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A Child Shall Lead Them
“How can we be sure we make the right decision, Eric?”
His eyes took on that warm, crinkly look Bree loved. “Prayer helps. We trust God to bring us the right parents for Charity. And we trust Him to give us the wisdom to recognize them when we meet them.”
“You make it sound so easy.” Bree shifted in her chair. What she wanted to say was, When the time comes, how do I let Charity go?
“A penny for your thoughts,” mused Eric.
The heat rose in Bree’s cheeks. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking of Charity and how much I want the best for her.”
“So do I,” said Eric with a surprising little rumble of emotion in his voice.
CAROLE GIFT PAGE
writes from the heart about issues facing women today. A prolific author of over 40 books and 800 stories and articles, she has published both fiction and nonfiction with a dozen major Christian publishers, including Thomas Nelson, Moody Press, Crossway Books, Bethany House, Tyndale House and Harvest House. An award-winning novelist, Carole has received the C.S. Lewis Honor Book Award and been a finalist several times for the prestigious Gold Medallion Award and the Campus Life Book of the Year Award.
A frequent speaker at churches, conferences, conventions, schools and retreats around the country, Carole shares her testimony (based on her inspiring new book, Becoming a Woman of Passion) and encourages women everywhere to discover and share their deepest passions, to keep passion alive on the home front and to unleash their passion for Christ.
Born and raised in Jackson, Michigan, Carole taught creative writing at Biola University in La Mirada, California, and serves on the advisory board of the American Christian Writers. She and her husband, Bill, live in Southern California and have three children (besides Misty in heaven) and three beautiful grandchildren.
A Child Shall Lead Them
Carole Gift Page
The Lord your God in your midst,
The Mighty One, will save;
He will rejoice over you with gladness,
He will quiet you in His love,
He will rejoice over you with singing.
—Zephaniah 3:17
To my dear sister, Susan Gift Porter.
Susi, you are awesome! So talented, so caring,
so committed to our Lord. I love you with
all my heart, and I’m so proud of you.
You are my soul mate, my friend, my partner in
prayer. You bring joy to so many, especially when
you step out on stage and sing so vibrantly of your
Redeemer. Thank you for your constant love,
encouragement and support!
Dear Reader,
I hope you’re enjoying the continuing saga of Reverend Andrew Rowlands and his three spirited daughters. I know I’ve enjoyed making the Reverend the kind of devoted, fun-loving, larger-than-life daddy we gals dream of. And yet Andrew is human just like the rest of us. Even as he ministers to others, he struggles with heavy issues in his own life—problems that lead him to search for a closer walk with his Heavenly Father.
Andrew’s three daughters must confront their own complex issues, as well. This time, it’s Brianna’s turn. She faces a series of losses that threaten to overwhelm her. But each time she realizes afresh that God is there for her. Both Brianna and Reverend Rowlands come to know Christ better as they experience a roller-coaster ride of conflicting crises and emotions. They are reminded that Jesus loves them with perfect love…and perfect love casts out fear.
It’s a lesson for all of us to remember. When we look outward at our troubling circumstances, we may experience fear and anxiety. When we look inward at ourselves, we often feel inadequate. Only as we keep our eyes on Jesus can we experience His comforting presence and face life with confidence and joy. Trust Him, and He will fill you with His love, joy and peace!
I’d love to hear from you, my friend. Write me c/o Steeple Hill Books, 300 East 42nd Street, New York, New York 10017. And please keep reading! May God bless you with His very best!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Chapter One
Brianna stood in the doorway of the music room in an oversize V-neck T-shirt and stone-washed jeans, her tawny hair framing her luminous face, her large, velvet green eyes looking worried. “Daddy, are you coming downstairs to dinner?”
She had assumed a tentative stance, her head cocked just so, one hand on the doorjamb, her rosy lips pursed questioningly.
Andrew’s heart lurched. Something in his daughter’s winsome face reminded him of his beloved Mandy. Like mother, like daughter. He half expected to see Brianna cradling one of her scraggly strays in her arms—a mongrel pup, a scrawny alley cat, a wounded bird. Since she was three she had managed to drag home every lost and homeless animal within a ten-mile radius of La Jolla. Mandy had been the same way, nurturing and comforting every ragamuffin child, every downtrodden soul, every wounded spirit. It was what had made her a great minister’s wife.
