Peter says not to be concerned about outward beauty, I don’t believe he means you should get up and go to work with bed head and bad breath. He’s simply saying that true beauty flows from the inside out.

Isn’t it true that people get better looking on the outside when you get to know them and realize they are beautiful on the inside? And it works in reverse too. I’ve met many beautiful women who, when I realized they were self-centered or immoral, suddenly started looking very ordinary. I believe this explains how women who might be considered homely or unattractive end up having extraordinary romantic relationships. What they lack in outer beauty, they more than make up for with inner beauty. And because men are spiritual beings as well as physical, we’re powerfully drawn to those beautiful inner qualities.

Sadly, even though good character is the greatest beauty secret of them all, you will probably never see it listed alongside the lip plumpers and tanning creams, online or anywhere else. Oh, and one more thing—I don’t know what a six-month supply of Poutrageous Lip Plumper costs, but I know that good character is free.

[B head] Suggestion #3: Be Modest

I’ll talk more about this in the next chapter, but it bears mentioning here. As you try to decide where to draw the line in your pursuit of beauty and romantic fulfillment, you’re going to be tempted to believe that tighter and skimpier is sexier. Trust me when I tell you that every day we guys see women we wish would put more clothes on.

When I see a woman dressed immodestly, I wonder if she’s trying to fill a void in her life. Is she feeling insignificant and crying out to be noticed? Is loneliness driving her to pull out all the stops in an effort to snag a companion? Do the lustful stares of strangers help her stave off the whispers of tattered self-esteem? Perhaps not in every case, but it isn’t unusual for inner struggles to produce highly visible attitudes and behaviors.

The apostle Paul wrote, “I want women to be modest in their appearance. They should wear decent and appropriate clothing and not draw attention to themselves by the way they fix their hair or by wearing gold or pearls or expensive clothes. For women who claim to be devoted to God should make themselves attractive by the good things they do” (1 Timothy 2:9, 10). I once heard a woman who had just read those verses say, “It sounds like God wants us all to be frumpy.” (By frumpy she meant matronly, unattractive, the opposite of sexy.) This is a classic example of how Satan has brainwashed us. The very notion that modesty isn’t sexy has the devil’s fingerprints all over it. I’m convinced that there are millions of men who actually prefer a classy, modestly dressed woman to one who looks cheap and trashy. And the men who don’t aren’t worth your time anyway.

Jesus said, “The world would love you as one of its own if you belonged to it, but you are no longer part of the world. I chose you to come out of the world, so it hates you” (John 15:19). This business of coming out of the world is the real issue here. It could mean different things to different people, but for a woman in our modern culture it certainly means wrestling with that image in the mirror. And wrestling might even be an understatement if you’ve been plugged into the world’s mind-set your whole life and are just now starting to realize that God has a different plan for you. Breaking free of culture’s grip and adopting a whole new way of thinking, dressing, and acting might be the biggest challenge you’ll ever face. Old habits die kicking and screaming.

But they do die if someone cares enough to kill them.

And they need to die if you want to be free.

As long as you allow the myths in the mirror to dictate the way you dress, act, and feel about yourself, you will be ruling out a world of wonderful possibilities. You might feel that the more you doll yourself up, the more your horizons expand. But I believe the opposite is true. The more makeup you layer on, the shorter your hemline gets, the more risqué your conversations become, the fewer decent men will be interested in you. Oh sure, you’ll grab their attention; but just remember, the monkeys at the zoo grab their attention too. That doesn’t mean they want to take one home.

You have a choice. As a woman, you can work to become what culture says you ought to be or what God says you ought to be. Ultimately, your choice and your future will be determined by what you believe when you stand in front of that mirror.
So Much More Than Sexy

Do you feel anxious about your looks? Is there something (or maybe more than one thing) about your looks that you’ve always hated? Do you have a tendency to compare yourself to other women? What’s the most radical thing (funny or serious) you’ve ever done to try to improve your looks?

Do you agree that character is the greatest beauty secret of them all? Can you name people who have become more beautiful in your eyes as you have gotten to know their character? What improvements could you make in your character that might make you more beautiful?

Read 1 Peter 3:3, 4. Up to this point in your life, have you worked harder on your looks or your inner qualities? What are some specific inner qualities you could cultivate that would make you more beautiful?

So Much More Than Sexy

Mark Atteberry

Published by Standard Publishing, Cincinnati, Ohio

www.standardpub.com

Copyright © 2009 by Mark Atteberry

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in reviews, without the written permission of the publisher.

Substantive editor: Diane Stortz

Project editor: Lynn Lusby Pratt

Cover design: Susan Koski Zucker

Interior design:

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation second edition. Copyright © 1996, 2004. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright© 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations marked (NKJV) are taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc. 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, Colorado 80920.

ISBN 978-0-7847-2119-3

15 14 13 12 11 10 09 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Police Chief Brill Jessup pored over the department’s budget for the rest of the fiscal year and couldn’t see any way she could afford to hire another patrol officer without going to the city council. She sighed. The last time she asked those tightwads for additional funds she practically had to beg.

A strange noise interrupted her thoughts. She peered through the blinds on the glass wall into the bustling detective bureau and listened intently. There it was again.

A burly man appeared in the doorway. He bumped off either side, then staggered into her office. Facedown. Hands dripping with blood, clutching his abdomen.

“What in the world …?” She jumped to her feet, frozen in place.

Detective Sean O’Toole looked up and stretched out his hand toward her, his eyes screaming with pain. He collapsed in front of her desk and hit the floor.

“Officer down!” she shouted. “I need an ambulance—now!”

She hurried around the side of her desk, grabbed the clean hand towel next to the coffeepot, and got down on her knees. She laid the towel over the bloody wound and applied pressure.

“Sean, talk to me. What happened?”

The detective’s face was ashen. “He c-came from behind … put me in a choke hold … stuck a knife in my gut … said he was coming after you—to f-finish the job.”

“You never saw his face?”

“No. Hairy arms. White guy. Navy blue short sleeves. Smelled like c-cigarettes. Deep voice.”

“Where did this happen?”

“Hallway. Watercooler.”

Sean moaned, his face pallid and contorted with pain, his eyes slits of icy blue.

“Come on, Sean, stay with me.”

Detective Captain Trent Norris burst into her office. “I’ll take it from here, Chief.”

“How did he get from the watercooler to my office without someone in the DB seeing he needed help?”

“I guess we were all focused on other things. It’s been crazy.”

Trent got down on the floor and swapped places with her, his palms pressed over the wound. “Hang in there, buddy. The paramedics are just down the block. They’ll be here any second. You’re going to be fine. Stay with me. Talk to me.”

Brill sprang to her feet and hurried over to the officers who crowded outside her door. “O’Toole was just stabbed by some lowlife who snuck up behind him at the water cooler. We’re looking for a white man wearing a short-sleeve, navy blue shirt, possibly bloodstained.”

She locked gazes with Sean’s partner. “Detective Rousseaux, secure the scene and make sure it’s not compromised.

“Captain Dickson, lock down the building and search every corner of every room.

“Sergeant Chavez, set up a containment for two blocks around the building.

“Sergeant Huntman, clear the route to St. Luke’s and make sure we have officers in radio cars ready to escort the ambulance. Come on, people, move it!”

The officers scrambled in all directions, and she ran out to the restroom.

She tore off paper towels until she had a stack, folded them in half and held them under the faucet, then pressed out the excess water and rushed back to her office.

She got on her knees and gently pressed the wet towels onto Sean’s forehead, all too aware he was sweating profusely and still bleeding despite the pressure Trent was keeping on the wound. “We need something to elevate his legs.”

She went over to the bookshelf and grabbed several thick books and put them under Sean’s feet, hoping he wouldn’t die of shock before the paramedics arrived.

Lord, don’t take him now. He’s young. He’s got a wife and three kids.

“Come on, buddy, talk to me.” Trent patted Sean’s cheeks. “What else do you remember about this creep?”

