“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” Jake said. “Something important.”
“More important than marriage?” she asked, smiling down at the ring sparkling on her finger.
“Not really. But maybe as important.”
“What?”
“It’s about children.”
“I want them,” Lynda said. “Lots of them. And I hope they look just like you.”
He laughed. “I’d rather they look like you. But I was thinking of a head start, kind of. I was thinking of adoption.”
Her eyes caught his grin, and she sat up straight and cocked her head to look at him. “Jake, you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking, are you? Because I’ve thought it myself, only I didn’t think you’d think—”
“Jimmy and Lisa,” he said.
“Yes!” she shouted. “Yes! We can be the best parents anybody ever had, and—”
“Let’s call Nick,” he said. “I don’t want to waste any time!”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
SIX Months Later
The plane Jake had named Trinity circled the airfield, to the cheers of the dozens of children—most of them residents of the St. Clair Children’s Home—then descended for a landing on the long dirt runway. Nick and Beth watched from a crowd of children as Jake Stevens rolled the plane to a stop, and Lynda Barrett Stevens turned back to the crowd with her bullhorn.
“All right, guys! Who hasn’t been up yet?”
“Me, Mommy! I wanna go!” Lisa jumped up and down in front of her, waving her arm in front of her face so she wouldn’t be missed.
“You can go anytime!” Jimmy said. “Let Dad take them, Lisa!”
“But I wanna go too! I wanna see their faces!”
Lynda laughed and hugged the child that had brought so much joy to the home she and Jake were making together. “All right, sweetie. You’re in the next group.”
Melissa and Larry Millsaps counted off the next group of kids Jake would take up for a flight, then herded them over to the wing, where Tony Danks and his fiancée, Sharon Robinson, stood waiting to pull them up and help them into the plane.
The children roared and cheered as Jake turned the plane around and taxied back up the airstrip.
Nick slid his arm around his wife and pulled her close. “They’re loving this,” he said.
Beth laughed and ran her fingers through her hair. She had let it grow out some and had returned it to its natural color. “Yeah, it was a good idea. And you know he’s not just showing them the clouds. He’s got a captive audience up there to tell them all about Jesus.”
“The way things have been going at the home, they might just tell him about Jesus. You’re a great influence for them, Beth. You never let an opportunity go by—”
“When they lie down, and when they rise up. I wish someone had explained it all to me earlier. Then I would have known that I was loved. That I wasn’t just some throwaway kid that nobody wanted.”
“Not one of these kids feels like a throwaway,” Nick said. “They’re happy, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, I think they are. Bill Brandon’s brainwashing goes deep, but Christ’s grace is deeper.”
“Way deeper,” Nick said. He leaned over and kissed his wife, then pulled her into a crushing hug as the plane circled over their heads, and the burgers sizzled on the grills, and the children laughed and squealed and ran across the grass.
And the joy they all felt was a divine gift that couldn’t be doused or destroyed by men, because God had chosen to bestow it on them like a beautiful package under a Christmas tree—
Or a marriage that blossomed brighter with each passing day—Or an eternity without threat or malice.
Miracles, they were, all shining and bright beneath the warm rays of God’s smile.
AFTERWORD
Recently, I was sitting in the Green Room at CBN Headquarters in Virginia Beach, waiting to go on The 700 Club, when God taught me one of those lessons that he often teaches when we least expect it. The producer had just come in and told me that I’d be squeezed on at the end of the program, and that I might get six minutes.
My heart sank, because I wanted so much to give my whole testimony about how God had convicted me to leave my career in the secular market and write Christian fiction only. There were so many miracles God had performed in my life, so many things I wanted the 700 Club viewers to know about. But there was no way I could tell them all of it in six minutes.
The guest coordinator of the show and the executive producer were in the Green Room with me, and when the producer who had delivered the startling news retreated, I looked at the other two and confessed that I was nervous. That was an understatement. The truth was that I was in a state of sheer panic.
Without batting an eye, Jackie, the guest coordinator, began praying for me. She asked God to remind me that he had brought me here for a reason, and that he wasn’t going to forsake me now. Immediately afterward, the two were called away, and I was left in the room alone.
Instantly, I began to pray again. I asked God not to let Terry Meeuwsen, the interviewer, waste time with fluffy talk about writing and publishing, but that the Lord would give her the exact questions that would move the story forward rapidly enough that I could get out the most important parts of my testimony. I asked him to give me peace about going out there under such time constraints, as well as a clear head so that my thoughts and my words would flow smoothly. And I prayed for the hearts of those viewers who needed to hear what God had done for me.
Peace fell over me, and when the producer came for me, I was calm. Terry asked pertinent and intelligent questions that jumped the story forward when it needed to jump forward, and I was able to get my testimony out. The interesting thing is that some parts of the story which I might have left out, God saw fit to leave in. Terry’s questions prompted me to answer them.
What was the lesson I learned that day? I learned that when we do anything by our own strength, we have the potential of failing. But when we empty ourselves of our own intentions, our own plans, our own goals, God will fill us up with his Holy Spirit. When we’re directed by the Creator of the universe, how can we fail?