“Daddy? Did you hear me? You look a thousand miles away.”
Andrew’s reverie broke. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“I said dinner’s ready. It’s Friday, so Frannie made her usual spaghetti. Your favorite.”
“Sounds great, sweetheart.” Frannie, his youngest, had designated herself chief cook and bottle washer after Mandy’s death six years ago. In fact, all three of his daughters had appointed themselves their father’s keepers, mollycoddling him like doting little mothers. His three precious girls: Cassandra, Brianna and Frannie. What would he have done without them?
But now there were just two left at home.
He cleared his throat and said with more enthusiasm than he felt, “Tell Frannie I’ll be down in a minute, okay?”
Brianna lingered in the doorway, looking unconvinced. Yes, no doubt about it. His middle daughter, with her wholesome peaches-and-cream, girl-next-door attractiveness, was at heart a mother hen—a cross between Mother Teresa and Florence Nightingale. And now Andrew was the object of her overweening concern.
“You’re thinking about Cassie, aren’t you, Daddy.”
Andrew swiveled on the mahogany bench, his right hand remaining on the shiny black grand piano. Cassie’s piano. “You caught me, baby cakes,” he confessed. “I guess I’ve been thinking a lot about Cassie this week.”
“Oh, Daddy.” Brianna crossed her arms and rocked on one heel. “Cassie’s on her honeymoon. She and Antonio are so happy. I’ve never seen two people so in love…except you and Mom.”
“And I’m happy for her,” Andrew said quickly. “It’s just…well, this old house hasn’t seemed so empty since…”
“Since Mom died,” said Bree softly.
Andrew nodded, a painful knot in his throat. He looked away before his daughter read too much in his expression.
Too late. Her eyes brimming with sympathy, Brianna crossed the room and twined her slender arms around her father’s neck. In Andrew’s memory flashed the image of a jubilant child, running, skating, dancing, her hair flying in the wind. “It’s okay to feel sad sometimes, Daddy,” she whispered. “I miss Mom, too.”
Andrew ruffled his daughter’s silky hair. “I’m fine, doll baby. You go downstairs and tell your sister to get out the king-size bibs because I’m ready to eat spaghetti!”
“She already has them out, Daddy. One for each of us, like always.” Brianna drifted back to the doorway and fluttered her fingers in a wave. “Don’t be long, or the pasta will be cold.”
“One minute. I promise.”
After Bree had gone, Andrew inhaled sharply and turned his gaze to the family portrait on the piano, taken the year before Mandy learned she had cancer. They were at the beach, having a picnic, building sand castles, collecting seashells, frolicking like children. Looking like windblown, ragtag beach bums.
When a stranger offered to snap their picture, they laughed uproariously. Why not? It would be a silly, hilarious memento for posterity. So Andrew, his wife and daughters all stood arm-in-arm like disheveled comrades, smiling, on the verge of side-splitting laughter on that dappled, sun-washed beach. They had been oblivious to the horror lurking in the shadows, nipping at their heels.
For Andrew, those dark, devastating days seemed like another lifetime now…watching his beloved Mandy succumb moment by moment, inch by inch to that ravaging monster called cancer. Only his faith in God and his darling daughters had kept him sane. After Mandy’s death, his girls had rallied around him and gradually turned their grief-stricken house into a rollicking, joyous, fun-filled homestead again.
But as devoted as his lovely daughters were to him, over the years Andrew had grown increasingly concerned about them. It wasn’t right for three grown, vibrant young women to remain in their father’s house, putting their own lives on hold for his sake. Sure, each daughter had a fulfilling career, but they needed to be out dating, making the acquaintance of suitable young men. They needed to be setting wedding dates and getting married and bringing home precious grandbabies that he could spoil the way he had spoiled them.