“Tell Jessica I love her. The kids, too. Promise me.”

“You’re not going to die,” Trent said. “The bleeding’s slowing down. Talk to me, Sean. We want whoever did this to you.”

“He’s coming after the chief. Going to kill her.”

“Who’s going to kill her?” Trent’s dark eyes shot Brill a glance. “Give us something else. You’re too sharp of a detective to have missed anything.”

“Had a mark. Top of right hand.”

“What kind of mark?”

“A tattoo. Or b-birthmark. Size of a quarter.”

Brill heard voices and heavy footsteps in the DB, and seconds later two paramedics glided through the door and asked her to stand aside with Trent.

She observed in disbelief as the pair worked to save her detective’s life, heartsick that she might have to tell his wife and children he’d been murdered on her watch—and just feet away from armed police officers.

She started to brush the hair out of her eyes and realized her hands were bloody. She shuddered with the realization that whoever thrust a knife into Sean O’Toole had threatened to finish the job when he got to her.

~~~~~~~~~

Five hours later Brill sat at the conference table in her office with Detective Captain Trent Norris, Detective Beau Jack Rousseaux, Patrol Captain Pate Dickson, and Sheriff Sam Parker trying to assess where they were in the case.

“It’s a miracle Sean made it through surgery.” Brill looked from man to man. “We could be sitting here planning his funeral.”

“He’s too stubborn to die,” Beau Jack said.

“Stubborn’s no match for a knife blade, Detective. I want this animal locked up.”

“Don’t forget he threatened to come after you,” Trent said.

“How’d he get in here, anyway?”

Pate’s face turned pink. “One of my sergeants, Tiller, reported that a white man dressed in navy blue coveralls with the Miller’s Air Conditioning logo on the pocket was standing outside the door when he arrived this morning. The guy said he was here to fix the AC. He had a toolbox and a big smile. Dark hair and mustache. Big guy. Looked fifty to fifty-five.”

“So the sergeant just keyed in the combination and let him in without checking with maintenance?” Beau Jack said. “Real smart move.”

Pate stroked his chin. “Come on, Miller’s service people are in here all the time. The sergeant let down his guard. We’ve all done it.”

“Yeah, well, my partner nearly died because Sergeant Tiller let down his guard.”

“What’s done is done,” Brill said. “It’s not like we have a precedent for this kind of thing in the Sophie Trace PD.”

Beau Jack stuck a Tootsie Pop in his mouth. “I guess we do now.”

“We definitely need to tighten security,” Trent said. “Since we have no idea who this guy is, everyone we bring into the DB to be interviewed will be suspect.”

“I can’t spend the rest of my life in fear of this nutcase coming after me,” Brill said. “I have a job to do. Trent, you take charge of tightening security. All of us need to heighten our awareness of our surroundings. Anything or anyone that doesn’t feel right, check it out.”

Sam’s white eyebrows came together. “I can’t believe y’all were that trusting. My deputies would never let unauthorized individuals into a secured area. They’re trained to follow protocol.”

“So are my officers.” Brill forced herself not to sound defensive.

“But those of you in the county sheriff’s department deal with a broader range of criminals. Until now, the Sophie Trace PD had no reason to fear an officer being attacked in a secured area.”

“I’ll cover it in each briefing,” Trent said. “From this day forward, no one gets in the secured area until he has clearance. I don’t care how inconvenient it is to check him out.”

Brill looked over at Pate. “Tell me about your search of the building.”

“No evidence was found in the building, ma’am. My officers searched every nook and cranny and checked the sinks for hair and blood. Doesn’t appear the attacker stopped to clean up.”

“How’d Chavez do with the containment?” she said.

“He contained a two-block area around city hall, checked license plates, and talked with pedestrians. That yielded one female witness who passed the suspect on the sidewalk around 10:45—just after O’Toole was stabbed. The suspect was headed down First Street at a pretty good clip. Our witness says he was overweight, average height, dressed in navy blue coveralls and a black windbreaker and carrying a gray toolbox. She said he was wearing sunglasses and did not have a mustache. She’s working with Tiller and our sketch artist. We ought to have something soon.”

“Did she see which way he went?” Trent said.

Pate shook his head. “Once he passed her, she didn’t give him a second thought until Chavez questioned her.”

“Well,” Brill said, “I’m eager to see the sketch. If this man has threatened to come after me, I’d sure like to see if I recognize him.”

~~~~~~~~~

A short time later, Brill sat at her desk and studied the artist’s sketch of the man who stabbed Sean O’Toole. Sergeant Tiller was the only one who saw the suspect’s eyes, and the female witness was the

only one who saw his mouth without the mustache. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t put a name to the face or even explain what it was about him that looked familiar.

Her cell phone vibrated, and she read the display screen.

“There you are,” she said. “I guess you got my message?”

“Honey, I’m so sorry,” Kurt Jessup said. “I’ve been following the news. I’m glad Sean pulled through. Must’ve been horrible for you.”

“I thought we were going to lose him.”

She told Kurt everything that had happened from the time Sean O’Toole staggered into her office until the paramedics took him to St. Luke’s in an ambulance—except that the assailant told O’Toole he was coming after her to “finish the job.” Why get into that over the phone?

“Sounds intense. You must be emotionally drained.”

“I don’t think it’s caught up with me yet. It was surreal washing Sean’s blood off my hands, and I had to throw away my uniform shirt. Beau Jack lent me the extra shirt he had in his locker so Emily wouldn’t have to see the mess. Does she know about the stabbing?”

“Yes, but I made sure she’s not planted in front of the TV, listening to the gory details. It’ll just trigger thoughts of the hostage ordeal, and we both know she’s not over it.”

Are any of us? Brill glanced up at the clock. “I’ll be home in forty-five minutes. Is Vanessa there yet? I can hardly wait to see her.”

“She’ll be here between seven and eight. Said not to plan on her for dinner.”

“By the time I get home, it’ll be too late to cook anything,” Brill said. “And you know what Friday night is like. If we go out, we’ll have to wait forever, and I don’t want Vanessa to come home to an empty house.”

“I’ve got it covered, honey. I bought a baked chicken and a quart of potato salad at the grocery store. We’ve got stuff here for a green salad. That should work.”

“What would I do without you?”

Kurt laughed. “I have no idea.”

“I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Brill hung up the phone and looked out the window. Through the leafy trees and beyond the ridges of hazy green foothills, the blue gray silhouette of the Great Smoky Mountains dominated the early evening sky. She sat for a moment and just enjoyed the beauty and the calm.

Lord, thank You for letting Sean pull through.

Her office phone rang, and she picked it up. “Yes, LaTeesha.”

“Captain Donovan from the Memphis PD is on line one for you.”

“Thanks.” She pushed the blinking button. “Hello, John.”

“Hey. It’s great to hear your voice. Saw you on the news last fall. I figured you’d make a name for yourself, but I didn’t think you’d go to such extreme measures.”

She smiled. “Things got pretty crazy, all right. So are you enjoying my old office?”

“Not today. I’ve got bad news … Zack Rogers was stabbed night before last. Happened in his driveway. Some worthless piece of garbage came up behind him and stuck a knife in his gut, and said to tell District Attorney Cromwell he was coming after him. I didn’t call you because the doc said Zack was going to be all right. But his heart gave out …”—John’s voice cracked—“an hour ago. No one saw it coming. His kids are still in high school, and with their mother dead … well, it’s a tragic loss. I knew you’d want to know since you and Zack were partners for so long.”

Brill felt a wave of nausea sweep over her, a decade of memories flashing through her mind in an instant.

“The thing is,” John said, “we knew Zack was being targeted because one of my detectives was stabbed last week, and the perp told him he was coming after Zack. We offered Zack protection, but you know how independent he was—bound and determined he could take care of himself.”

Brill’s heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it. “John, one of my detectives was stabbed today just outside the detective bureau. The attacker told him he was coming after me, to finish the job. This can’t be a coincidence.”