God gives us everything we need. Christian friends, teachers, churches, pastors, the Bible . . . But if we just use those things to get us to some end—whether it be a successful interview or salvation itself—they’re nothing more than tools. Without the Father to guide us, the Christ to motivate us, and the Holy Spirit to empower us, we have the potential to fail.
But thanks be to God, through Jesus Christ our Lord, that “he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus” (Philippians 1:6). And thanks to our Father for giving us not just the tools, but the reason and the power to go along with them. And thanks to him, especially, for giving us the outcome—success, always, pure and divine, the way he designed it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Terri Blackstock is an award-winning novelist who has written for several major publishers including HarperCollins, Dell, Harlequin, and Silhouette. Published under two pseudonyms, her books have sold over 5 million copies worldwide.
With her success in secular publishing at its peak, Blackstock had what she calls “a spiritual awakening.” A Christian since the age of fourteen, she realized she had not been using her gift as God intended. It was at that point that she recommitted her life to Christ, gave up her secular career, and made the decision to write only books that would point her readers to him.
“I wanted to be able to tell the truth in my stories,” she said, “and not just be politically correct. It doesn’t matter how many readers I have if I can’t tell them what I know about the roots of their problems and the solutions that have literally saved my own life.”
Her books are about flawed Christians in crisis and God’s provisions for their mistakes and wrong choices. She claims to be extremely qualified to write such books, since she’s had years of personal experience.<
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A native of nowhere, since she was raised in the Air Force, Blackstock makes Mississippi her home. She and her husband are the parents of three children—a blended family which she considers one more of God’s provisions.
Be sure to read this sample chapter from Terri Blackstock’s novel True Light
ONE
THE BUCK FELL WITH THE FIRST SHOT, and Zach Emory couldn’t help being impressed with himself. From his deer stand, it looked like an eight- or ten-pointer. If the weather stayed cold, he’d be able to make it last for several weeks’ worth of meals.
He climbed down from his deer stand and pulled up the collar of his jacket. It was so cold his ears were numb, and his fingers had begun to ache. But it was worth it. Even in the pre-outage days, Zach had spent many mornings sitting in a deer stand freezing to death, just for sport. Now it was a matter of survival.
He jogged toward the animal that lay dead twenty yards away. His brother Gary would be crazy with envy. They had a competition going, and Gary was two up on him. Zach hoped Gary had heard the gunshot and would come to help him move the deer. It would take both of them to lift it into their rickshaw.
He bent over the buck. Ten points. And a perfect shot right through the heart. His dad would finally be proud, and if he was lucky, his mother would drag herself out of bed to get a look.
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see a man emerging from the trees, walking toward him. Zach squinted, trying to place him. He’d seen him before, but he couldn’t remember where.
“Did I score or what?” he asked as the man came closer. “He’s a ten-pointer. Got him in one shot, right through the ticker!”
The man didn’t look like he’d come to celebrate. He stopped about thirty feet away . . . and raised his rifle.
Was he going to shoot? Zach’s hands came up, as if that would stop him.
The gun fired—its impact propelling Zach backward, bouncing him onto the dirt.
TWO
THE BUILDING SMELLED OF MOTOR OIL AND GREASE —A scent Deni Branning associated with progress. A symphony of roaring engines brought a smile to her face as she rolled her bike inside. Oh, for the days of noise pollution and hurry—of bumper-to- bumper traffic, honking horns, blaring radios, and twenty-four-hour TV.
All over the large warehouse, mechanics and engineers with black-stained fingers worked at converting engines. The building had been purchased by the feds a few months ago, when they instituted the draft. Instead of drafting soldiers, the government had conscripted all of those with experience as mechanics. Later, they’d added others to the conscription list: electricians, scientists, and engineers. Many of them were allowed to live at home and work in the local conversion plants, but others had been sent across the country to serve where they were needed.
Pushing down the kickstand on her bike, she reached into her bag for her notepad and looked around for someone in charge. She saw Ned Emory, from her neighborhood, standing nearby with a clipboard, instructing a group of mechanics with a disassembled engine laid out in front of them. She headed toward him.
“Excuse me,” she yelled over the noise. “Mr. Emory?”
He turned. “Yeah?”
She could see that he didn’t recognize her, even though his son Zach had been close friends with her brother for years. “Deni Branning. Jeff’s sister?”
Recognition dawned in his eyes. She reached out to shake hands with him, but he showed her his greasy hands. “Better not shake. What brings you here?”
“I’m writing an article about your work here. Do you have time for an interview?”
As if he hadn’t heard her, he turned back to the men, barked out some orders that she couldn’t hear, and started walking away. Glancing back over his shoulder, he said, “I heard the newspaper is back up and running. They hired you, did they?”
She caught up to him and tried to match his steps. “That’s right. The Crockett Times. They liked what I’d been doing on the message boards around town. This’ll be the cover story for next week’s issue.”
He didn’t seem impressed, so she pulled out her big guns. “You guys are like rock stars. Everybody wants to know what you’re up to.”
