From the PROLOGUE

It’s the rainy season in Addis Ababa. The day begins with a promise. At the hospital by the river, patients who are not confined to bed throw off their woolen shawls and gather in the sun to gossip. The girls groom one another’s hair, sew and bicker and joke. Some, perhaps speaking a rare tongue, sit by themselves on the low stone wall by the outpatients department, or squat on the ground watching the activity. In this self-contained little world, walled off from the chaos of the city, there’s always something to see – new patients arriving, mud-stained, stinking and weary after travelling on foot over flooded tracks, vehicles bringing medical supplies, ferenji visitors from another planet, gardeners tending the lawns and flower beds, workers regularly hosing away the puddles which gather under the waiting patients.

These are peasant women. The seasons rule their lives. They savor the morning warmth, for they know that by midday black clouds will begin to form over the hills which ring the city and the thunder will grumble like a cranky old man leaving a warm bed. At two-thirty the rain begins – they could set their watches by it if they owned such things – and it does not stop until late at night.

In the highlands where many of these women come from, the rains can cut off villages for weeks on end. When doctors Reg and Catherine Hamlin first began treating the women half a century ago they could always count on some respite at this time of year. But for the past few years the rainy season seems to have made no difference. Is it because there are more cases than ever? Or just because the hospital has become so well known? Whatever the reason, every day up to half a dozen women arrive seeking help.

Sometimes they are alone – bewildered and frightened by the brutal indifference of the city. Sometimes a friend or relative has come with them. A few, with injuries so severe they are unable to walk, are carried in. They come from the desert, from remote highland villages, from the plains and the rainforest. They speak 80 different languages. They are Orthodox Christians, Muslims, Animists, or sometimes a mixture of faiths. They all have one thing in common – they are suffering from the medical condition known as obstetric fistula.

It is a cruel affliction. Ethiopia has its lepers and cripples, as does any poor African country. The diseased and the lame and the mad are on any street corner for all to see. But if there is a scale of human misery, the fistula women are up near the top. They believe they are cursed by God. And you have to wonder what God had in mind when he allowed a woman’s most cherished act, childbirth, to produce this outcome. No matter where they live, 10 per cent of all women will experience some kind of problem, such as obstructed labor, during childbirth. In the west they simply go to hospital and have a caesarean section or a forceps delivery. For a peasant girl in a remote Ethiopian village it’s not so easy. She will squat in her circular hut, or tukul, sometimes for days, trying to force the baby out. After a couple of days the baby inevitably dies. The prolonged labor, with the baby stuck in the birth canal, may cut off the blood supply to parts of the mother’s body. The tissue dies, leaving a hole, or fistula, in the bladder. Because they are so offensive to be near, fistula sufferers are invariably divorced by their husbands and banished from their village. Theirs are lives of loneliness and despair, often in some ruined dwelling away from everyone else, or they may be forced to beg for a living in the town. We are not talking about some minor medical curiosity here. There are 200,000 fistula sufferers in Ethiopia; two million throughout the world.

Amid the comings and goings, some of the girls may notice a tall, slim, grey-haired woman wearing a white doctor’s coat, passing through the outpatients department into the main ward. Dr Catherine

Hamlin is 83 now. She was 35 when she and her husband, Reg, also an obstetrician/gynecologist, first came to Ethiopia and saw the plight of the fistula women. ‘Fistula pilgrims’, Reg called them, on account of the formidable journeys they made to seek help. Since then the hospital has restored more than 32,000 from wretched despair to joyous new life.

Reg died in 1993 but Catherine carries on, and at an age when most women are content just to reflect upon their memories, she is working as hard as ever. She is intimately involved with every aspect of the hospital, still doing rounds, still operating.

At the nurses’ station inside the ward she consults her colleagues about tomorrow’s list. There are seven cases of varying degrees of difficulty. She pores over the notes, contained in green cardboard folders. They give a brief history of the patient – how many days she was in labor, where she came from, how she got here, how many previous children she has borne, any medical information that will affect her management. The doctor who did the initial examination has drawn a diagram showing the location and size of the fistula. Catherine chooses her cases.

Let us meet them…

Who’s In Charge?

Scenario One.

I am leaving church and wondering why I feel empty and unchanged. I am still facing the same problems that I went in with, still fighting the same devils, and still having the same difficulties. Something must be wrong with me. After all, everyone else was proclaiming what a great service it had been. Let’s look back at the order of events. Somewhere right in the middle of Pastor’s sermon, Sister Shout’em stood up and began speaking in tongues which then had a domino effect on the whole congregation. Next Brother Fannie Fanner ran down the aisles, which then prompted Sister Seizure to get up and begin a slow twisting contortion of movements; all in the name of being a Spirit-filled church. During all of this activity, my Catholic friend ‘s eyes are big as saucers, my Baptist neighbor is watching the commotion with eyebrows furrowed, and a high school friend across the room has a confused look on his face and later proclaims, “I would have participated but I don’t know ‘Hebrew’ ”! I am sure this statement caused a chuckle from all of my Charismatic and Pentecostal brothers and sisters due to the fact that we all have stories to tell just like this. There always seems to be visitors attending these church services that don’t understand the ins and outs of “spirit-filled” activity.

Scenario Two. Many years and experiences later…

I am sitting in a church service where there is no disorder. In fact, everything is scheduled down to the minute and states this in the church bulletin. You know that at 11:22 you will be praying and at 11:25 the Pastor will begin his sermon. As I am sitting there, I am secretly wishing someone would shoot me and put me out of my misery. At least then I would be as dead as the rest of these people. The Minister of Music leads us as we sing hymns out of a hymnal that should have been burned long ago. Every song is as dismal as the one before it. We recite the “creed” in as monotone voices as we can muster, say the Lord’s Prayer with as little enthusiasm as we can, all leading to the pomp and circumstance of receiving the offering. We then turn to the sermon. Pastor Perfect gets up, makes a feeble attempt at a lame joke and then proceeds to preach a canned sermon he downloaded off of the internet on Saturday. You shake the Pastor’s hand while leaving and wonder, “Is something wrong with me? I feel empty and unchanged. I am still facing the same problems that I went in with, still fighting the same devils, and still having the same difficulties. Everyone else stated what a good service it was. It must be me!”

Scenario Three. Somewhere in the middle of the two extremes described above…

I am arriving at a church service and as I enter, the Greeter, following the lead of Holy Spirit, speaks a word of encouragement to me. As service begins, the Praise and Worship team leads us in song after song that is uplifting, encouraging, and worshipful. As we have a time of greeting I see multiple people being ministered to by other members. Pastor Agape begins to speak as Holy Spirit leads him. You see, all week he has laid prostrate before Father God seeking the “Word of the Lord” for the people. What he knows is that we all live in a difficult world, we all have different problems and different needs and that only God knows how to minister to each one of us. As he begins to share the Word of the Lord, different ones are being ministered to, in totally different ways. Some go forward for personal ministry time, while others received ministry through the body. I leave feeling full of the Holy Spirit, empowered to fight the devils I have been facing and encouraged to know that Father God knows just where I am, just what I am facing, and just what I need to do about it. I am not wondering if something is wrong with me because I am the one leaving proclaiming “what a great service this was”.

Now, I know some of you can relate to at least one of the scenarios above and some of you believe I have exaggerated them all. But, what I know is that all three occur because I have been a part of all of them. In the first scenario, all activity was done in the name of being Spirit-filled. What I can tell you is that Holy Spirit had nothing to do with most of the activity that occurred there week after week. In that story, the Pastor couldn’t even finish his sermon because of interruption from the body. Holy Spirit would never interrupt Himself. Holy Spirit would never cause the attention to be on man (or woman), He always points to Jesus. Most of those individuals will tell you “Holy Spirit made me do it”. Holy Spirit never forces anyone to do anything. He gently leads and directs. He is a gentleman and acts as such. The culprit is not Holy Spirit; it is man acting on emotion.

Holy Spirit was also not to be found in the second scenario. He had been scheduled right out of the service. In the name of being proper and orderly, Holy Spirit was never consulted. Pastor didn’t stop to think about all of the people coming in hurting and bound that needed a touch from Holy Spirit. He planned the service and executed it perfectly, in order to get the people to the local buffet before other church-goers arrived. Those same hurting people left still hurting with no encouragement, no direction, and no hope of change. Holy Spirit was not allowed to work in their lives that day.

What we must understand, as the Body of Christ, is that we must allow Holy Spirit to lead us and guide us in all that we do. God has set forth a system for the body to edify itself. He has given us gifts so that we can build each other up, meet each others needs, and point each other in the right direction. We must understand the importance of being led by the Holy Spirit. It is He who knows each person’s needs and difficulties and how to minister to them. We are all in need of ministry and direction at one time or another. It is wonderful to have a church body that recognizes that and allows Holy Spirit to do His job. When you are in need, you don’t care about someone else’s opinion, but what you are interested in is the Word of the Lord for that moment. This is the norm for the church in scenario three. It is not only achievable but it is operational even as we speak. You just have to seek it out. Whether you are the catalyst for change in your church body or you seek out a church body that already operates in this manner, you can help change the way the church as a whole does business. You can be a part of the Body of Christ that moves the church forward. We have to reclaim the power and the integrity that the church has lost. We can be the bride that Jesus is waiting for. Let’s allow Holy Spirit to lead us in that direction.