There was a long moment of dead air, and she figured John was processing the implications.

“You and Zack helped put away lots of perps, Brill. And Jason Cromwell was district attorney during the time you two were partners. Did anybody ever threaten you?”

“Are you kidding? All the time. We blew it off.”

“Well, looks like one of them was dead serious. Anybody in particular stand out?”

“Sure, Bart and Sampson Rhodes. But they’re lifers and not eligible for parole. Zack and I busted them what, nine or ten years ago? If they had been serious about taking us out, they could’ve snapped their fingers and gotten it done in nine or ten minutes.”

“Maybe they’re patient,”

“Or maybe this is someone else,” Brill said. “Someone who was forced to wait a long time for the chance to get even—someone who served out his sentence. Someone who wouldn’t think of hiring a hit man, but rather delights in the systematic elimination of the people who put him away. Someone who enhances his enjoyment by first stabbing a person who is close to the intended victim and making sure that person lives long enough to tell the intended victim that he or she is next.”

“You’ve worked with the FBI profilers so long you actually sound like one.”

“Unfortunately, John, I think I’m right.”

©2009 Cook Communications Ministries. The Last Word by Kathy Herman. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.

Introduction

To You, My Friend

This book is dedicated to you, my friend, in the midst of your impossible year—a year marked forever by an event that threatens to consume you. I have written out of my own experience and that of others to offer hope that you will survive and, indeed, thrive.

Our common thread is that we are walking through something we cannot control; and as much as we try, we don’t see a pain-free or easy solution. We only know we have to get through it. You may have lost a family member to death; you may be facing a serious illness, a divorce, or financial reversal. Or perhaps your loss is difficult to define. Your life has simply hit a stall, and you are filled with a quiet desperation as you go through the motions. You feel stuck and wonder, “Is God there? Does He care about me? Surely there’s more…”

As a friend suffering from brain cancer wrote me, “Everyone carries a bag of rocks. Some are bigger, some smaller.” Some losses are certainly more traumatic and life-altering than others, but loss is loss. Trouble is trouble. Pain is pain.

Life can wear us down, and sometimes we’re tempted to give up. Our dreams recede, and we feel we’re living on the edges of life, numbed by onslaughts great and small. But as I am realizing from my own experience, we don’t have to be “beaten down.” God’s mercies are new every day, and they are freely available.

I don’t know what your bad year holds for you. One friend who’d had a series of bad years told me, “Forget the one bad year! How about my whole life?” We all go through tough times. The point is to see them for what they are, and to respond in a way that allows good to come out of the bad.

I’ve come to believe that our heavenly Father can bring good out of every bad thing that happens here on earth. Though we live in a broken world where pain and loss and sickness abound, our loving God redeems all the suffering that Satan has unleashed on the world. Believing this, we walk by faith, not by sight, knowing that nothing comes to us except the Father allow it.

Years ago, there was a much-admired elderly woman in our community named Mrs. Cooksey. A friend asked her the secret of her exemplary life. She looked up, a little twinkle in her eyes, and gave this one-word answer: “Trouble!”

I’ve written this book in two parts: part 1 is written for you in the first days and weeks of crisis. When a huge wave of pain knocks us down, we can’t think about how we’re going to reach the shore; all we can do is try to keep our heads above water. Part 1 will give you some emergency tactics to help you stay afloat. Then, in part 2 I’ve shared some strategies that will help you through the long haul—that will show you how to navigate the stormy waters of pain and make your way to the peaceful shore.

Yes, your life right now is difficult. It seems impossible. But it is your life, in all its complexity and beauty. Stop and see it for what it is: acknowledge your losses, and disappointments, but be mindful of your blessings as well. As we go through this year together, remember that God has promised to be with you and that He will never leave you or forsake you, no matter what.

There is no permanent calamity for any child of God;

Way stations all, at which we briefly stop

Upon our homeward road.

Our pain and grief are only travel stains which shall be wiped away,

Within the blessed warmth and light of home,

By God’s own hand some day.

PART ONE

Emergency Help for When the Crisis Hits

[quote or scripture TK]

[Faceplate]

If knowing answers to life’s questions

is absolutely necessary to you, then forget the journey.

You will never make it, for this is a journey of unknowables—

of unanswered questions, enigmas, incomprehensibles,

and most of all, things unfair.

Madame Jeanne Guyon

Chapter One

“I Can’t Do This”

So, things happen. One minute you’re sailing through life on peaceful waters, when all of a sudden from out of nowhere, a giant wave capsizes your safe existence—and life is never the same again. An unexpected loss can knock all the breath out of you and send you plunging into dark waters, where you are instantly paralyzed. Fear, shock, and confusion flood in, and you are thrust into shut down mode. We know we have to keep going, but how?

Or perhaps you’re experiencing a sense of loss that has developed over time. Gathering clouds hover overhead, and you have a growing awareness that some unnamed dread is approaching—you can feel your joy and purpose hopelessly slipping away. How will you find your way through these murky waters? Or maybe there’s a problem or issue in your life that you’ve tried to ignore and now it’s finally erupted. You’re forced to stop your life and refocus your attention.

My own bad year grew out of a series of less eventful ones that we managed to cruise through—until one October day four years ago when I realized there was no getting through this one. Not without a lot of tears and pain, at least.

Being a mom was all I wanted. In a span of ten years, my husband, Bill, and I had four wonderful, energetic, fun-loving little boys. My life was perfect. Almost. It just seemed that someone was missing. Though each of our four sons is priceless, I knew how it worked: “A son’s a son ’til he takes a wife; a daughter’s a daughter all of her life.” How would I get my daughter to round out my perfect life? The logical solution was adoption. Simple.

After two or three years of paperwork and a roller coaster search, my husband, Bill, and our four sons—Jon, Eric, Chris and Andy (ages fourteen down to eight)—and I were at the Seattle airport waiting to pick up our daughter, Kim Yung Ja. She was three-and-a-half years old; thirty-six inches tall; had short, dark, straight hair; and had spent most of her life in an orphanage north of Seoul. A volunteer carried her off the plane and placed her in our arms. We were enchanted by our tiny little daughter and renamed her Amy Kim Carmichael. We then proceeded to make her a Carmichael. Or tried to.

You can imagine her transition. She came from a place where everyone looked like her to a place where the people had round eyes, blond hair, and a strange language. And with no say in the matter, she found herself plopped into a family and expected to be like them.

If you had asked me twenty-one years ago to tell you about adoption, I would have spoken of it in glowing terms—the perfect solution for infertile couples or for parents like me with a yearning that just won’t go away.

But that was before the most traumatic year of our family’s life. What would I tell you now about adoption? Imagine accepting an amputated arm from another person and attaching it to your own body—hoping the graft will take.

When Amy was in her early twenties, she decided she wanted to live on her own. She began to have a lot of fun—far too much fun. We heard rumors of her being involved in out-of-control-partying. I wondered, Who is this person? How can she just “wig out” like that?
My sons and daughters-in-law warned, “If she doesn’t change her ways, there’s a train wreck ahead.” We spent sleepless nights, praying and worrying. We tried to talk sense to her. We tried tough love. We consulted professionals. I knew something strange was going on in her life, but she was twenty-one, so there was only so much we could do.

One October Friday, as I prepared to go to out of town for a speaking engagement, I sensed an urgency to connect with Amy, so I asked if she could meet me at Red Robin for lunch. She agreed and showed up looking very depressed. I ordered my usual chicken salad, and she ordered her usual rice bowl. “How are you, Amy?” I asked,

“Not so good. One of my friends at work is pregnant and her boyfriend doesn’t want to marry her.”

“Oh. . . What is she going to do?”

“Everybody’s telling her to get an abortion.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t think that would be right.”

“Well, what about her family?”

She gave a little sigh of disgust. “Oh, if her family found out, they’d disown her.” By this time, my heart was beginning to pound. “Amy, will you tell your friend we’ll be glad to help her if she wants help?”