Pride pulled at the corners of his mouth, and she knew she’d struck a chord. “Sure, I can give you a few minutes. What do you want to know?”
He started up a staircase, and she blew out her frustration as she followed him. “Is there someplace we can sit down?”
“I don’t have time to sit down.” He reached the top of the stairs and headed across the concrete floor to an area where a dozen mopeds sat in various stages of completion. “Hey, Stark! I need at least four of these done by the end of the day. Get Bennett over here to help you.”
Deni’s gaze swept over the bikes. “Wow. How can I get one of those?”
“You can’t. They’re not for the private sector.” He was walking again, but she hung back, unable to tear herself away from the coveted mopeds. She stepped toward one and touched the seat.
He turned back and gave her an impatient look. “Do you want to do the interview or not?”
She shook off her longing and forced herself to focus. “Of course.”
He led her past a table filled with generators, and again, her longing kicked in. “Do those work?”
“They do after we harden them against the Pulses.”
Her heart quickened. If they were making hardened generators here, it wouldn’t be long until they actually had electricity. Could there really be lightbulbs at the end of the tunnel?
“When will those be available for the public?” she asked, catching up to him again.
“Our illustrious supernova will burn out before we can finish supplying the hospitals. They’re priority number one for the generators right now. Without robotics, assembly lines—electricity, for that matter—we have to do everything by hand, one at a time. And even if we could produce enough for the public, there’s one missing ingredient.”
“Gasoline,” she said.
“You got it.” He reached a series of offices with glass walls, overlooking the work on the floor below them. “We can’t get enough gas without operating tanker trucks, and once we get it here, we don’t have electricity to work the pumps.”
She was well aware of the chain of problems. “But aren’t you guys all about creating work-arounds?”
“Right now we’re just trying to help critical services operate. Like I said, the star will likely burn out before we get caught up with that. Then we’ll shift our objectives from sustaining to rebuilding.” He headed into one of the offices, dropped his clipboard on his desk, and motioned for her to take a seat.
As Deni sat down, something outside the glass caught Ned’s eye, and Deni turned to follow his gaze. Someone was running up the stairs.
Ned frowned as his son Gary came running toward his door. “Dad, Zach’s been shot!”
“What?”
Deni caught her breath and got to her feet.
“We were hunting at the Jenkins’s place. I heard some gunshots and . . . when I found him .?.?.”
“Is he dead?” Ned blurted out.
“I don’t think so. I got help and somebody went to get an ambulance. They’re taking him to University Hospital.”
Ned grabbed his son’s shoulders. “What condition was he in when they took him?”
Gary trembled as he raked his hands through his hair. “There was blood all over his shirt . . . front and back.”
Deni’s heart stopped. Her brother’s best friend.?.?.
Ned raced out of the office and hurried down the stairs, Gary on his heels. Deni followed them as far as the top of the stairs, then waited there as they hurried through the building. All the engines went quiet, and everyone stared as Ned ran to a beat-up Buick. “The keys!” he shouted. “Where are the keys?”
Someone tossed them to him, and he got in and started the engine. Gary jumped in beside him. Two guys pulled up the garage door and the Buick rumbled out.
Deni muttered a prayer for Zach as they drove off—and then a thought struck her. Jeff, Deni’s brother, sometimes hunted with Zach. Could they have been together? What if he’d been hurt too?
She had to get to the scene of the shooting. She ran downstairs, grabbed her bike, and pedaled out behind them.
THREE
“ZACH? ZACH, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
Zach tried to open his eyes, but they were glued shut. Something was shaking and bumping him—and with each jolt, pain exploded through him.
“Zach, we’re getting you to the hospital, okay, buddy? Stay with me.”
Was he in an ambulance? How long had it been since he’d been in a running car? Weeks? Months? Years? His brain couldn’t find the answer.
He tried to breathe, but something was crushing his chest. Drowning . . . choking . . . gurgling.
Something sliced through his throat. “We’re gonna help you breathe, buddy. Hang on, we’re almost there.”
He couldn’t breathe. Gagging. Smothering. Gasping.
The ambulance jerked to a stop, people all around him yelling, probing, pushing.
As they rolled him into the building, Zach knew he was dying.
FOUR
THE MEETING HAD BEEN DRAGGING ON FOR HOURS. Doug Branning shifted in his seat and wished they would take a break, so the attendees could dash outside to the Porta-Johns lined up around the Birmingham Jefferson Convention Complex. For weeks, he’d looked forward to the symposium of economic leaders in the area. His success as a stockbroker had gotten him an invitation, and he hoped to hear about when the banks would open and what the plan would be for infusing money into the economy.
Because the big complex was without electricity, chairs had been set up in the multileveled lobby of the big building, so they could take advantage of the light from the windows. He’d sat riveted for most of the day as financial leaders argued that opening the banks would have a destructive effect on the economy. Others countered that opening them would help. Doug wasn’t sure which side of the fence he landed on, professionally. But as a victim of this disaster, he wanted his cash.
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