That’s why, almost a year ago now, he had resolved to help things along, to give his girls a proper nudge in the matrimonial department. And, thank God, it had worked for his oldest daughter, Cassandra. Just last Saturday, hadn’t he himself, the proud papa, officiated at the most gorgeous wedding on earth? Hadn’t he choked with love and pride as his darling Cassie said her vows and became the radiant bride of the dashing Antonio Pagliarulo? Hadn’t he smiled with satisfaction and, yes, relief as Antonio whisked Cassie off to a Mediterranean honeymoon?
One down, two to go, as the saying went. Now he just had to find husbands for his two younger girls, Brianna and Frannie. And that would not be an easy feat, for both girls were too devoted to their careers even to give a man a passing glance—Bree with her work at the family counseling center and Frannie with her sculpting and painting. Both girls were entirely too entrenched at home, fussing like nursemaids over their widowed father, to realize that the world contained a vast array of eligible bachelors.
Even now, as Andrew sat in the music room and studied the family portrait atop the grand piano, he knew his concerns were legitimate. If he let them, his remaining daughters would stay at home forever—at least until he went to be with his precious Mandy, or, heaven forbid, he took another wife.
He almost had. Taken another wife, that is. While Antonio was courting his sweet Cassie, Andrew had found himself enraptured with Antonio’s widowed mother—the audacious, unpredictable Juliana Pagliarulo. Her exotic beauty had tantalized him just as her flamboyant personality had captivated him. And, amazingly, she had seemed equally enamored with him.
But, of course, the timing wasn’t right for a serious romance. These days Juliana had her hands full helping her disabled daughter learn to walk again. And a fine job she was doing. Belina, a lovely, blossoming young woman, was well on the road to recovery. At Cassie’s wedding she had served as a bridesmaid, walking proudly, victoriously down the aisle on canes. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house. In fact, Belina nearly stole the show from Antonio and Cassie, and no one could have been happier about it than they.
But it wasn’t just Juliana’s parental responsibilities that had nipped their romance in the bud. If Andrew was honest with himself, he was equally to blame. As much as he cared for Juliana, he still couldn’t quite relinquish his emotional hold on Mandy. He knew he was being foolish, holding on so desperately to his memories, finding his solace in a woman who had been dead for six long years.
A few times his daughters had caught him speaking aloud to Mandy, as if she were still alive, still in the room with him, listening to him unburden his heart. But his daughters’ concerned glances weren’t warranted. As eccentric as he might be, he wasn’t addled enough to believe Mandy could actually hear him (although wasn’t it possible she was listening from heaven’s portal?). The problem was that he had become so accustomed over the years to Mandy’s presence, her patient smile, her gentle voice, her listening ear. She was a hard habit to break. But, in spite of his grief, he wouldn’t wish Mandy back with him. Far better that she was with the Lord, free of pain and basking in His love.
Andrew heard a scratch at the door and turned just in time to glimpse his mongrel, mop-haired dog push the door open and bound inside. Ruggs half scrambled, half slid across the polished hardwood floor, his shaggy, hirsute form landing in a disheveled heap beside the piano bench. Andrew reached down and massaged the panting animal’s floppy ears. Ruggs rewarded him with a lick of his rough, wet tongue on Andrew’s chin.
“Well, Ruggsy boy, it looks like my daughters called in the troops…or should I say, one furry, four-footed storm trooper. “You go back downstairs and tell my girls I’m on my way.” He chuckled as Ruggs yipped eagerly. “Okay, boy, bark if you have to. They’ll get the message.”
Andrew followed the big, lumbering dog downstairs. Ruggs was one of Brianna’s foundlings—a neighborhood stray she had rescued nearly ten years ago from the clutches of an overzealous dog catcher. Bree had promised to find the starving pup a good home; the home turned out to be Andrew’s. Now Ruggs was as much a part of the family as anyone. The girls adored the ungainly pooch and forgave his every vice, including chewing Andrew’s leather shoes to shreds and pilfering steaks from the backyard grill.
With much howling, Ruggs announced Andrew’s presence in the dining room. Andrew took his place at the head of the table, flashing an apologetic smile at his two daughters. “Hope I’m not too late,” he said as he fastened Bree’s hand-stitched, terry-cloth bib around his neck. Bree had made him the enormous bib several years ago as a practical joke. Andrew was known far and wide for his clumsiness; he could never maneuver his way through a spaghetti dinner without strategically positioning a dollop of tomato sauce on his best dress shirt. So the bib was a welcome defense against all the loose spaghetti strands that threatened to attack.