Later in the car, she burst into tears: “Mom, it’s me! I’m pregnant.” Then she said, “Now I know how my birth mother felt. There’s no way I can be a mom now. I’m going to place the baby for adoption.”

Stunned into momentary silence, I thought, Maybe she’s wrong; maybe she isn’t pregnant after all. And then I said what countless other mothers have said to their daughters: “Honey, we’ll get through this.” That’s what we parents do—we go into automatic overdrive and do what we must to help our family. Rescue the survivors. I suddenly realized I had just joined a vast club of mothers—a club I’d never wanted to join. This was not my dream for my daughter.

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT: I suddenly realized I had just joined a vast club of mothers—a club I’d never wanted to join.]]

I took her back to her apartment, and we sat on her bed and cried and prayed together. I told her to hang on, we’d get through this and to wait until Monday when we could go to the doctor. I knew I had to go home and tell Bill, and then somehow go on to my speaking engagement. Where had I gone wrong, where had I failed her? How could we have avoided this?

As I drove, waves of anger, shock, and grief poured over me.

How can Amy handle another life-defining loss? How can I walk through this with her? I can’t do this!

Although things looked impossible for all of us at the time, later on we would be amazed at how God directed our steps in the confusing and painful months ahead.

You, Lord, are my shepherd. I will never be in need….

You are true to your name, and you lead me along the right paths.

I may walk through valleys as dark as death, but I won’t be afraid.

Stories of Loss

In the following pages, we’ll take an up-close look into the lives of several people who were unexpectedly thrashed by overwhelming waves of loss. In these true stories, you just might see reflections of your own experiences or of those you love and care for. The camaraderie we feel in knowing that others have walked this way before us brings much-needed comfort and the hope that you, too, will survive your own bad year.

No test or temptation that comes your way is beyond

the course of what others have had to face.

All you need to remember is that God will never let you down;

he’ll never let you be pushed past your limit;

he’ll always be there to help you come through it.

“I’m Bankrupt. I’ve Lost Everything!”

Brad and his wife, Susan, were small retail owners in their late fifties and had worked hard to get where they were. Retirement was just around the corner, and they looked forward to having weekends free. Their dream was to ride their motorcycles across country.

When Brad’s parents passed away, they were surprised to realize they had a sizable chunk of money to invest. After investigating several possibilities to get the best possible return on their investment, they decided to invest in a real estate venture in California. The real estate market was booming, and they were assured that this was a “slam-dunk.” They sold their small business and added that to the investment as well, and then looked forward to a comfortable life.

Who could have foreseen the rapid economic down-turn with foreclosures and bankruptcies? A lot of people didn’t—and certainly not Brad and Susan. One morning when Brad didn’t receive his monthly payment from the real estate company, he called the CEO’s office and got a recording that the phone had been disconnected. Worried, he made several other phone calls, only to be told that the company he had invested everything in had just filed for bankruptcy.

Brad felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He said, “You read about it every day, but when it happens to you, it’s an earthquake.” He finally reached an attorney who represented the company and was told, “It may be a good idea for you to get a job.”

Numb with shock, he and Susan realized that almost overnight, they had no income. What could he do, at his age, to provide for his family, to simply pay the bills?

It was humiliating, embarrassing. Fear descended upon him, wrapping him in its clutches, smothering him until he could hardly breathe.

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT: Fear descended upon him, wrapping him in its clutches, smothering him until he could hardly breathe.]]

Sure, they had their faith, but how would they get through this one? Forget a comfortable retirement; how would they survive? At the time, stress was their constant companion; but Brad and Susan were to discover a God who would lead them through an impossible journey to know His provision in ways they could never have imagined.

Surely, goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life.

Thus says the Lord who makes a way in the sea

and a path through the mighty waters.…

Do not remember the former things, nor consider the things of old.

Behold, I will do a new thing.

“I Don’t Want to Be Married to You Anymore”

Jim McClelland is a big guy, a gentle guy. He was in his ninth year of being a youth pastor, and he loved every minute of his work. He’d been married to Lindsay for eight years, and they had two young sons, a preschooler, and a first-grader. Sure, there were challenges and tensions, but Jim was unaware of the crisis building inside Lindsay.

One August day, Lindsay asked Jim to sit down in the living room so they could talk. What she said rocked his world: “Jim, I don’t want to be married anymore.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

To Jim, there were three cornerstones in his life—Jesus, the Bible, and Lindsay. A three legged stool. What she was telling him did not compute. What he was hearing knocked the props out from under him.

But she was resolute. Matter-of-fact.

Jim told me, “I was absolutely deconstructed. Do you remember the pile of rubble left by the bombing of the World Trade Center? Or the explosion of the Challenger? That was me. Destroyed. I couldn’t even talk about it.”

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT: “I was absolutely deconstructed. Destroyed.”]]

Jim and Lindsay went for counseling, but her mind was made up. It was later that he discovered that she had been seeing someone else.

In those dark days, Jim was certain all was lost. He felt utterly alone. Lindsay wanted to stay together through Christmas, so the boys wouldn’t have negative emotions connected to the holiday. Somehow they made it through. After Christmas, they went through their belongings, sorting them into piles: “That’s mine; that’s yours.”

Jim said, “It was so weird, standing in the garage with all my stuff, my dreams in cardboard boxes. But then—I don’t know how he knew—my friend, my best man, showed up in my driveway, got out, and just started in, helping me pack.

We didn’t say three words. There was no conversation. But he was there. For seven months after that, the boys and I lived with my friend and his family. The boys and I didn’t have beds—just sleeping bags on the floor. The boys didn’t care so much—they thought they were camping—but one night I stood and looked at them sleeping on the floor in this tiny one bedroom apartment, and I cried. It was the lowest of the low times. I went from a guy who never cried to one who cried all the time.”

How would he get through, rebuild? Would he ever be the same, ever be happy again? And what about his ministry? What would his church think? Although life would never be the same for Jim, he was to discover a God who never let him go.

I, the Lord have called you in righteousness,

and will hold your hand; I will keep you.”

“They Can’t Find Your Mother”

Julie Wilson’s mom, Deede, was a vibrant, fifty-four-year-old real estate agent living in southern California. She had recently gotten out of a destructive marriage, and life finally seemed good again. Julie was blonde and vivacious like her mother Deede and was on her way to a much-anticipated girlfriend’s trip to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Julie and Deede had planned to meet at Los Angeles International airport during Julie’s layover, so they could catch up over coffee. But Julie’s mother never showed. When her mother didn’t call, Julie assumed her cell phone battery had died and that she’d been delayed in traffic. Julie continued on her journey.

Julie said, “My two friends and I got to our beautiful resort in Cabo, but somehow the whole day was strange. Something wasn’t right. On the surface, everything seemed perfect—we started the day with hot stone massages and spent time at the pool. Then we went into the town of Cabo San Lucas. But shortly after we left the resort, I felt the urgent need to get back. I tried to shake it off and enjoy the day, assuring myself that everything was okay. Our first stop was at an internet café so we could check e-mail. I was surprised not to have heard from my mother, so I e-mailed her, telling her how much fun I was having with my girlfriends. I knew she would be so happy for me.”

Julie and her friends finished their e-mail, then briefly walked down some side streets, shopping. But Julie couldn’t shake a strong sense of concern that something was wrong and suggested they go back to the resort. At the resort, they had a delicious dinner on the beach but still, she felt uneasy.

Julie said, “We left and went up to our room, and I found a message from my husband, Pete, on the phone. I panicked, as my first thought was that something had happened to Gracie—my one-year-old daughter, whom I’d left for the first time. My best friend, Vivian, was with me as I called him back.

Pete’s first words were, “Is Vivian there with you?”

“Yes. What’s going on?”

“I just got off the phone with your brother, Michael. Julie, they can’t find your mother.”