Chapter 18

Abiding In God’s Presence

“You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart” (Jer. 29:13). These words invited me to draw near to God in my everyday life. I had felt such an incredible closeness to the Lord during my near-life experience and now my passion for living in God’s presence is greater than ever.

Jesus certainly knew the importance of dwelling in God’s presence. For him, prayer was a priority. Jesus taught, healed, preached, and then went away to spend time with his Father. Here he received the guidance, strength, and comfort he needed for each day. Likewise prayer strengthens our faith, helps us appreciate the joys of life, and brings us into the delightful presence of God.

St Augustine said, “For you have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.”1 What a difference prayer can make in our lives! Only here can our hearts find the true rest we long for.

I want to know God’s purpose for me and my family. To do this, I need to spend time with Jesus in the Word and in prayer. After all, the most strategic person I need to reach with the love of God is me. I have called my time of prayer an Appointment with the King since I heard Becky Tiarabassi use that expression at a woman’s retreat years ago. The pace of life today is full speed ahead, and the noise of life is so loud it can distract us from God, who is wooing us—inviting us to slow down, to sit and be still. What if we made an Appointment with the King for twenty minutes each day? We would still have twenty-three hours and forty minutes of our day left! We are so busy running and doing that we have lost what it means to just be still—to know that God is holy, faithful, and unfailing.

Elijah on the mountaintop did not find God in the storm or the wind or the fire but in a small whisper. God often whispers his love to us: “Come to me. Enter into my presence, and find rest for your soul. Come with no agenda but to be with me for you are my heart’s delight.”

I have come to believe that Jesus plus nothing equals everything. God is not concerned about our past except for the grace he gives to cover it. Today we can have a relationship through his son, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. Jesus said, “I am the bread of life. I am the way, the truth and the life, I am the good shepherd.” This is true for us today not in the past tense. I want to know Jesus now—I want to learn to walk like him, and forgive like him, and love like him.

Jesus is alive today. He is healing, forgiving, restoring, and loving today. I believe he wants us to be part of his transforming work, but this flows out of our time with him. Instead of being with Jesus to develop this intimacy, and seek his vision, we seem often to focus on the doing instead of being. If what we do is who we are, then who are we when we stop doing it?

I am comforted that Jesus did not run through Jerusalem! If we are always running throughout every day, checking off our to-do lists and responding to our e-mail and text messages, we become exhausted. We must find balance by spending time alone with the Lord. On my calendar there are many entries for every day, but my prayer time, my Appointment with the King, is my highest priority.

Find a time of prayer that works for you. After I went back to work, it was difficult to continue my regular morning time of prayer. God let me know, “That’s no problem. We’ll just meet in the middle of the night when we can be quiet together.” For the past eight years I am awakened sometime between three and four o’clock and have found this time to be the most precious part of the day. I enter into God’s presence when my mind is not already focusing on the days’ activities. If your heart’s desire is to be with God, you can find a time that is best for you.

A revelation from my near-life experience is the importance of living in his presence now. Jesus’ spirit lives in us and therefore we are never alone. Moment by moment, step by step, day by day, we can be one in Jesus as we open our lives to this transforming relationship. We are the ones who must open our hearts to the fullness of this love.

Billy Graham once said, “Heaven is full of answers to prayers for which no one ever bothered to ask.”2 Sometimes we do not know how to ask, what to seek, and how to begin to knock. “Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be open to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks, the door will be opened.” (Matt. 7:7–8). So keep knocking!

Moments With Mother Teresa

Mother Teresa is a great example of this kind of radical devotion to love and prayer. Her life epitomized love, for she reached out to everyone who crossed her path—the rich and the poor, the powerful and those who were dying in poverty and filth. When people asked her how they could make a difference, she would often suggest to them, “Simply respond to what is right before you—love the person in front of you. You are called not to be successful but to be faithful.”

I first had an opportunity to meet Mother Teresa in February of 1994 when she was the speaker at the National Prayer Breakfast. Because I was helping with logistics that year, I visited with Susan Mendies, who traveled with Mother Teresa and helped make her arrangements. She indicated Mother Teresa would rather not sit at the head table, but have a simple chair placed for her behind the dignitaries.

While others were eating their breakfast, President Bill Clinton, First Lady Hillary Clinton, Vice President Al Gore, and his wife, Tipper, came behind the curtain to spend time with Mother Teresa. I watched from the wings of the stage as Mother Teresa reached her arms around these two couples while she prayed for them. The program was about to begin, but the most important event seemed to be the scene I was witnessing. Five people sitting in folding chairs as this humble woman prayed for them—the leaders of our nation and the world.

Mother Teresa was so small that we placed a box behind the podium so she could be seen when it was time for her keynote address. When she spoke, however, the authority of God seemed to come through her, and you could hear a pin drop in this crowd of five thousand who listened intently. She challenged the audience that represented some 146 nations to “Love until it hurts.” She said:

And so it is very important for us to realize that love, to be true, has to hurt. I must be willing to give whatever it takes not to harm other people and, in fact, to do good to them. This requires that I be willing to give until it hurts. Otherwise, there is no true love in me and I bring injustice, not peace, to those around me.

You too must bring that presence of God into your family, for the family that prays together, stays together. There is so much hatred, so much misery, and we with our prayer, with our sacrifice, are beginning at home. Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do, but how much love we put into what we do.

We can keep the joy of loving Jesus in our hearts, and share that joy with all we come in contact with. If we remember that God loves us, and that we can love others as He loves us, then America can become a sign of peace for the world.

If you become a burning light of justice and peace in the world, then really you will be true to what the founders of this country stood for. God bless you!3

I had another wonderful opportunity to be with Mother Teresa in the spring before her death September 5, 1997, when I traveled to Calcutta to work in the House of the Dying and the Orphanage of the Missionaries of Charity along with Susan Mendies. There I experienced Jesus as never before among the poorest of the poor.

Morning worship was in the Mother House at 6:00 a.m. Mother Teresa was in her wheelchair, and beside her was Sister Agnes in her wheelchair in the back of the crowded room. Sister Agnes was the first nun to join Mother Teresa in Calcutta. She was the contemplative nun who prayed while Mother Teresa was out serving. They were devoted friends who were paired in their lives in Christ. As Mother Teresa worked in the streets, her friend for forty-two years, Sister Agnes, kept a prayer vigil. Every morning the sisters repeated this prayer called “Radiating Jesus”:

Dear Jesus, help us to spread

Your fragrance everywhere we go.

Flood our souls with your spirit and life.

Penetrate and possess our whole being, so utterly,

That our lives may only be a radiance of Yours.

Shine through us, and be so in us,

That every soul we come in contact with

May feel Your presence in our soul. . . .4

After morning prayer, I knelt by Mother Teresa’s wheelchair and felt I was beholding Jesus face-to-face. Her dancing eyes twinkled with joy as her warm wrinkled hands, leathered from years of serving and loving, held mine. It was if I were looking into the eyes of unconditional love. Her challenge has stayed with me ever since: “Rosemary, be a woman of prayer.”

I love what she said about prayer: “Perfect prayer does not consist in many words, but the fervor of the desire which raises the heart to Jesus. Love to pray. Feel the need to pray often during the day. Prayer enlarges the heart until it is capable of containing God’s gift of Himself. Ask and seek and your heart will grow big enough to receive Him and keep Him as your own.” Another of her favorite sayings I have engraved on a rock by my bed: “Do no great things, only small things with great love.”5

I thought often of Mother Teresa’s words as I worked in the House of the Dying. I saw all around me great love and felt blessed, in a small way, to care for those on the threshold of death. The hurt and pain was evident, but God’s peace and love was even more present.

On this weekend nuns from across the world had gathered to determine who would follow Mother Teresa as head of the Missionaries of Charity. To help with the daily jobs, teenage novices had come from another province to work that weekend. That made me the oldest person serving in the House of the Dying. The doctor asked if I would give out the medications to each woman. He paired me with one of the novices, who checked the name on the individual cups of pills and bottles of liquid to determine the medicine was going to the right woman.

My mother had recently died, so my heart was particularly tender when I was with these women in their last days. I held each woman in my arms and spoke softly about my own mother’s dying and how she had said, “Jesus is coming. He is coming for me.” I will never know if any of these dying women could understand what I was saying, but I felt a deep peace in the midst of this the dying. As I told them about my own experience in the vision of heaven, I looked into their eyes and felt somehow they at least knew they were loved and cared for.

I asked one of the nuns later, “How is this unusual peace possible?” She replied, “The peace comes from love. These women, many who have been picked up out of the gutters, now know they are loved. God loves them. They have been forgiven and may soon be free from their pain. She told me how one person had said, “I lived my life in filth, but I will die as an angel.”