Oddly, the bib idea caught on, and soon everyone in the family wanted one. Then guests who came to dinner began to expect them, too, so Bree gladly stitched a stack of them, customizing each one. The bibs became wonderful conversation pieces, always good for a laugh.
And a laugh is just what we need these days, Andrew mused to himself as he smoothed his bib over his starched white shirt. “Looks good,” he told Frannie as she set heaping bowls of pasta and spaghetti sauce on the linen-draped table beside a tossed salad and a platter of garlic cheese toast.
“Your favorites, Daddy,” she said, sitting down.
“You bet.” He reached for his daughters’ hands, bowed his head, and asked God’s blessing on the food, adding softly, “Lord, take special care of Cassie and Antonio, wherever they are tonight. Give them a wonderful life together. And fill this empty house with lots of life and laughter again.”
As they ate, Brianna gave Andrew several curious glances, as if she had something to say but didn’t know quite how to say it.
“What is it, Bree?” Andrew prompted. “Got something on your mind?”
Bree twirled a spaghetti strand on her fork. “I was just thinking, Daddy…”
“Thinking?” He chuckled knowingly. “Why does that sound like you’re about to spring a momentous announcement on me?”
“She’s probably bringing home another stray animal,” said Frannie lightly. “What is it this time, Bree? A wounded platypus? A homeless carrier pigeon? A dispossessed gopher?”
Bree scowled. “Don’t make fun of me, Fran. I’m serious.”
“Serious?” Andrew echoed guardedly. “How serious?”
“Just a little bit serious,” Bree said evasively.
Andrew looked her square in the eye. “Tell me, what are you cooking up, my darling daughter?”
“Nothing, Daddy. It’s just…this house has been so empty since Cassie moved out. All three of us have been feeling lonely, restless, at loose ends. It just doesn’t feel right, all these rooms with nobody to fill them.”
“And just who do you have in mind…to fill these rooms?” asked Andrew, helping himself to the garlic bread.
“Nobody in particular,” said Bree, “except maybe…”
“You might as well tell us,” said Frannie. “Just say it, and we’ll tell you if it’s one of your crazy, impossible ideas.”
Bree drew in a sharp breath. “There’s a girl I’ve been counseling at the clinic—”
“Oh, no!” cried Frannie. “Last time it was a woman with a bunch of rowdy kids. They invaded the sunroom, helped themselves to my paint and pelted one another with wet clay. They made my bust of Cicero look like Donald Duck! In ten minutes they nearly destroyed my entire art studio.”
“That was an unfortunate incident,” Bree acknowledged in a regretful voice. “But this client has no children…yet.”
“Yet?” quizzed Andrew. “Yet, as in…?”
“Three months.”
“She’s three months pregnant?” asked Frannie.
“No, her baby is due in three months.”
“What’s her story?” asked Andrew. “Her husband desert her?”
“Not exactly,” said Bree. “She’s a teenager. Almost nineteen. Her boyfriend broke up with her when he found out about the pregnancy, and it appears her parents want nothing to do with her. She’s all alone in the world…and she won’t admit it, but I know she’s scared. You should see her, Daddy. Trying to act like it’s no big deal when her world’s caving in. She needs a place to stay where she feels loved and accepted.”
Frannie poked at her spaghetti. “Can’t she stay at the shelter, Bree?”
“It’s mainly for battered wives. Besides, it’s full.”
Andrew cleared his throat. “Of course, the girl can stay here…if you think this is the place for her, Bree.”
“I do, Daddy.” Bree’s voice rose with excitement. “I really feel I can help her. We can help her. She may act blasé, even flippant at times, but I know she’s hurting inside. She thinks everyone has condemned her.”
“Well, then, let’s pray we can show her the love of God.”
“And she needs a job,” said Bree. “Something to make her feel better about herself.”
Frannie shook her head. “Who’s going to hire a woman about to give birth?”
“I thought of that,” said Bree. “That’s why I was thinking that maybe we could—”
Andrew smiled grimly. “Oh, oh, I’m not sure I like that look in your eyes, daughter.”