Julie ran to the bathroom and threw up. She said, “I knew immediately that Mom was not alive. And I knew that Erwin, my stepfather, had killed her.”

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT: “I knew immediately that Mom was not alive.”]]

They soon heard that Deede’s body had been discovered, murdered. Her stepfather was ultimately charged. Julie would eventually be called to testify at the trial.

How does a daughter get through a living nightmare such as this? And where was God in all of this? For Julie, this traumatic event colored every waking moment of the days to come. But later, when she attended her mother’s trial, she felt the grace of God surrounding her and keeping her.

When you pass through the waters,

I will be with you; and through the rivers

they shall not overflow you.

When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned.

“Depression…Something I Know”

Jason Clark was a brilliant pastor of a leading church in the UK, the father of three, and a university professor. He has done a lot in his life, and he’s just this side of forty.

When Jason was nearly seventeen, he became a Christian at a wonderful church. He says, “I remember the first experience of being prayed for—having people lay hands on me, gently, lovingly; and it was the beginning of healing in my life. Church was wonderful: a place full of brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles, adopted mums and dads; a place where I was loved and cared for.”

For the first time in his life, people built him up and spoke words of life into who he was and what he could be. His home life had been very different. As a child, he had to be the adult. He remembers running out in the snow in his pajamas, barefoot, chasing his mother down the street, begging her not to take the overdose she’d threatened to take. He remembers hiding in the closet for hours as he heard his parents destroy each other and their house. Then there was the pain of missing college to care for his one-year-old brother, pretending to be his father whenever they went out in public.

These things were a regular occurrence in his life, and in the midst of destruction, he determined not to be like his parents.

After he became a Christian, things went well for awhile. He grew and moved on. He went to seminary and college and married. Yet he found himself coping less and less as anxiety and depression began to hit him harder and harder. Only in hindsight did he understand that he’d suffered from depression as a child. He’d had a brief respite when he initially became a Christian for two or three years, but old pains began to resurface as life moved on.

In spite of growing anxiety, Jason pressed on. He worked a hundred hours a week to support his family, commuted three hours a day, and raised a young family, all while planting the church he hoped to someday pastor full-time. His mounting depression and anxiety were kept at bay only by working harder and harder. His first day of being a full-time pastor finally arrived. He celebrated this momentous day by having a nervous breakdown. Throughout the day, he rotated between being catatonic and suffering panic attacks. He thought he was dying, or going insane. His body, brain, soul, and mind finally gave in to an inevitable collapse.

He says, “It was tough on my wife. All I could do was get up, see the kids off to school, go back to bed, get up when the kids came home, and preach on Sunday. How I did that, I have no idea. Our church was wonderful. They told me that I had always said it was okay to be ill, and now it was my turn. During this time the church grew.”

Jason got medication and went into therapy and began to face up to his past and the abuse he’d never dealt with before. The coping mechanism he’d developed—caring for others to make up for his own lack of care—had found an unhealthy place in the church. It was easy to excel in church by caring. As a nineteen-year-old, he had led small groups and ministries with adults. He’d seen his leadership role as having an “old head on young shoulders.”

He was determined not to be his parents, to not do what they did or be who they were. This determination had helped him survive, but it finally came undone one day in therapy when his therapist asked, “Why do you define your life by who you don’t want to be, rather than who you do?” Jason realized in that moment that he had spent so many years as a workaholic, pushing, striving, and fearful that he would become his parents.

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT: “Why do you define your life by who you don’t want to be, rather who you do?”]]

At the lowest point of his breakdown, Jason felt as if he were losing his faith. The questions and doubts he’d kept at bay came crashing in, demanding to be faced. One night, Jason took his Bible to bed and held it to his chest; he told God he didn’t know how to read it anymore, and this was a close as he could get to it. He hoped it was okay with God.

Jason says, “Now I know it was, and is. During that devestating time, I realized that Jesus was still the same Jesus I had given my life to. It was the systems I’d built up that had fallen apart. So I went back to seminary to do part-time research in theology and to think through the things I was realizing. Theology saved my faith. And theology created something new in my life, and in our church. As it helped me grow, it helped our church grow.

“I know I have a long way to go and may suffer many dark days until I die. Genetics and a family disposition to depression mean I will often wrestle with life. But in the wrestling, I find dependence on Christ, and I find recreation and new life.

“The pattern of destruction and fear I knew as a child has abated. It has not been passed on to my wife, my children. In them and in my church community, I see hope. With them, I do life in the deepest and most painful and joyful and happy ways. My anxiety and depression, like Winston Churchill’s ‘Black Dog,’ is something I know and take for a walk through life.”

Yes, though I walk through the (deep, sunless) valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear or dread no evil; for You are with me;

Your rod (to protect) and Your staff (to guide), they comfort me.…

You anoint my head with oil; my (brimming) cup runs over.

Surely or only goodness, mercy and unfailing love

shall follow me all the days of my life;

and through the length of days the house of the Lord

(and His presence) shall be my dwelling place.

“A Dreaded Diagnosis”

Jo Franz—an outgoing young wife, mother, and talented singer involved with helping her husband in ministry—had a lot going for her.

One morning she stood in the kitchen, cooking pancakes on the cast iron griddle for the youth choir when she suddenly felt as if she was falling over with dizziness. Jo landed in a chair as her husband and the rest of the choir entered the room. Alarmed, she knew she had to deal with a growing set of troubling issues. That year she’d had some strange symptoms, not noticeable to anyone but her. Now she knew there was something seriously wrong with her.

After many tests, the doctor gave her the dreaded diagnosis: multiple sclerosis, a crippling disease. She had suspected the diagnosis, because the symptoms were the same as her friend’s, who had MS. Ironically, she had even done fund raisers for the cause of MS.

It was only later when she was alone, that she broke down and cried with fear about the unpredictable life MS would bring. But MS was only the beginning of her difficult time. Soon after her diagnosis, she went through an unwanted divorce.

How could Jo live a full, vibrant life with the threat of a disabling disease hanging over her head? In those early, dark days, Jo could never have imagined how God would use her weakness to demonstrate His strength and joy.

Those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength;

They shall mount up with wings like eagles;

They shall run and not be weary,

They shall walk and not faint.

“My World Changed with a Phone Call”

It was a late May afternoon. It had been cleaning day, so there was a sense of fresh order in the house. Karen’s husband would be attending a monthly board dinner meeting; her youngest daughter, Sommer, was away for the evening, and Karen looked forward to throwing a simple salad together for her solo supper.

Karen took a deep breath and savored the quiet in her home. She smiled, thinking of Sommer’s upcoming high school graduation and acceptance into college. Soon Karen and Bob would be empty-nesters—it was here already. Their oldest daughter, Hillary, had recently married a wonderful young man, and the newlyweds had moved to the Midwest to finish their education.

It was a new era for her and Bob. They had treasured every minute of parenting, but now it was time to let go.

The phone rang, interrupting Karen’s solitude. It was Hillary. But something was not right. Karen listened with growing alarm, as Hillary’s speech seemed strange. There was something very wrong. Numb with shock and suppressed fear, she responded with supernatural calm, as she said what had to be “words from God.”

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT: Numb with shock and suppressed fear, she responded with supernatural calm.]]

Karen said, “I finally got my son-in-law, Kevin, on the phone, and he confirmed that Hillary had been manifesting some strange behaviors. She’d been pacing the floors in constant motion, all the while plugged into a music headset. She had quit attending class—highly unusual for her—and was becoming reclusive. She also seemed to be having hallucinations and delusions.

What could be happening? Karen had no idea what they were facing, and immediately tried to reach her husband who was in a board meeting, but his phone was on silent. Later he told Karen she’d left him five messages, but she barely had any memory of that. She only knew she had to get to her daughter.

Kevin agreed that Karen should come immediately, and Karen got online to check flights and availability, briefly aghast at the last-minute prices; however, nothing mattered but getting there.