The next day I was not expecting to see Mother Teresa. Then I heard tiny footsteps coming from behind me and there she was. Her eyes sparkled as she asked, “Do you have one of my business cards?” “No, I’d love to have one!” I replied in total surprise. I told her about my time at the House of the Dying and how the next day I was going to spend time in the orphanage. She asked, “Do you love children?” I replied, “Oh yes, I have two children who I adore.” “I’ll give you one!” Mother Teresa exclaimed!

My jaw must have dropped open. But before I could speak, the nuns had come for Mother Teresa and whisked her away. Her business card read:

The fruit of Silence is prayer.

The fruit of Prayer is faith,

The fruit of Faith is love,

The fruit of Love is service,

And the fruit of Service is peace.

Mother Teresa changed the world through her life of loving everyone. Whether a leper everyone despised, an abandoned baby, the pope or the president, each person was special to her and to God. She is buried, as was her request, in a simple pine box. This tireless and compassionate woman was loved by the poor and powerful alike. She lies in the Mother House where her last simple message reads, “From Mother—Love one another as I have loved you.”

From a crumbling castle in the
hills of Tuscany …

In the fall of 1968, when I was ten years old, our family moved to an old castle in Tuscany, Italy. My one regret was that I had to leave my dog, Sailor, behind. My sole comfort was that my friend Danny agreed to keep him for me until I could return someday. Someday turned into eight years.

We wrote letters frequently on behalf of Sailor. Every once in a while we would remember to mention his name.…

November 27, 1974

Dear Danny,

How’s Sailor? Here’s my school photo of me at sixteen. I can’t believe I’ve been here for six years! I’m still planning to come to Indian Island when I turn eighteen, to attend veterinary school. Be sure and reserve Papoose for me to rent for the summer. Only two more years until I get to see Sailor again.

How are you? Are you a pastor yet? Besides a vet, I’m kind of thinking of being a nun. Then I could help starving animals and people. I wrote Sister Abigail about it. She said I could probably do both.
Write back, please.

Yours truly,

A. J.

December 13, 1974

Dear A. J.,
Sailor really liked your school photo. You sure don’t look ten years old anymore. Sailor is very glad you’re coming back. He wants you to be sure to call me as soon as you

get here. Things are going well for me. I’m now the youth pastor at Squawkomish Baptist.

I was walking through Saddlemyer’s Dime Store when I saw this snow globe. For some reason it reminded me of you. Merry Christmas!

Hurry home–Sailor misses you,

Danny

Arrivederci, Roma!
July 13, 1976

“Surprise!”

My carry-on bag nearly drops from my hands as loud, smiling faces suddenly spring up out of nowhere. A mix of birthday balloons and banners with “GO WSU COUGARS” fills the already-crowded waiting area at my departure gate in the Rome International Airport.

“Happy birthday and arrivederci, kiddo!” Mama yells, accompanied by that confident gleam of victory, confirming that she has successfully pulled off the surprise party of the century. Who but my mother would stage a going away-birthday party in the middle of a busy airport?

This is the day that I have been longing for for eight years … my return to Indian Island, my childhood haven. I’m only hours away from being reunited with my best friend, Danny, and my faithful dog, Sailor, and looking ahead to a hopeful future in veterinary medicine.

“Now boarding flight 49 to New York.” As the announcement comes over the intercom, I am suddenly surrounded and smothered with hugs and kisses from Mama, Daddy, my sister, my brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins, courtesy cousins, and best friends Bianca and Dominic.

Inching my way through the boarding line, my last hug comes from Dominic, my closest male companion of the past four years. “Ciao, Angelina.” He smiles and kisses my cheek. “I’m going to miss you.”

I return Dominic’s kiss. “Ciao, amico mio.”

At my parting gate I wave good-bye to all I love, then turn and walk down the Jetway toward home … half a world away.

Return to Indian Island
July 1976

The rowboat smashes into the dock with a thud. A startled mallard plunges into the lake and paddles quickly away.

“I’m home!” I yell at the top of my lungs. I’ve waited eight long years to hear myself say those two words again. Stepping onto the shores of Indian Island is like stepping back in time. Hidden among the trees in the Pitchy Pine Forest, little Papoose awaits its family’s return. Voices and laughter still echo from its walls: Mama, Daddy, Adriana, J. R., Dino, and Benji. The faint squeak of a hamster wheel drifts from the shed like a sad melody, carrying the memory of Ruby Jean.

Running toward the cabin, the words ring over and over in my head, I’m home! I’m home! I whisper it this time, just to hear myself say it again. Feeling quite smug that I still have the key, I let myself in, relishing the thought that no one else knows I’m here. I’d debated over clanging the bell on the main shore, knowing the mini tug would have come for me, but I wanted my reunion to happen right here, on my old, beloved island.

When I enter the cabin, I’m relieved to find everything in Papoose the same as when we’d left, as though no one has taken our place. My eyes dart to the phone number of Big Chief, still tacked to the wall above the phone. I’ve played this moment in my mind so many times.

Lord, help me to pull this off. Dialing the number, my hands begin to shake. The old, familiar ring blares in my ear.…

“Hello?”

It’s Danny. That same Southern voice that made my heart skip a beat the first time I ever heard it is making it pound now. “Well, howdy on ya!” I bellow, in the best Southern drawl I can muster– not easy, after speaking Italian for the past eight years.

There’s a long pause. “Howdy yourself. May I ask who’s callin’?”

“You can ask all ya want, but I ain’t gonna tell ya. I’m frankly more in’erested in that log cabin you’ve got over yonder from your place a piece. Any chance it might be up for rent this summer?”

There is no way Danny would even think of being stuck on an island with some kook. He’d rather leave Papoose empty than have to deal with a nutty neighbor.

“Who is this?” He sounds more curious than annoyed.

“Well, who in the Sam Hill do ya think it is?”

“Um, I have no idea, but in answer to your first question, I don’t rent that cabin out. I have a family I keep it reserved for … for whenever she … they come back.”

I can’t stand it any longer. “Well, Danny boy, it just breaks my li’l heart that you don’t recognize a true Southern belle when you hear one.” That’ll get his wheels turning.

“… No way … A. J.? Is that you?”

“Bingo! Race you to Juniper Beach–and bring my dog!” I slam down the receiver and dart out the screen door so fast it nearly flies off its hinges.

I’m whippin’ down that old Pitchy Pine Trail faster than a baby jackrabbit. The first thing I see when I reach Juniper Beach is my big old dog.

“Sailor!” I cry, with tears streaming down my face. Sailor comes barreling down the beach, twice as fat and half as fast as when we parted. He pounces on me so hard I nearly fall over. I bury my face in his fur and sob like the day I found him on death row. When I look up, I see Danny walking toward me real slow, as though he doesn’t want to intrude on my reunion with Sailor.

Wiping away my tears, my eyes come to focus on the face I’ve so longed to see–besides Sailor’s. Oh … my … gosh. This is not the Danny I remember. Before me stands a towering six-foot-somethin’ sandy-blond, sun-bronzed cowboy–a perfect cross between the Duke and Little Joe Cartwright. When we’re within arms’ reach of each other, we both just stop. Eight years is a long time–from saying good-bye as kids to saying hello as adults.

“Hey, A. J.,” Danny says, real tender.

No one has ever said my name the way Danny says my name … with the most beautiful Southern accent I’ve ever heard in my entire life. I stand still, just staring at him … and I have only one thing to say. “Can you ride a horse?”

Danny looks taken aback and amused at the same time. “Did you just ask me if I can ride a horse?”

(Daddy once told me, “A. J., when you find your cowboy, make sure he can actually ride a horse. Any man can put on the hat and the boots and call himself a cowboy, but only a real man can actually ride the horse.”)

“Um … never mind,” I answer. “But can you?”

“Ride a horse?”

I nod. “Uh-huh.”

Now he’s grinning, like he just realized I must be the same quirky kid he knew before. Not bothering to ask why, he just answers the question. “Yeah, A. J., I can ride a horse.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Is that good?”

“Yeah. That’s good.” That’s real good.

Now Danny’s looking at me with those blue, blue eyes that always made me feel like he could see right into the depths of my soul. Is this really my childhood friend? Our nearly four-year age difference that once posed such a gap between us seems strangely insignificant now.

Danny sticks his hands in his pockets. His expression suggests that maybe he’s thinking the same thing. I wonder if he still sees me as the same freckle-faced kid with the fake Southern accent who could squirt half the lake between her two front teeth. At least I’ve grown into my teeth now and speak Italian instead of Southern.

So here we are face-to-face, after all these years, in a standoff, wondering how we’re going to fill this awkward moment. In the midst of our dilemma, Sailor charges up from the water and takes a flying leap right for me. I’m shoved headlong into Danny and fall to the sand in his arms.

He smiles down at me then glances over at Sailor. “Good boy,” he whispers. “It only took me eight years to teach him that trick.” He laughs while gently brushing sand from my face. His eyes linger for a moment as though he’s contemplating something, then he glances down the shoreline. “So … how would you like to go out on the water?”

“Drifting?” I’ve dreamed of nothing else since I left the island.