“But, Daddy, it’ll be perfect. I’ve got it all figured out. Marnie can work for you.”
“Marnie?”
“That’s her name. Marnie Smith—although I think she made up the Smith part.”
“What do you mean, she can work for me? I already have a secretary. You mean, work at the church?”
“No, Daddy. She can work right here. You’re always saying you wish you had someone here at home to help with clerical work—correspondence, filing, research for your sermons. If she’s staying here, anyway, she’ll have time on her hands, waiting for her baby to come. She can earn money to give herself and her baby a fresh start. Please say you’ll give her a chance.”
Andrew reached across the table and patted his daughter’s hand. “You win, dumpling. Have I ever said no when you’ve come home with one of your pet projects, your abandoned critters, your lost causes? Tell your young friend she has a home with us.”
But even as Andrew said the words, a niggling worry crept in. He had an uneasy feeling that this needy young girl might change their lives in more ways than any of them expected.
Chapter Two
Brianna brought Marnie home the next day, a balmy, late-June Saturday. The moment Marnie stepped inside the Rowlands’ house, she did a double take. “Wow!” she said with grudging admiration. “This is awesome. Not glitzy, like a rich person’s pad, but warm and homey. Like that retro Ozzie and Harriet stuff. A real home.”
“Thanks,” said Bree. “I think.”
“I like it,” Marnie went on, clutching a leather satchel in one hand and a canvas bag in the other. Tall and slender, with a coltish energy and grace, she looked like an ordinary teenager in her tank top and oversize bib overalls. No one would have guessed she was over six months pregnant.
“We can take your things directly up to your room, if you like,” said Bree, nodding toward the stairs.
“No, I’ll just set them here for now.” Marnie dropped her belongings beside the staircase and ambled across the entryway, her stacked sandals clicking on the marble floor. “This place beats some dreary women’s shelter.” She drifted into the living room and gazed around at the overstuffed sofa and chairs, the oak furniture, and the bay windows letting in sunlight. They could see a profusion of color from the rosebushes lining the front yard.
Marnie flashed a lopsided smile. She had an oval face with sharp features—a nose too pointed, lips too full, teeth a bit too large. Her long, umber-brown hair looked a bit bedraggled, as if she had got up in the morning and absently smoothed it back from her forehead with her hands. Marnie’s eyes—her most striking feature—were large, wide-set, shadowed at the corners, and a light spring-water blue. They seemed ageless, fathomless, melancholy, yet riveting, as if they were looking beyond the surface at something no one else could see.
“You sure your dad doesn’t mind putting me up for a few months?” she asked in an offhand voice that failed to hide an undercurrent of anxiety.
“I’m sure,” said Bree. “You stay as long as you need to.”
Marnie managed a hard-edged chuckle. “I guess him being a minister makes him want to do nice things for people, like taking in the poor and homeless…and pregnant.”
“He’s a neat guy,” said Bree. “Funny and warm and caring. You’ll like him.”
The two crossed the living room to the kitchen. It was roomy, with a sunny breakfast nook and garden window overlooking a sprawling backyard festooned with snow-white calla lilies, bright orange birds of paradise, pink azaleas in porcelain Ming pots, bougainvillea bushes, and a variety of tropical foliage.
“Are you hungry, Marnie?”
“Starved.” She smiled grimly. “I’m eating for two, you know.”
“Then, let’s raid the fridge.” Bree opened the refrigerator door and gazed inside. “Let’s see. We’ve got all sorts of mysterious concoctions hidden in butter tubs, but I’m not sure we want to risk our lives by sampling them.”
“I’m not fussy…as long as it’s edible and not growing little fuzzy green things.”
“I can’t vouch for most of this stuff. My dad believes you should never throw anything out until it’s clearly beyond redemption.”
“Not a bad philosophy,” noted Marnie with a hint of irony.
Bree nodded. “I never thought of it that way.” She retrieved a large plastic container and peeked inside. “Tell you what. We have spaghetti left over from last night. My sister Frannie makes the best pasta dishes in the world. She does this thing with basil and oregano. I’m no cook, so I have no idea how she does it, but it’s scrumptious.”