Over the next few months, Karen and her family began to discover that Hillary had had a psychotic break, and it appeared that she had schizoaffective disorder. One psychiatrist told them there was a “less than 10 percent chance she’ll get better in her lifetime.”

Karen wondered, How do I parent her in this new place and support my new son-in-law? How is it possible that my dreams and hopes for my child had been so drastically altered? How will we get through this? Yet Karen and her family were to learn what it meant to trust God in a strange new world.

He gives power to the weak.

And to those who have no might, He increases strength.

“Why Hasn’t God Healed Our Little Boy?”

Doug and Angela Tucker were in their second year of planting a church in Athens, Georgia. They loved their people, the challenges of starting a new work, and especially enjoyed their two children—seven-year-old Aleisha and fifteen-month-old-David. In the late spring of 1998, Angela was back at her pre-pregnancy weight, feeling good.

Angela says, “Life seemed to be clicking right along with everything under control. One morning I was outside with some ladies of our church beside the pool. I felt nauseated and thought perhaps I had the flu. One of the women suggested I may be pregnant, but that seemed completely absurd. However, she offered me a pregnancy test that she had left over as she was currently six weeks pregnant. Much to my surprise, the test was positive. I went home and announced the news to my husband, who was as surprised as I was. But, after adjusting to the news, we were very much looking forward to the birth of this little addition to the Tucker family.”

Four months into the pregnancy, Angela went alone to have a sonogram, a routine procedure. The sonographer began her work, and the longer she looked, the more questions she began to ask. Angela had been through this type of questioning before, when she’d had a miscarriage before David. With growing alarm, Angela asked, “What’s wrong?”

The sonographer confirmed that the baby was a boy, and then went on to tell Angela that although she wasn’t supposed to discuss these things with her, she saw cysts on the baby’s brain and a two-vessel umbilical cord instead of three vessels. She told her to come to a neonatalologist the next day and have an amniocentesis performed.

Angela was devastated. What did this mean? As she shared the news with Doug, it suddenly seemed very important that the baby had a name. Doug anointed Angela with oil, and they prayed for healing, asking God to give them a name for His child.

Angela says, “Immediately the name Samuel came to my mind, but I didn’t voice this to Doug. Later, Doug asked me to research the name Samuel on the computer to see what it meant. We found that Samuel meant ‘heard of God.’ We believed that God would hear our prayer and heal our child.”

Nothing was discovered from the amniocentesis except what Samuel didn’t have. He didn’t have Down’s Syndrome, and he didn’t have a myriad of other chromosome problems. With each visit to the neonatalologist, new problems were discovered: a hole in Samuel’s heart, possibly webbed fingers and toes. They were told that if Samuel made it through the trauma of birth, he would very likely die within a few hours. Two doctors told Angela that she needed to abort Samuel.

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT: They were told that if Samuel made it through the trauma of birth, he would very likely die within a few hours.]]

Angela said, “My heart sank beneath the depths of despair. This was the worst news I had ever had to endure in my entire life. My husband and I gathered our faith and the support of our church members and family and went through week after week of this very unstable pregnancy with Samuel. We prayed, believing that God would heal this child and that when he came from the womb, he would be as normal as any child ever born. This was not to be God’s answer.”

After a difficult delivery, Samuel finally arrived around five o’clock on January 23, 1999. He did not have a hole in his heart nor did he have webbed fingers and toes. He did, however, have very short arms and legs in proportion to the rest of his body, and he could not get enough oxygen in.

Within hours, Samuel was transferred to a children’s hospital by ambulance. Angela said, “Everything happened so fast. We were asked to sign papers saying that if Samuel died on the way, we would not hold the hospital responsible. We were told that we could not follow the ambulance for safety reasons, so they allowed us to leave before the ambulance. On the three-hour trip to Augusta, the ambulance passed us with flashing lights. The most horrifying feeling came over us, as we knew that our precious little boy was inside, fighting for his life.”

Anxious days passed, filled with tests and consultations before it was discovered that Samuel had Rhizomelic Chondrodysplasia Punctata, or RCP, a genetic bone disorder. Samuel’s cells were missing an enzyme that allowed the body to grow. Doug and Angela discovered they were both carriers of the gene and that both parents had to drop the gene down at the same time for a child to be affected. They learned that Aleisha and David were very likely carriers, but because they didn’t receive the gene from both of their parents, they did not have the syndrome.

The prognosis wasn’t good. One day in a consultation, Doug and Angela were told that Samuel would more than likely not live to be twelve weeks old; a year at the most. They were also told that Samuel was severely retarded. Angela waited until the doctor left the room, and then fell on the floor, begging God to heal her child.

An exhausting saga ensued—tubes, treatments, procedures, and learning how to care for Samuel at home. The early months of Samuel’s life was a confusing time for Angela, a time of questioning. She agonized, Why hasn’t God healed our little boy? After all, we’ve believed His Word, we’ve lived a holy standard of life, and we’re serving God with all we have in us. How can I trust Him to save me if I can’t trust him to heal Samuel?

Angela and Doug had no idea then how Samuel would change their lives. how much they would learn, or how their ministry would change in deep and meaningful ways.

He will feed his flock like a shepherd.

He will gather the lambs with his arm,

and carry them in His bosom,

and gently lead those who are with young.

To You, In the Midst of Crisis

The stories and pains we’ve shared thus far in this chapter are not unusual. All of us—if we live long enough—travel unwanted paths where we face seemingly insurmountable enemies. But even though pain and loss are common to us all, when it enters our own life, it can shake us to the core; and we are desperate for help. God has provided just the help we need.

Know That the Battle Is Not Yours

There’s a story in the Bible about a time when the Israelites faced overwhelming odds as enormous armies were coming from all around to attack them, to wipe them out. They were completely outnumbered.

Their leader, Jehosaphat, didn’t know what to do. But he called the people to fast and pray. They desperately needed to hear from God to know what to do in this overwhelming situation. After fasting and praying, the people received a word from God: “This is what the Lord says to you: ‘Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s.. . .You will not have to fight this battle. Take up your positions; stand firm and see the deliverance the Lord will give you, O Judah and Jerusalem. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged. Go out to face them tomorrow, and the Lord will be with you.”

Remember That Your Crisis Is Just for a Season

In our family’s crisis, there were principles from God’s Word that spoke to us deeply. For weeks I prayed Psalm 23 on my daily walks: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow…” Through! In all my years of reading the twenty-third Psalm, I’d never seen the word “through” before with such vivid understanding. The word “through” gave me hope; it said that our family wouldn’t stay in the valley. Yes, we were in a valley, but it was only for a season.

The crisis you are in at the moment isn’t forever. You won’t make a permanent home in the valley, and even while you are there, you are not alone.

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT Yes, we were in a valley, but it was only for a season.]]

Trust God, Even When No Answers Are in Sight

The question is not so much what to do; but who do you turn to? As Angela said, “We learned to run to Him and not from Him.”

In our family’s situation, we did not see a good end game. How could we help our daughter place the only flesh and blood she knew in the arms of another family? How could we do such a thing? We love our babies. How do you love and let go? Imposssible.

There appeared to be no pain-free solution. Neither Amy nor the birth father felt ready for marriage or parenthood. We were concerned the child could be bounced back and forth if she stayed in our family. How would we solve this? We studied all the angles, over and over.

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT: How could we help our daughter place the only flesh and blood she knew in the arms of another family?]]

This is where you’re hoping I tell you that if you do A and B, you will get C. How I wish I could, but sometimes life is not like that. In John chapter 9, the Pharisees brought the blind man to Jesus and asked Him, “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” They wanted answers. Reasons. Whose fault is this?

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT: This is where you’re hoping I tell you that if you do A and B, you will get C.]]

We often romanticize how things should be, maybe from our propensity to want a story with a happy ending. But some things defy easy answers and formulas. Sometimes we live with a mess for awhile.