“Drifting it is. I’ll launch the boat.” He helps me up then heads toward the old dinghy resting on shore. Wedged deep in sand and beach grass, it doesn’t look like it’s moved since I left. I watch Danny grab hold of the bow and hoist it from the shore to the water as though it weighs nearly nothing. With a shove, he launches it into the bay. “Your ship awaits you,” he calls down the beach to me. Sailor lops along the shoreline and leaps into the boat, barely clearing the oarlock. The old dog just ain’t what he used to be, but he obviously still loves to drift.

Sailor takes the front seat with his nose to the wind, resembling a hairy bow ornament. I take the middle seat, Danny takes the stern. The sun is slowly sinking behind the hills, casting an orange glow over Indian Lake. I arrange myself in drift mode: lying on my back across the seat, eyes to the sky, feet hanging over the side of the boat. Danny follows suit, clasping his hands behind his head. I breathe in the sweet, warm summer air. “I’m home,” I whisper, glancing over at Danny.

He returns my smile. “Welcome home, A. J.”

A gentle breeze ruffles up Sailor’s fur as he turns his nose to catch the scent in the wind. I’m so happy to be back with my dog. My eyes shift from Sailor to Danny. I cannot get over that this is really Danny Morgan.

He looks over and catches me staring.

“You’ve gotten taller, haven’t you?” I say, trying to cover myself.

“Maybe a few inches.”

“Maybe a few feet! What did they feed you on that farm, Miracle-Gro?”

“Grits.” He smiles. “Lots of grits.”

Grits look good on you. “So, do you miss your farm life?”

“Sometimes. But I’m pretty excited about my plans for the island.”

“Plans?”

He glances around like he’s about to divulge a secret he doesn’t want anyone else to hear. “You tell me your plans first, then I’ll tell you mine.”

“Okay. Well … for starters, my veterinary courses start up in September, and will probably take me … about the rest of my life to complete.”

“Washington State University?”

“Yep. Go Cougs!”

“But you’re staying on the island, right?”

“Right. Grandma’s letting me use her car. The campus isn’t that far, really–takes me less than a half hour each way. It’ll cost a lot less to live here and commute than if I live on campus. As long as your new plans don’t include upping the rent on me.”

Danny smiles. “I can probably swing you a pretty good deal– like rent free, if I can get you to help me with my plans.” His smile turns to a grin.

“Really? You may have yourself a deal! I couldn’t bear the thought of giving up the island to live in a dorm. Besides, they don’t allow dogs in the dorms.” Sailor perks up at the word dogs and wags his tail. “Wait–maybe you’d better tell me what your plans are first.”

“Well … I’m thinkin’ of turning the island into a summer camp.”

“A summer camp? On the island?” I swing my feet back in the boat and sit up, facing Danny.

“There are a lot of kids around here with nothing to do in the summer,” Danny says. “I’d like to offer them a place to go. My dream is to eventually work here full-time. Summer camps all summer, weekend retreats fall and winter.”

“What happened to becoming a preacher?”

“I can still preach to the kids at camp, but as far as becoming a full-time pastor for a church, my heart’s turning more toward a summer camp on this island.”

“And what will you do on your summer camp island?”

“Well,” Danny swings his legs into the boat and sits up too. His eyes light up like a little kid talking about his birthday plans. “Every time I get out on the lake to go fishin’, I look back at the island and picture the whole setup. Big Chief was first built as a hunting lodge, you know, so it’s definitely big enough for the camp headquarters.”

That explains all those deer and moose heads hanging on the walls, anyway.

“The dining area could probably handle enough tables for a mess hall, and that old stone fireplace would be a perfect gathering place. Then I’ll need to insulate the other two cabins to withstand the winters. That way we can rent the camp out for weekend retreats during the rest of the year to keep a cash flow coming in.”

“Who would be renting it?”

“Churches and social groups are always looking for peaceful getaways for their retreats. What could be more peaceful than this?” Danny looks around like he is the proud owner of the best island in the world. I happen to agree with him on that. “We could pull in business from Coeur d’Alene to Moscow along the Idaho border and from Spokane on the Washington side.”

He keeps saying we.

“Then, I thought Pocahontas could be the bunkhouse–should be able to fit about a dozen bunks upstairs and another dozen down– around fifty campers total–counselors included. Girls upstairs, boys downstairs, with no common access. And Papoose … I’d like to keep Papoose for the local residents.” He smiles over at me. And he still has the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Sigh.

He continues, “Then, out in the Pitchy Pine Forest, over by your cemetery, I’d have archery.…”

“Hold on. You can’t have a bunch of kids stomping through my critter cemetery chasing after arrows. Those are sacred burial grounds.”

Danny looks at me. “I hadn’t thought about that. Now that’s something new to consider. That might weird out a few of the parents if their kids come home talkin’ about running through a critter cemetery.”

“There is nothing weird whatsoever about people burying their pets.”

“Pets, yeah. But bugs, lizards, mice, and rats may be a different story.”

“Who’s going to know what’s buried there if they don’t dig ‘em up? Besides, after eight years there’s probably not much left of them.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll put a locked gate on it. We’ll just tell the campers we have a few of our dead relatives buried in there. It wouldn’t be camp without the makin’s for a few spooky stories.” Danny laughs.

“So anyway, as I was explaining, the best part is down at Juniper Beach. Get this: swimming, fishing, and sailing on the lake, with campfires and stargazing on the beach at night. And then … in the clearing over by the chapel, behind your critter cemetery, I’d build a corral for my ponies.”

“What ponies?”

“The ones I’m hoping to buy at the spring auction in time for the official camp opening next summer.”

“And how do you plan to get your ponies out to the island?”

Danny looks at me like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “On the tugboat.”

“Ah, the tugboat–of course.”

“By the way, I’m hosting about ten Sunday-school kids for an overnight campout this Friday. I thought it might be a good opportunity to get a feel for what I’m in for on a small scale. My assistant youth leader offered to help with the girls if I need her, but, now that you’re here, I thought I’d offer the job to you first. Any chance you’d be willing to help with the girl campers?”

Looking back at the island, I’m trying to envision this quiet island retreat swarming with rowdy little campers. “Uh, sure, I’ll help.” I get the feeling I may soon be living a reenactment of the Swiss Family Robinson. “So have you thought of a name for your camp yet?”

“Not yet. Any ideas?”

“Hmm, how about Camp Down Yonder?” I offer up in a nice Southern drawl. “Or maybe Camp Dan Yonder, after you.”

Danny looks subtly amused. “You makin’ fun of my camp?”

“No, sir, just thinkin’ it’s a fine name for an Okie to call his summa’ camp.”

He just stares at me, as though strongly considering throwing me overboard. Then something in his demeanor changes. “So, besides WSU this fall, what are your plans for next summer?”

“I’m considering some opportunities in … charity work. I’m not sure yet if, or where, that will happen.”

“Hmm.” He looks away for a moment, then looks back at me with those eyes. “Well, if you decide to stick around here for the summer, would you … consider being … my wrangler–for the ponies, I mean?”

His eyes are so penetrating, I can’t look away.

“Um …”

“I’ll throw a hamster in on the deal if you stay.”

“I’d … love to be your wrangler–I mean, the ponies’ wrangler–if I stick around.”

©2010 Cook Communications Ministries. Heading Home by Renee Riva. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.

New Orleans, December 1861

Raindrops splattered against the garden’s cobblestone

walkway, forming puddles in low-lying areas.

Above, the heavens seemed to mourn in tearful shades of gray.

Staring out the floor-to-ceiling window, Valerie Fontaine realized

she’d forgotten the dreariness of the season. She’d been back

in New Orleans only a week, arriving Christmas Eve, but now

she questioned her decision to leave Miss C. J. Hollingsworth’s

Finishing School for Young Ladies, a year-round boarding school

in Virginia where she’d studied for the last sixteen months. She

let out a long, slow sigh. Life here at home was—well, worse than

the weather.

Closing the shutters, she stepped away and hugged her knitted

shawl more tightly around her shoulders. She strolled from the

solarium to the parlor, steeling herself against her father’s continuing

tirade. But at least they were talking now. He hadn’t said more

than six words to her since she’d been home. “You should have

stayed at school.” She had thought Father would be glad to see

her, given that it was their first Christmas without Mama.

But such wasn’t the case. Instead of spending the holiday with

her, he’d been at his gentlemen’s club almost continuously. His

actions hurt Valerie deeply. Nevertheless, he was the only family

she had left now.

“You should have stayed at school,” Edward Fontaine muttered

as he poured himself another scotch. His third.

“Yes, so you’ve stated. But isn’t it obvious why I came home?

I’m grieving, and I need the love and support of my father.” She

gave him a once-over, from the tip of his polished shoes to his

shiny, straight black hair. “And it might not seem like it, but I

think you need me too.”

“Need you? I should say not!” He teetered slightly but caught

her reaction. “And don’t roll those pretty blue eyes at me either.”

Valerie turned toward the roaring hearth so he wouldn’t see

her exasperated expression.

Holding out her hands, she warmed them by the fire. Although

temperatures registered well above the freezing mark, the cold and

dampness had a way of seeping into her bones. She shivered.

“I told you, ma fille, your efforts, as you call them, aren’t

needed.”