Jesus answered, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life”; and then Jesus went on to heal the man. There can be a higher purpose, a deeper meaning in life’s twists and turns. We don’t have to know all the answers when we stand in the truth that the battle is not ours, but God’s. Letting go in the midst of a crisis is completely opposite to what we want to do, but doing so is our only true hope for victory.

Know That You Are Not Alone

Sure, you feel alone. Feeling alone seems to be a common thread when you hit that “lowest of the low” place. You are left with a sense of helplessness and impotence, and fear can choke you. Songwriter Bobby Bare said in the song, “Lonesome Valley,” “You gotta walk that lonesome valley all by yourself.” But, the reality is that even though no other person walks with us, we are not alone. The psalmist said, “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow…I will not fear, for You are with me.”

Jacob, running away from home, slept on a rock under the stars. Alone! But he was awestruck by the presence of God: “Surely the Lord is in this place, and I did not know it…How awesome is this place!” The abiding presence of the Lord dissipated his fear, his loneliness.

Years later, Jacob returned to face his brother, Esau, whom he’d cheated out of an inheritance. The night before he encountered Esau, Jacob wrestled alone with the angel on the distant side of the river: “Then Jacob was left alone; and the Man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day.”

There is something purifying about being alone. It’s where you’re confronted with what you’re really all about—where your strength lies, what your rock-bottom motivations are. Gail Sheehy, in writing about the passages of life writes: “The older we grow, the more we become aware of the commonality of our lives, as well as our essential aloneness as navigators through the human journey.”

But you are not truly alone, even if you feel like it. Again, the psalmist said, “Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence? If I ascend into heaven, You are there; If I make my bed in hell, behold, You are there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there Your hand shall lead me, and Your right hand shall hold me. The darkness and the light are both alike to You.”

Hold On

It’s important to remember that in the initial stage of crisis, we’re not always thinking clearly. We don’t have all the facts yet, and fear and grief can smother hope. Try not to panic. It may not be as bad as you think. It may be worse than you think. The main thing is to wait on God and hold on tight.

When we’re in pain, we’re tempted to run away, escape, distract ourselves with mind-numbing activities. It is only human. Even Jesus Himself looked to the cross with dread. He prayed in the garden: “My Father! If it is possible, let this cup of suffering be taken away from me!” Then he added, “Yet I want your will, not mine.” And so we too are held by love, caught by commitment, ensnared by our relationships.

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT: We too are held by love, caught by commitment, ensnared by our relationships.]]

One night I wrote in my prayer journal: “Lord, I feel so exposed. …. I want to stay home, to avoid places and people that should feel safe, but don’t.” And yet, we go on, even though we don’t know how. We keep living, even if we don’t feel like it. We muddle through an impossible place, even though there’s no fine print on how to do it.

Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed,

for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you;

I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

[dingbat divider]

God holds for you new dreams and fresh possibilities. He is indeed near to your breaking heart, and it is indeed true that through His mercies we are not consumed. In the midst of despair, there is hope. Things can get better. The sun will come up in the morning.

Hold on, my friend. Don’t look at what is going around you; hold on to what you know—God is. And no matter how it looks, know that God can make a way when there seems to be no way.

[[DESIGNER: PLEASE INSERT CALL OUT: Hold on, my friend. Don’t look at what is going around you; hold onto what you know.]]

When I am walking in darkness, on shifting ground,

remind me that you are still leading me by the hand. . .

no matter that I cannot feel your touch.

Remind me when I am passing through even the driest place

that you are ahead of me,

opening secret springs of water for my soul. Amen.

Personal Reflection

Read Psalm 23 meditatively, slowly. If possible, read it in different versions over several days, choosing a different version of Psalm 23 for each day. Take time to reflect on each verse; praying as you read.

In your prayer journal, re-write Psalm 23, personalizing it: (e.g., “You, Lord, are my shepherd. I can relax into Your care, knowing You care for my every need,” etc.)
Ask yourself, At this place in my life, how is He comforting me? Restoring me?
What does it mean for me to “lie down beside still waters?
Do any words or phrases in Psalm 23 speak to you more than others? Write them down, and expand on them.

Surviving One Bad Year:

7 Spiritual Strategies to Lead You to a New Beginning

Nancie Carmichael

Our purpose at Howard Books is to:

Increase faith in the hearts of growing Christians
Inspire holiness in the lives of believers
Instill hope in the hearts of struggling people everywhere
Because He’s coming again!

[Howard Logo] Published by Howard Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Surviving One Bad Year © 2009 Nancie Carmichael

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Howard Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data TK

ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-0324-1

ISBN-10: 1-4391-0324-0

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HOWARD and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Unless otherwise indicated all Scriptures are taken from the New King James Version (NKJV). Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations marked NASB are taken from the New American Standard Bible®. © Copyright The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995. Used by permission. (www.Lockman.org). Scripture quotations marked TLB are taken from The Living Bible, copyright © 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations marked NLT are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations marked CEV are taken from the Contemporary English Version, copyright © 1995 by the American Bible Society. Scripture quotations marked The Message are taken from The Message. Copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations marked AMP are from the Amplified Bible®, copyright © 1954, 1958, 1962, 1964, 1965, 1987 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission (www.Lockman.org).

Contents

Introduction: To You, My Friend

PART 1: EMERGENY HELP FOR WHEN THE CRISIS HITS

Chapter One: “I Can’t Do This”

Chapter Two: It Hurts to Lose

Chapter Three: After the Cards Stop Coming

PART 2: SPIRITUAL STRATEGIES TO LEAD YOU TO A NEW BEGINNING

Chapter Four: Strategy #1: Release the Healing Power of Words

Chapter Five: Strategy #2: Take Care of Yourself

Chapter Six: Strategy #3: Reach Out to Other People

Chapter Seven: Strategy #4: Put One Foot in Front of the Other

Chapter Eight: Strategy #5: Sing a New Song

Chapter Nine: Strategy #6: Let Go, So God Can Hold You Close

Chapter Ten: Strategy #7: Trust God for All Seasons

A mining camp in Missouri, November, 1879

“You’ll wear that dress, Songbird.” Claude Leveque grabbed Annette Talbot’s arm, lifted her to her toes, and shoved her backward.

Annie tripped over a chair and cried out as it toppled. The chair scraped her legs and back. Her head hit the wall of the tiny, windowless shack, and stars exploded in her eyes.

Stunned by the pain, she hit the floor, and an animal instinct sent her scrambling away from Claude. But there was nowhere to go in the twelve-by-twelve-foot cabin.

Her head cleared enough to tell her there was no escape, so she fought with will and faith. “Never.” Propping herself up on her elbows, she faced him and shouted her defiance. “I will never go out in public in that dress.”

“You’ll sing what I tell you to sing.” Claude, in his polished suit and tidily trimmed hair, looked every inch civilized—or he had, until tonight. Now he strode toward her, eyes shooting furious fire, his face twisted into soul-deep rot and sin.

“I sing as a mission.” Annie tried to press her back through the unyielding log wall. “I sing hymns. That’s the only thing—”

A huge fist closed over the front of her blouse, and Claude lifted her like a rag doll to eye level, but he didn’t strike.

He would. He’d proved that several times over since he’d come here with his disgusting demands.

She braced herself. She’d die first. Claude might not believe that, but he’d know before long.

“So, you’re willing to die for your beliefs, heh?” Claude’s fist tightened on her blouse, cutting off Annie’s air.

“Yes!” She could barely speak, but he heard. He knew.

“Are you willing to watch someone else die, Songbird? Maybe your precious friend, Elva?” He shook her and her head snapped back. “I can always find another piano player.”

“No!” Annie had to save Elva. Somehow. Of course Elva would be threatened. Annie hadn’t had time to think that far.

Elva would never stand for this. Elva would die for her beliefs, too.

A wicked laugh escaped from Claude’s twisted mouth. “She’s easily replaced. But I’ll never”—he shook her viciously—“find another singer like you.”

How had it come to this? God help me. Protect Elva and me.

“My answer is no! Elva wouldn’t play the piano for me if I wore that.” Her eyes went to the slattern’s dress hanging, vivid red, near the door. “She would refuse to play the piano for those vulgar songs.”

“We’ll see, Songbird.” Claude laughed again.

Annie saw the evil in him, the hunger to hurt. He wasn’t just hurting Annie to get his way. He was enjoying it. Her vision dimmed and blurred as she clawed at his strangling fist.

“I’ll go have a talk with your frail old friend and then we’ll see.” He shoved Annie backward, slamming her against the wall.

She hit so hard her knees buckled. What little air she still had was knocked away.

Claude charged out, shutting the door behind him.

Annie heard the sound of a padlock snicking shut as she slumped sideways.

She became aware of her surroundings with no idea how much time had passed. In the falling darkness, she could barely make out blood dripping down the front of her dress. Tears diluted the blood and she wept.

“Do something, idiot! You can’t just sit here crying.”

Annie proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was indeed an idiot by burying her face in her hands and sobbing her heart out. The tears burned. She swiped at them and flinched from the pain in her blackened eye.

Shuddering, she lifted her battered face from her hands and looked at the dress. It seemed to glow in the dim light, as if the very fires of the devil gave it light. Indecent, vivid red silk with black fringe. No bodice worth mentioning, the front hem cut up nearly to the knees. The garment was horrible and disgusting, and Annie’s shudders deepened. She shouted at the walls of the tiny, solidly locked cabin, “I won’t do it!”

Claude had known before he’d asked that Annie would never wear that sinful dress and sing those bawdy songs. Touching gingerly her throbbing, swollen cheek, Annie pulled her hand away and saw blood. Her lip was split, her nose bleeding. She knew Claude’s fists had been more for his own cruel pleasure than any attempt at coercion.

“Beat me to death if you want,” she yelled at the door. “I will never again perform onstage for you!” She felt strong, righteous. Ready to die for her faith.

Then she thought of Elva. Annie’s elderly accompanist was maybe, right now, being punished because Annie hadn’t fallen in line.

Claude’s cruel threats rang in her ears even with him gone.

For all her utter commitment to refusing the Leveques and singing only her beloved hymns, how could Annie watch Elva be hurt? Could Annie stand on principle while Elva was beaten?

The welts on Annie’s arm, in the perfect shape of Claude Leveque’s viselike hand, along with Annie’s swollen eye and bleeding lip, proved the hateful man knew how to inflict pain. He’d proved he had no compunction in hurting a helpless woman.

Noise outside her prison brought Annie to her feet. He was coming back! Annie was sick to think what the couple would do to the elderly woman who had spent her older years worshipping God with music.

Sick with fear that they’d force Annie to watch Elva being battered, Annie clenched her fists and prayed. God would never agree that Annie should wear that tart’s dress, sing vile, suggestive songs, and flash her legs for drunken men.

But Elva!

Please, Lord, guide me though this dark valley.

A key rattled in the doorway.

Annie braced herself. If she could get past Claude, she would run, find Elva, and get away. Go somewhere, somehow. Throw herself on the mercy of the men in this logging camp—the very ones Claude said would pay to see that dreadful harlot’s gown.

The wooden door of the secluded, one-room shack swung hard and crashed against the wall. Elva fell onto her knees, clutching her chest. “You have to run!” Elva, eyes wild with terror, lifted her head. Annie saw Elva’s face was battered; a cut on her cheek bled freely.

Expecting Claude and Blanche to be right behind the gray-haired woman, Annie rushed forward and dropped to Elva’s side. “Elva, what did they do to you?”

“I heard. . .I heard Claude making plans, awful plans for you. He caught me eavesdropping. He thought he’d knocked me cold, but I lay still and waited until he left. He’d hung the key on a nail, and I stole it and slipped away to set you free.” Elva staggered to her feet, every breath echoed with pain. She stretched out a shaking hand, and Annie saw Elva’s black velvet reticule. The one the sweet pianist, who made Annie’s voice sound as pretty as a meadowlark, carried always. “There’s money. All I’ve saved.” Elva coughed, cutting off her words. She breathed as if it hurt. “T–Take it and go. There’s a wagon. It’s already left, but run, catch it. Ride to town. Enough.” Coughing broke her voice again and Elva’s knees wobbled. She clung tight to Annie. “Enough for one train ticket.”

Annie realized what Elva was saying. “No, I won’t leave you.”

“It’s my heart.” Elva sagged sideways, clutching her chest. Annie couldn’t hold her dead weight, slight though Elva was. They both lowered to the floor. “When Claude landed his first blow, I felt my heart give out. Oh, Annie, the things he threatened for you. The evil, ugly words from a serpent’s mouth. My precious girl. Run. You must run.”

“I won’t leave you. They’ll kill you, Elva.”

“No. My heart. I’ve felt it coming for months and tonight’s the end. They can’t harm me anymore.”

“Elva, don’t talk like that.” Tears wanted to fall, but Annie had no time for such weakness. “You’re all I have!”

“Your father. Go home.”

“He doesn’t want me. You know that.”

Elva’s hand closed over the already bruised place on Annie’s wrist. Elva clearly saw what Annie had already suffered at Claude’s hands. “Go. There’s no time. What they want from you is a fate worse than death.”

Annie gasped. Those words could mean only one thing. She glanced at the indecent dress. A harlot’s dress.

“God is calling me home, my beautiful girl. He’s taking me b–because He knows you’d never leave me. God in heaven is rescuing us both. I’ll go home and so will you. I believe that.”

Annie looked into Elva’s eyes, and even now they clouded over.

“Go. Please. It’s my fault you’re in this place. I thought we’d bring the Lord to these people with your beautiful singing. I convinced you to stay when the Leveques took over. If you stay I will have died for nothing, Sw–Sweet Annie.”

Elva’s grip tightened until Annie nearly cried out in pain. Then as quickly as the spasm had come, it was gone.

And so was Elva. She sank, lifeless, to the floor.

Annie saw the very moment Elva’s spirit left her body—a heartbreaking, beautiful moment, because now Elva was beyond pain.

But Annie wasn’t.

“If you stay I will have died for nothing.”

A loud snap of a twig jerked Annie’s head around. She gazed into the nearby woods surrounding the sequestered shack she’d been locked in. The Leveques were coming.

“What they want from you is a fate worse than death.”

As if God Himself sent lightning to jolt her, Annie clutched Elva’s reticule, leaped to her feet, and ran.

“There’s a wagon. It’s already left, but run, catch it. Ride to town.”

Annie gained the cover of the woods and, without looking back, began moving with painstaking silence.

She heard Claude’s shout of rage when he discovered the cabin door ajar.

Poor Elva. No one to bury her. No one to make her funeral a testimony to her life of faith.

Annie hated herself for running away. It was cowardly. There had to be some way to stay and pay proper respect, see to a decent Christian burial. Every decent part of herself said, “Go back. Face this.”

She kept moving. Elva had insisted on it. Common sense confirmed it. God whispered it in her heart to move, hurry, be silent.

Silence was her only weapon and Annie used it. She’d learned silence in the mountains growing up, slipping up on a deer or an elk. Slipping away from a bear or a cougar.

As much as Annie had loved her mountain home, she’d never learned to hunt. Pa fed the family. But she loved the woods and was skilled in their use.

Heading for the trail to town, she was careful to get close enough to not lose her way but stay off to the side.

Not long after she’d started out, she saw Claude storming down the trail toward town. He’d catch the wagon Elva spoke of long before she did. And, she hoped, insist on searching it. Once Claude assured himself that Annie wasn’t there, she’d have her chance.

Annie felt the bite of the cool night air. She heard an owl hoot in the darkness. The rustle of the leaves covered tiny sounds she might make as she eased along. She knew the trail. She knew the night. She knew the woods.

All of it was filled with treachery.