She flicked him a glance. “I think perhaps they are.” She

sensed her father mourned Mama’s death too. However, drowning

himself in scotch would hardly help, and he’d lose his good

standing in society if anyone found out about his . . . weakness.

Did neighbors and friends already know?

“Bah!”

Valerie turned to watch as he seated himself in a floralpatterned,

Louis XV wingback chair.

“You were to stay in Virginia and complete your education.”

Father gave a derisive snort. “I doubt Miss Hollingsworth will

give me a refund on your tuition.”

Valerie placed her hands on her hips. “How can you value

money over my well-being?”

“This is not a question of one or the other. These are

ous times . . . there are plans that you know nothing of . . . ”

“What plans?” Curious, Valerie tipped her head.

Silence.

“Father?”

He lifted his gaze to hers, and she saw a flicker of something

in his eyes—regret perhaps? Then his face hardened. “My plans

were for you to stay in school and marry a young man from an

established family.”

Valerie groaned. Running her hands down the wide skirt of

her black dress, she gathered the muslin in clenched fists of frustration.

How could she make him understand? She simply had

to follow her heart and come home. Otherwise, she surely would

have stayed at Miss Hollingsworth’s, as many students did. On

most holidays, like this one, time constraints restricted travel.

School let out the Friday before Christmas and began next week,

on the sixth of January. However, Valerie didn’t plan on returning,

and her reasons to leave boarding school ran deep.

She lifted her fingertips to her temples as a headache formed.

“Father, school proved too much for me after Mama’s untimely

death. I tried to make it, stayed all last summer, but after the war

broke out I had to come home.”

“Silly girl. You risked your life traveling through that part of

the country. Did you think I wanted to bury a daughter too?”

“No, of course not. But I thought you would have wanted to

see me at Christmastime.”

He didn’t comment on her remark. “So, what am I going to do

with you? I can’t very well send you back. It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s not as if I need a nanny.” Indignation pulsed through

Valerie’s veins. “I’m almost nineteen, and I can take care of

myself—and manage the household for you too.”

“I manage my own household.”

Hardly! she quipped inwardly. Thankfully for him, Adalia,

their precious and loyal maid, had seen to almost everything

since Mama died.

But Valerie wouldn’t tell her father that. She’d learned neither

retorts nor reasoning did much good when he’d been imbibing—

which was frequently of late.

She watched as he swallowed the dark golden liquid, emptying

the crystal tumbler in his hand. He made a sorrowful sight, to

be sure. And yet Valerie knew her father was an honorable man,

a capable man who owned and operated a large business. Her

grandfather had started Fontaine Shipping when he had come

from France. Father grew up near the docks and learned everything

about ships and cargo, importing and exporting, and then

he took over the business after he had finished his education at

Harvard. Grandpapa had been so proud. And now Father secured

his importance among the international shipping community as

well as in New Orleans’s society.

Or at least that’s the way she had remembered him.

“I see I’ll have to marry you off myself.”

“Oh, Father, I’ll marry when I’m good and ready. Right now I

can’t think of a single man I’m even remotely interested in.”

“And what of James Ladden?” Father asked

“James is . . . a friend. That’s all.” Valerie moved to the

burgundy-colored settee. Gathering her black hoop skirts, she sat

down. Her fingers played across the rose-patterned, embroidered

armrest. Her father’s gaze seemed troubled. She shifted. “Perhaps

I should ask Chastean to bring you some coffee.”

He gave her a blank look, as though she’d spoken in a foreign

tongue.

“Our cook . . . will bring you some coffee.”

He held up his empty scotch glass and said, “I’m fine with this.”

Valerie sighed when he rose to pour another drink. His fourth.

How she wished she could hide that scotch bottle!

“We’re having a houseguest tonight,” he said.

“What?” Her jaw slacked at the surprising news.

“You heard me.” He eyed the amber potion glistening in his

glass. “A houseguest.”

“Who is it?”

He lifted his slim shoulders and wagged his dark head. “Last

name’s McCabe. Don’t know his first. He’s the son of an acquaintance.”

He looked her way. “I extended the invitation before I

knew you would burst in from school unannounced.”

Valerie chose to ignore the slight. “Where did you meet him,

or rather, his father?”

Father’s gaze met hers. His brown bloodshot eyes watered

slightly, and his Adam’s apple bobbed several times as if he were

struggling to contain his emotions. “I met him,” he continued in

a pinched voice, “just after your mother passed away.”

Valerie swallowed an anguished lump of her own. He’d so

rarely spoken of Mama since her death.

Her mind drifted back to that terrible day she’d received the

news. She’d been at school, getting ready to paint with the other

girls when a telegram had been delivered. The weighty sorrow

that descended then returned now as she recalled the words:

Your mother took ill with a fever on 23 June 1861 and

has died. You have our sympathies and our prayers. The

telegram was signed Mrs. Vincent Dupont, the doctor’s wife.

Upon returning home, Valerie learned that a tropical storm

had detained the family physician when her mother had taken

ill. He hadn’t been able to reach Mama in time to help her.

Valerie had never gotten a chance to say good-bye or even

attend Mama’s funeral.

“I miss her too.” Valerie whispered the admission, hoping this

time it wouldn’t fall on deaf ears.

But Father drained his glass and poured another. Number five.

“Our guest will be arriving sometime tonight. I’ll be out. I’ve

left instructions with Adalia.”

“You won’t be here to greet him?” Valerie swiped away an

errant tear and squared her shoulders.

“Not tonight.” He suddenly hollered for his coat, hat, and

walking stick.

“Where are you going?” Stunned, Valerie strode toward him.

“The club. For supper.”

“Again? But I had so hoped you’d come to the Donahues’

tonight and celebrate the coming of the New Year with me.”

“You should know right now, ma fille, that hope is a useless word

in the English vocabulary. All of mine died with your mother.”

Valerie’s breath caught at the admission, tears obscuring her

vision as the portly British maid, who’d been part of the family

ever since Valerie could recall, entered the room carrying Father’s

belongings. He donned his winter coat.

“I hadn’t planned to stay home to entertain a houseguest.”

“I don’t expect you to.” He moved into the foyer and adjusted

his black top hat. “Adalia will show him to his room, and you

can go to your party.”

“But—” He swung open the front door and disappeared, closing it

behind him before Valerie could speak again. All she could do

was stand there, stunned.

At last she exhaled, her lower lip extended so the puff of air

soared upward and wafted over the strands on her forehead. “Oh,

this is a fine mess.” She folded her arms.

“You needn’t worry. I’ll be sure to tidy the gentleman’s room.”

“I know you will.” Valerie smiled at the good-natured woman.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, dearie. But here now—” Adalia bustled

across the room and slipped one arm around Valerie’s shoulders.

“Don’t look so glum.”

“I can’t help it.” Valerie’s bottom lip quivered as she peered

into the maid’s bright green eyes. “My father has no room in his

life for me, Adalia. I’m a burden to him.” She paused. “Maybe I

always have been, but I never noticed because of Mama.”

Adalia patted her shoulder.

When the moment passed, Valerie straightened. “Well, Father

said I can go to the party. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“Go. I’ll take care of Mr. McCabe. Now you’d best be getting

yourself ready.”

Valerie gazed down at her dark skirts. “And another thing. I’m

tired of this dreary mourning garb. It’s been six months.”

“That it has, and you’ve fulfilled your societal obligations and

behaved as any good daughter would.” Holding her by the shoulders,

she turned Valerie so they stood face-to-face. “I don’t think

I’m out of place to say that y’ mother’d want each of us to go on

with our living. So go and have fun tonight. As for y’ father’s guest,

he can occupy himself in the library. Plenty o’ books in there.”

Valerie sighed, remembering some of Father’s former houseguests.

“He’s probably some eccentric old geezer who’ll just want

to read and go to sleep anyway.”

Adalia snorted. Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “We’ve

seen our share of those over the years, now haven’t we?”

“Yes.” A smile crept across Valerie’s face. “We certainly have

at that.”

****

Beneath the bright glow from her bedroom’s wall sconces, Valerie

studied her reflection. She selected a sapphire-blue silk gown

with satin trim around its off-the-shoulder neckline. The flouncy

creation matched the color of her eyes and complemented her

pale complexion. Adalia had expertly swept up Valerie’s dark

brown hair into a becoming chignon, although several tendrils

rebelliously escaped and curled around her face.

“Pretty as a princess, y’ are. Just like y’ mother.” Adalia stood

back to admire her. “You look just like her.”

“Thank you.” Valerie took the compliment as high praise. “But

do you think I seem a bit pale?” She pinched her cheeks until

they turned a rosy pink.

“Not anymore.” Adalia placed her hands on her hips. Valerie

smiled, then chuckled. Adalia turned and folded an article of

clothing on Valerie’s four-poster bed. “Now, you be sure to catch

the latest gossip, dearie. Chastean and I are dependin’ on you.”

Valerie whirled from the full-length mirror in a swish of silk.

“Why, Adalia, I don’t listen to gossip.”

“’Tis such a pity. We’ll be needin’ something to talk about

while we stir our soap.”

“Mama’s soap.” Valerie’s grin faded as wistfulness set in. She’d

almost forgotten how she and Mama used to create the specially

scented soaps from garden herbs and the essential oils that Father

had shipped in from around the world. The practice had started

with a church bazaar for which Mama had to bring something

she’d made, something unique.

She called her little square bars “Psalm 55 Soap” after her

favorite passage of Scripture. Mama gave them to friends or

left them near the basin in the guest room with a handwritten

portion of that psalm. Feeling a sudden deep determination to

hang on to the memory, Valerie decided to somehow keep her

mother’s custom alive.

“We’ll make a new batch soon,” she said.

“Good, ’cause we’re down to the last few bars of the lavender

rose.”One of Valerie’s favorites. “They’re from the last batch Mama

made?”

Adalia replied with a remorseful bob of her gray-blonde head.

That weighty sorrow descended again. Valerie’s shoulders

sagged.

Several long, reverent seconds ticked by, and finally Adalia

picked up where she’d left off. “I’m particularly interested in

hearing if Mrs. Field’s wayward daughter married that sailor she

ran away with.” She fidgeted with Valerie’s dress. “So listen up.”

“I’ll do no such thing. Besides, James told me yesterday that

Nora Mae married the man in a private ceremony.”

“Y’ don’t say!”

Valerie turned to her. “I shouldn’t have even repeated that,

except there’s nothing wrong with saying a wedding took place,

right?”

“Right.”

Valerie narrowed her gaze. Maybe she had succumbed to

gossiping after all.

“Now you’d best get downstairs.” Adalia wisely changed the

subject. “Mr. Ladden’ll be here soon, and you know how impatient

that one gets if he has to wait even a minute.”

“You go on down. I’ll be there in a bit.” Valerie wanted to

check her reflection one last time.

“Don’t tarry.”

“I won’t.”

The maid left, and Valerie checked her reflection once more. It

felt good to shed those black mourning clothes. She thought of all

her friends she hadn’t seen in the almost year and a half since she’d

been away at Miss C. J. Hollingsworth’s. They’d always been such

fun-loving girls. Valerie smiled, thinking about how they used to

laugh together with chatter of balls and beaus and fashion.

Would it be the same when they saw each other again tonight?

Sadness spilled over her when she thought things might have

changed. She felt so removed from those subjects now. They

seemed trite, considering her present circumstances. She’d

never imagined her life without Mama. But here her future lay,

stretched out before her in grim uncertainty.

Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee . . .

Valerie smiled as part of Mama’s favorite psalm waltzed across

her mind. Drawing in a deep breath, she plucked her satin shawl

from where it lay on her canopy bed. She pulled it around her

bare shoulders, admiring its ivory softness, and fixed her mind

on the gala. She’d laugh and dance, and maybe some semblance

of joy would return to her life.

Leaving her bedroom, Valerie made her way down the stairs to

the parlor. As it happened, she turned out to be the one who did

the waiting. It seemed forever before she heard James’s carriage

pull up in front of the house.

At long last he entered the foyer, looking dapper in his overcoat

with its fur-trimmed collar. He shed it and handed the garment,

along with his hat, to Adalia. Valerie noted his foggy-gray dress

coat, waistcoat, and matching trousers. The flame-red curls on

his head, usually unruly, were combed neatly back.

“Why, James Ladden, don’t you look handsome!” She held out

her hand in greeting, and he took it at once.

“Thank you, honey. I’ll have you know this suit is cut from the

best cloth money can buy.”

“It’s quite . . . nice.” Valerie felt a bit wounded that he didn’t

remark on her gown or the style of her hair.

Instead James puffed out his chest and smiled. “We have some

time before we have to go.” He ambled across the parlor’s large

Persian carpet. “Perhaps a drink to warm the blood would be

appropriate.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll call for Adalia.” She flicked a glance at him,

hoping he didn’t imbibe like Father. This was, after all, their first

public outing together. A moment later she decided to serve hot

cider in spite of the fact he hinted at something stronger.

She looked at him again. James had been a childhood friend,

an auburn-headed prankster who annoyed her by putting twigs in

her braided hair and calling her names. He threw slimy, creepycrawly

creatures at her and laughed when she screamed in terror.

But then James matured into a dashing young man, and when

he discovered that she’d come home from school, he offered to

escort her to every social event in New Orleans beginning this

New Year’s Eve. She’d accepted because . . . well, it was a kind offer,

and James seemed to have transformed into a gentleman.

“Is your father home?”

“No, he chose to ring in the New Year at the club.”

“He won’t be at the Donahues’, then?”

Valerie shook her head.

“I had hoped to speak with him tonight about an important

subject.” His frown turned to a smile. “You.”

“Me?”

“I have courtship on my mind.”

His news surprised her. “I thought we were just friends, James.”

“We are. But the way you look tonight makes me wish we were

more.”

So he’d noticed. That was something anyway. However, his

backhanded flattering didn’t change her feelings for him. But

unwilling to hurt him, she chose her words with care. “I am fond

of you. It’s just—”

“Y’ father’s houseguest just arrived.” Adalia poked her head into

the room. “What would you like me to do with him, dearie?”

Valerie grimaced. “Oh, yes . . . ” She’d almost forgotten about

the man. “Show him in.” Looking back at James, she said, “Excuse

me for a few minutes.”

“What’s this?” He stepped forward, frowning his displeasure.

“What houseguest?”

“Forgive me. My father only told me at the last minute.” She

moved toward the door. “I must see to him. It won’t take too

long.”

Putting on her best hostess’s smile, Valerie strolled into the

foyer in time to see a tall but shadowy figure of a man coming

down the hallway. He must have entered through the back way.

Over his shoulder he carried a large satchel and, in the opposite

hand, a valise. As he neared, she saw that he was soaked to the

skin. Rain dripped from the wide brim hat.

“Good evening.” He set his burdens down with a thunk onto

the tiled floor. “Name’s Benjamin McCabe.”

“Valerie Fontaine.” She held out her hand to him. He took

it politely, and Valerie felt how cold he was. He also appeared

young, in his midtwenties. Hardly the old codger she and Adalia

had envisioned.

“Miss Fontaine, I must say you look . . . lovely this evening.” He

spoke in a velvet baritone, and yet Valerie heard a hint of a twang

in his voice.

“Why, thank you.” It had been more of a compliment than

what she’d received from James.

He shifted his stance. “The liveryman is seeing to my wagon.”

He gave a backward nod. “I trust it will be safe in the stables.

Most of my equipment—”

“Your wagon will be just fine,” Valerie assured him. “Willie is

a very capable attendant.”

An awkward moment passed as Valerie tried to get a better

view of the man standing there in the dim, candlelit entryway.

“I apologize for dripping rain on your floor.” Mr. McCabe

glanced down at the puddle forming beneath him. “That last

downpour caught me.”

Jeena Gregory chewed on her lip as she stared at the red silk dress hanging in the closet. Would it be enough? She wiped her sweaty palms down the legs of her jeans, trying to vanquish the knot in her stomach. The same feeling she’d experienced as a ten-year-old hit her. She’d walked into her new school and tried to ignore the snickers as some of the students eyed her worn-out sneakers and hand-me-down clothes.

She refused to let fear or insecurity take control. Fear couldn’t hurt her—only men could do that. And Sean loved her.

No way would she believe the rumor she’d heard from Connie, the biggest gossip in her small group of friends. Sean couldn’t be seeing someone else. He was close to proposing; she’d sensed it more than once. Jeena shook her head, trying to dislodge the disquieting thoughts. He’d have a good explanation.

Her confidence level soared after applying makeup and slipping into the dress. It had cost her two days’ salary, but it was worth every cent. Hugging her in all the right places, the dark red silk accented her long black hair and green eyes. Working out at the club kept her figure where she wanted it.

Sean’s car flashed past Jeena’s window and halted in front of her small condo. Jeena ran a hand over her trim hips. She’d be thirty later this year, and her body still looked like that of a twenty-year-old—she’d maintain it if she had to work out every day.

The doorbell chimed, but this time Jeena didn’t rush to answer. Sean Matthews needn’t think her life revolved around his arrival, even if it did. Playing a little hard to get might work in her favor.

The bell chimed a second time, and Jeena imagined its tone changed to one of impatience. Better not overdo it. She opened the door and stepped back into the glow of the entry light to give him the full effect.

A small frown turned down the corners of Sean’s mouth, giving a serious aspect to his rugged face. His tapping toe stilled, but his lowered brows didn’t lift until he stepped across the threshold.

The smile Jeena expected didn’t appear. Apprehension flickered through her mind. “Something wrong, Sean?” She touched his arm.

He ran his fingers through his dark blond hair, giving a slightly rumpled look to a man who prided himself on his appearance. “Our reservation is in fifteen minutes. We’re going to be late.”

He hadn’t seemed to notice the gown or the accentuated curves. “I had a bit of a struggle zipping up this dress.”

“You might need a jacket. That looks a little skimpy for a chilly evening.”

The small wisp of fear grew, fanned by the coolness of his impatience.

“Skimpy? That’s it?” She stepped back, folding her arms.

He shot a quick, cool look at the dress. “You look great. Is it new?”

She pursed her lips. Something was up. “Yes, it’s new.” She swung toward the closet. “Fine. I’ll get a jacket.” She yanked open the door and pulled a black cape off the rack. Great start to our evening.

He helped her into his silver Lexus, then slipped into his seat and turned the key. “You really do look stunning.” Sean paused. “It’s been a crazy day, and I’ve had a lot on my mind.” He gave her a soft smile before turning his attention back to the road.

They pulled out into the street and headed through the residential area toward the edge of town. Silhouetted against the skyline, tall fir trees flanked the elegant homes along the way. Kids still played in front yards, and a couple of eager homeowners mowed their yards. Jeena sighed. She missed having a yard and flowerbeds. The new townhouse she’d put a deposit on boasted a small backyard and window boxes in the front, so she could indulge her gardening hobby on her days off.

She sank deeper in the seat and released a small breath. Peaceful silence enveloped her as the quiet car snaked around the curves and the sun glinted off the nearby Columbia River. Sean loved her. Losing sight of that was foolish. Sure, he’d neglected to kiss her when he’d arrived, but she understood the stress generated by work. His job as a financial consultant to a large corporation in Portland often kept him distracted.

Connie was being catty and nothing more.

Jeena gave a low laugh. “You had me worried. I thought aliens had taken over your body when you didn’t react to this dress.”

He pulled away from a stop sign and glanced in his mirror, then reached over and took her hand. “Never fear. If aliens attempt a takeover, I’ll shoot ’em dead.” His quick smile flashed. “Hungry?”

“Very.” She’d been foolish to listen to Connie. An hour earlier, she couldn’t have eaten a thing, but now she was ravenous.

Sean had chosen a small, rather exclusive restaurant, a rarity in River City, Oregon. They could have driven an hour up I-84 to Portland, but the recent growth of tourism in the Columbia River Gorge had birthed new hot spots, popular with locals and tourists alike.

They were seated by a window that afforded a breathtaking view of the river, and Jeena could see the colorful sails of windsurfers kiting along in the evening breeze, the soft glow of the late April sunset bronzing the multi-colored sails. Candles glowed against the damask tablecloth, giving off a subtle air of luxury. Strains of low music added to the ambiance, creating a soothing background for the trickle of diners still drifting in.

Sean had requested a quiet spot in the corner, giving a sense of privacy that still allowed a good view. While he ordered, Jeena glanced around the room, wondering if any of their friends might be here tonight. No familiar faces appeared within her line of sight. Good. She wanted this evening to be theirs alone. Maybe they could sort out the nasty rumor starting to circulate and kill it before it morphed into something worse.

Sean leaned back in his seat and sighed, stretching his legs out from under the heavy brocade cloth.

“Long day?” Jeena reached across to stroke the side of his face. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t wrap his long fingers around hers as she’d expected. A small alarm went off in the back of her mind.

He gave a small shake of his head, dislodging her hand. “Not really. It feels good to sit across the table from a beautiful woman, instead of looking at bored businessmen all day.”

She sat back in her chair and relaxed. “Something going on at work that’s bothering you?”

“Very little. How about you? When does your lease start on the new townhouse?”

“In ten days, so I’m boxing everything up now. I’ve got my final interview a week from Monday with Browning and Thayer.”

“It’s too bad it’s only a temporary job, but with your expertise in design, they can’t go wrong contracting you.” He straightened in his chair and leaned toward her, an affectionate smile flickering across his lips.

She flashed him a grateful look. “Thanks. I hope they feel the same. But being a private contractor has its advantages, and the project is big—it should last at least a year.”

The waiter arrived, placing steaming plates of fragrant pasta in front of them and gathering the empty salad dishes. A few minutes passed in comfortable silence, and Jeena’s misgivings evaporated in the relaxed intimacy.

Candlelight cast a warm light across Sean’s face, accentuating his masculine good looks. Jeena smiled and settled deeper into her chair. “So tell me about your family. Last time we talked, you were concerned about your mom living alone, now that your dad’s gone. How’s she doing?”

“Great, from what I gather when I have time to call.” He wound the last strand of pasta onto his fork and took a bite, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I’m sorry—I see a client I need to speak to. I’ll only be a minute. Do you mind?” He nodded across the room to a silver-haired man sitting with an elegantly dressed woman.

“Not at all.” She smiled, then watched him make his way through the tables.

She’d first spotted him at a party a little over a year ago. Tall, mid-thirties, dressed in an Italian three-piece suit, and built like a model, he stood out in the crowd of older businessmen. An air of sophistication clung to him, enhanced by vivid blue eyes set in a deeply tanned face. A striking blonde who’d had too much to drink was hanging on his arm. He looked slightly disgusted and appeared to be searching for an escape.

Setting aside her drink, Jeena strolled across the room, knowing she’d captured his attention even before she approached.

She extended her hand and smiled when he held it longer than necessary. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Jeena Gregory, a friend of our hostess.”

“Sean Matthews. This is . . . I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” His bored gaze turned to the blonde.

The woman released her grip on his arm and glared at Jeena. “Angie.”

Sean cocked his head toward the woman. “Right. Sorry. This is Angie.”

Angie’s lips turned down in a pout. “I’m getting something to drink. I’ll find someone more interesting to take me home.” Angie flounced across the room without looking back.

Sean’s blue eyes shone with something more than amusement. “I didn’t bring her, but she’s had too much to drink and must have forgotten. She latched onto me when I arrived. Thanks for the rescue.”

Jeena spent the rest of the evening in his company—and many evenings after that. Within a few weeks, she knew she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this man. Intelligent, witty, generous, and advancing up the corporate ladder at a fast pace, he possessed much that she found attractive.

Sean, however, remained an enigma. While engaging and attentive, he had yet to commit to a permanent relationship. Jeena sensed his frustration at her adamant refusal to move in together. She enjoyed the party life and didn’t judge others for their lifestyle choices, but she drew the line at moving in with a man before marriage. She deserved more. Besides, too many of her crowd had gone that direction, and she’d seen disaster strike more than once.

“Jeena? I’m sorry I took so long. I hope you weren’t bored.” Sean’s deep voice woke her from the memories.

She brushed the hair from her eyes. “Not at all. Just remembering our first meeting.”

“Ah, yes. The party.”

Jeena tried to suppress a smile but failed. “And poor Angie.”

Sean laughed outright. “Poor Angie, nothing. That woman clung like a leech with no encouragement from me. You came along just in time.”

She leaned toward him and stroked the back of his hand. “Did I?”

He slowly pulled back, and the smile disappeared.

“What’s wrong?” Her heart rate accelerated.

He cleared his throat and picked up a napkin. “There’s something I want to tell you.”

Tell. Not ask. Jeena leaned back and crossed her arms. “Yes?”

“I’ve been offered a new job. It means a huge increase in pay and could lead to a partnership.”

“That sounds wonderful. I didn’t realize you were looking.”

“I didn’t mention it until I knew something would come of it. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Why would I care?” Her palms grew clammy, but she refused to give in to fear.

His lips set in a firm line; then he took a deep breath and plunged forward. “It’s taking me out of the States. A large construction conglomerate wants me in the Middle East.”

A small shiver of fear traveled up her back. “But that’s dangerous. Tell me you’re not going to take it.”

“I’ve said yes. I’ll be living in Kuwait and going across the border occasionally, and then only to areas that are deemed safe. I leave in two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” she whispered. “What about us?”

He shifted in his chair and looked at his hands, then raised his eyes. “I’m sorry, Jeena.”

“What do you mean, you’re sorry? You’re not asking me to come with you or wait? How long will you be gone?” She tried to keep the pain out of her voice, but her words rose in tone and volume.

An irritated look flashed across his face. The small, secluded spot he’d chosen closed in around her. No longer did the flickering candles on the table give off an aura of romance—instead, they gleamed with an ominous light.

“I’ll be gone at least a year, maybe two. You didn’t want to live with me here in the States, so I didn’t think you’d be willing to move to Kuwait.” Sean leaned back in his chair, holding her gaze.

She’d probably hold onto him if she gave in, but something inside protested. Her parents’ marriage had been lousy, no doubt about that. But her mother had saved herself for the man she married and had often urged Jeena to do the same. Besides, Grammie would be be horrified if Jeena made that decision. A deep love for both her mother and grandmother had prompted Jeena to walk the same path.

“But if we were married . . .” She could have bitten off her tongue for letting the words slip.

Sean’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “I have no desire to get married.”

“So all of this has been what . . . a game? You aren’t in love with me? Never have been?”

He shrugged. “I think a lot of you. But marriage isn’t part of my plan. I thought we’d have a good time. Frankly, I hung around hoping you’d change your mind.”

“You knew how I felt about living together. It’s not something I’m comfortable with.”

Sean smirked. “You told me your dad was a religious Jekyll and Hyde and you had no use for God. I never expected you’d stick with your decision and be such a prude.”

His words brought the chaos in her mind to a halt. An icy calm washed over her. “Prude. I see. So, who is she?”

His face flamed red, then faded to a dirty white. “Who?”

She rose quickly, her chair sliding into the waiter who was walking behind her. Pride stiffened her spine and held her head high. “I nailed that one. Never mind. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together, and my prudish life will be better off without you.”

She slipped around the table and started to walk past him, but he reached out and grasped her wrist. “Jeena. Don’t be that way. I’ll drive you home. I’m sorry.”

Shaking off his hand, she stepped out of his reach and lowered her voice, conscious of the curious looks from the tables nearby. “I’ll get a taxi. Have a great life, Sean.”

Somehow she managed to exit the restaurant without calling more attention to herself. Humiliation at making a scene while leaving the table forced her to increase her pace and not look back. The poor waiter—she’d nearly bowled him over while rushing from the table. But no way could she allow Sean to see her cry. She needed to get home and face this. The tears would come later, and no telling when they’d stop.

Men. Anger bubbled inside, momentarily pushing aside the sting of tears. Her father had proven men couldn’t be trusted—he hadn’t loved her, either. Why had she forgotten? Never again would a man suck her in with promises and lies. From now on, her career would come first. She’d show them all. The only person in the world who mattered was her grandmother. She’d neglected her recently, but tomorrow was a new day. Grammie would be happy to see her, and Sean was no longer important.

Mother called the week before I met Glaen Breuch.

“So, that’s it?” I said with a tinge of anger.

“I’m afraid it is, dear,” a soft and matter-of-fact voice responded.

“Mom, you just want a divorce? You don’t want to work at it or get some counseling or something?” I pleaded.

“No Annie, it’s over. I’ve tried and tried, but your father just isn’t what I want for the rest of my life. Can’t you just be happy for me?” Mother asked.

Suddenly Annie found herself floating, feather-like, away from the phone and experiencing what most people think a drowning person experiences; a life full of joy and promise, in the last moments of gasping for air, she sees a replay of that life. Annie saw the day her baby sister came home from the hospital. Mom and Dad were so happy, and Annie as a little girl couldn’t find her sister’s feet; she kept looking under the baby-carrier instead of under the blanket. They all laughed for days.

Next, Annie remembered her granddaddy’s death and how her mother was so kind to her dad, and how her dad praised mother to everyone in the small town where he grew up. Other memories flooded her mind, moving from ancient black-and-white scenes to vivid full-color images. Most recently she had been in church, seated between her parents, and basking in the wonder of family; hoping for a marriage like theirs. But Annie snapped awake.

“Be happy for you?” I said with amazement. “How can I be happy for you? You are running away to ruin your relationship with Dad and mess up our family forever. You seem happy enough. I don’t think you need my help.”

“Annie, my relationship with your dad is already ruined. Honey, the one way I’ve failed you was to not really help you understand about love. You were always your Daddy’s girl anyway, so I never could really tell you how I felt. I don’t think I understand relationships, but I’m going to learn about them. Honey, I know you don’t understand relationships; just look at what’s happened with your boyfriends.”

“Boyfriends?” Annie thought to herself. There were just two; one in high school and one in college. Both of the boys were nice guys who doted, and spent, on Annie. She just wanted to have fun, and she did, for a while. In the same six month period with each guy, Rodney and Pierre, they both turned to the same serious conversation with her about “dating just each other.” Annie could still feel the panic as her stomach tightened and her lungs closed off from the air in the room. She had mysteriously decided she didn’t like either of them; and in time she believed it deeply. The only hint she had that perhaps a mistake lived on, was that she saved the letter from Pierre in her dresser drawer back home. Both guys were married now, at least she had heard about their engagements. But now the thought of her past brought Annie back to the room, and to the moment. “Mother, what about your relationship with God? What about your marriage vow before Him?” I asked as a sincere question.

“God wants us happy, dear. I’ve been miserable for years. I love you children, and now that you’re grown, I can follow my dreams. I felt dead, but now I feel alive. Annie, I know it is hard to understand, but I just know God is in this because I’m so wonderfully happy now.”

“Mom…I love you, but what you’re doing can’t be right. I’m not going to do this to my family,” I said.

“Well, good luck, Honey. I’m going out to dinner and I haven’t finished dressing,” she said in a mother-knows-best way.

“Could I give you one piece of advice that would have changed all of this for me?”

“Sure Mom,” I said.

“Annie dear, be sure you marry the right person; don’t stand in your wedding dress with doubts in your bouquet.”

We hung up, and I cried for a long time before I could pray. “God, my mother says she doesn’t understand relationships, and she’s my mom! Then she says I don’t understand them either. Please help me to understand.”

Back then I had no idea that prayer was the sort of thing God took seriously.

___________________________________________________

Glaen Breuch was unusual, even for a college professor.

It was only two weeks before that I had signed up for his Masters class called, “Original Non-Fiction.” Jennah and I had been sitting at Polmier’s Coffee Shoppe, a little place with hardwood floors full of serious students and a few silly girls. “What are you going to take for your last class?” Jennah asked. I was irritated. “Gee, Jennah, I just decided now to take classes at all.” She knew how upset I was about Mom and Dad’s sudden divorce announcement, so she ignored it and asked again.

“I’ve prayed all week about it. I wish I could take a class on how relationships really work, but nothing in school is ever practical.” I still remember saying those words when Glaen walked in the Shoppe. He had striking white hair that made a great wave until it crashed above his right eye. Wire-rimmed glasses, herringbone jacket, too many books; all these made Glaen look like the ideal professor. He insisted on being called Glaen rather than “professor” or “mister,” but I didn’t know why until months later.

Exactly fifteen years ago I saw Glaen in the Shoppe. Now I am about to see him again. I bet he hasn’t changed a bit, but of course how could he?

That day in Polmier’s, Glaen walked up to us as an answer to prayer. “Hi ladies,” he said. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation about classes. I’m a new instructor here at St. Michael’s, but I’m a bit late in arriving.” Suddenly his awkward grasp gave way and all of his books and papers clamored to the wood floor. Only one pink sheet remained in his hand. “Oh, here it is,” ignoring the pile at his feet. “I’m teaching this class over the next two semesters. If you’re interested, just show up as it says here.” With that Glaen gathered his books and left the Shoppe, cluttered but unembarrassed. From that moment on, all I could think about was how curious both the class and the professor seemed. I was in!

“Welcome class. My name is Glaen, pronounced with a long ‘a’ as in ‘gain.’” He started the Original Non-Fiction class, ONF101 as the flier labeled it, right on time. Without skipping a beat he handed out the syllabus and asked with eyes that swept the room, “Are there any questions before we begin?”

I looked around totally bewildered as I raised my hand. “Yes, and your name is Anne?” he asked. “Well, they call me Annie, but I do have a question,” I said.

“OK Annie, what’s your question?” I was still in a self-absorbed mood, so I put a little “dumb blonde” in my voice. “Like…ah…I’m the only student in the room…and, ah…is the class going to make or something?” I wanted to ask why in heaven’s name he was acting like the room was full, but it seemed like a dumb move on the first day.

“Well Annie, since it’s a new class the powers-that-be have given me permission to teach it even if you’re the only one. Ready to start?” he asked, taking my silence for a “yes.”

Glaen wrote the following on the board and asked, “What do you think?”

“JUST DEFINITIONS EITHER PREVENT OR PUT AN END TO DISPUTES”

- Emmons

“Who’s Emmons?” I said.

“Does it matter? What if I said it was written by Poe, or Shelley, or Whitman? Would it make a difference? Is it what is said or who said it?” suddenly Glaen had me thinking.

“I guess it doesn’t matter,” I said.

“Then what do you think?” he returned.

“I think it sounds reasonable,” I admitted.

“Great!” Glaen took off with a quick lecture on the importance of words and their meanings. He finally got to the point.

“Annie, I’ve watched conflict for a long time. Seldom is there a conflict that can withstand agreed-to definitions. The reason is pretty simple: Truth still wins out. It’s bad enough when two people disagree about what is expected in a relationship. It’s even worse when they aren’t using the same language. A dictionary or the question, ‘What do you mean?’ can do more to end conflict than almost anything else on the planet. One of my favorite authors once wrote, ‘Truth is the lifeblood of real relationships.’”

“Why?” I asked.

“Well, let me ask you a question. If you change your behavior from how you really are to what they want; is it you relating, or is it the character you’re playing?”

With that Glaen started to put his books in a much-needed satchel.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“There’s nothing else to know for today,” he said.

“Nothing else to know! What about non-fiction? What about writing? What’s the assignment?” I said with a little contempt.

“Oh, that,” he said flatly.

“Well, you need to write an original work of non-fiction, offering original insights on a useful topic. It doesn’t matter what the topic is, but I would suggest you write about something you care about, something you’d like to understand. I’ll be in this room every week at this same moment. I’m available to help you when you want it.”

Glaen looked at me for a long time, staring right through me with his steady blue eyes, framed by his white hair and white button-down shirt.

“Annie,” he added. “Decide on your topic by next week and I’ll show you the secret of good non-fiction. There’s a book in your future, and I want to show it to you.” Glaen turned and moved out of the room with the grace of a ballet dancer. I just sat there for a long time before I left. The Coffee Shoppe was finally calling.

SUMMARY

Truth is the lifeblood of real relationships.