Cruel Harvest

by Fran Elizabeth Grubb

  “What is that verse, if you don’t mind me asking?” The man looked kindly at me.

  “But if you do not forgive others their sins, your Father will not forgive your sins.”

  “Oh. That is nice. Come back in a week and we’ll have it ready for you.”

  A week later we returned. The man told us to pull around back and open the trunk. Two very large men appeared and placed the stone in the back. The car bounced when they let go of it.

  “That is heavy!” I said.

  “Weighs about three hundred pounds, ma’am.”

  I looked at the stone. It was only about two feet high and two feet across. Wayne started the engine, and we drove off. Not a block away, I turned to look at him.

  “How are we going to get that thing out of the trunk?” I asked.

  He shrugged. He recently had back surgery and could in no way lift that stone. A part of me was relieved. If there was no way to remove the stone, there would be no need for me to go through with this. I didn’t say anything else as we drove off to Cowpens.

  We came to a stop at a tiny cemetery right in the heart of town. The grass was green with large patches of brown. Some of the graves looked unkempt, but others appeared as if someone came each and every day to care for them. My heart rose up to my throat when Wayne opened his door.

  “Come on, honey,” he said.

  I got out and walked around to the trunk. He had it open.

  “What now?” I asked, half hoping we would go back home.

  He paused, scratched his head, and looked around. Suddenly, he pointed behind me. I turned, and through a line of tall oaks, I saw a family having a backyard barbeque. There were about two dozen people scattered across the lawn. Wayne would not give up. He walked us over to the yard. Not knowing what else to do, I approached an older man and introduced myself.

  “I have not seen my father in over thirty years, and I just found his grave,” I explained. “It is unmarked, so we brought a stone.”

  I did not even have to finish my story. Three young men sitting nearby jumped to their feet. They offered to help and followed us back to the cemetery. They reached in and took out the stone as if it were made of cork and placed it exactly where I asked.

  “We have money. I can pay you,” I said.

  They laughed and said no. Nodding to us, they walked off to rejoin their party. I watched them go and then turned to Wayne.

  “The Lord sent us help,” I said. “I guess it is His will.”

  Wayne nodded. “Without them, we’d have never gotten it out of the trunk.”

  That was when I finally turned back and really saw the stone standing on Daddy’s grave. A weakness came over my body, and I reached out. The small marker had his name and the dates printed on it, as well as the Bible verse, Matthew 6:15. Wayne took my hand, and together we stood there, looking down.

  Some might wonder how anyone could forgive a man like my dad. In that moment, it was not my mind that forgave him but the power of the Lord working through me. I could never have done it through my own power. There was no thinking about it. Instead, my heart opened up, breaking free from the weight that burdened it. Layers and layers of anger, built up over so many years of abuse, shed away. I was left raw and facing Daddy one last time. As I stood there by his grave, I realized I wasn’t angry. All I felt was sorry that a life had been wasted. Then, like a giant balloon that had been released into the air, my bitterness rose up out of me. I did not forget, and it took time to get past many of the hurts, but the process of forgiveness started the day we set that stone on his grave. Wayne and I stood still, looking down at his stone and holding each other for a long time.

  I had survived, although it was not always easy. I found love, although it took me half a lifetime. I was rebuilding a family torn apart. What had Daddy found?

  He never cared to know love, or he would never have treated his children as he had. He lost everyone in his family, and never would they return to his side. He had survived in his way but had ended up in an unmarked grave.

  I felt sad for Daddy. Not for what he did; there is no excuse or understanding for that. I felt sad for what he did not do—love, enjoy life, embrace God. In that moment, with my heart wide-open, my soul reaching out, and tears running down my cheeks, my mouth opened and words spilled out.

  “I forgive you, Daddy.” Tears ran down my cheeks.

  Wayne’s arm wrapped around my shoulder. He pulled me close to him, and I rested my head on his chest. The sun set behind the line of oak trees as wisps of pink and purple crossed the sky. A light breeze touched my face, and a gaping wound inside of me finally healed. I was free at last, and it was as if I could see Daddy’s ghost float out into that sunset, gone but never forgotten—forgiven but never understood.

  Chapter 30

  The Reunion

  Our car turned onto the winding road leading into Lake Greenwood. Through the high, straight trunks of the giant pines that surrounded the park, I saw the water. It shimmered in the afternoon sunlight as millions of tiny ripples floated on its surface.

  “Look how beautiful,” I said to Wayne, who was driving.

  He looked at me instead of the lake. “Are you nervous, honey?”

  I let out a huge breath. My stomach was turning like a clothes dryer, and my head felt lighter than air. My insides seemed out of order, as if something huge was building up where there had been nothing but emptiness.

  “Just very excited,” I said.

  He laughed. “I am too.”

  We turned along the bend in the road, and that’s when I saw the parking lot. It was filled with dozens of cars! I could not believe it. These people were kin to me. They were part of my family; a family I never believed I would have this side of heaven. Wayne found a spot and parked the car. He turned off the engine, but I made no attempt to get out.

  “They’re waiting for you,” he said gently.

  “What if they don’t like me?”

  Wayne placed his hand softly on mine. “You know that won’t be the case.”

  “But I don’t recognize them. I don’t know them.”

  “Well, you’re gonna know them in just a few minutes. Let’s go!” He smiled.

  “Okay, I’m ready.”

  I looked into his eyes, and an overwhelming sense of love swept through me. It replaced the nervousness and fear I felt. Wayne was always the calm, soft voice of reason.

  “I could not have done this without you,” I told him.

  “You would have found them eventually,” he said. “I’m just the tool God used.”

  I ran my hand softly over his cheek. “I mean, I couldn’t have found them and learned how to forgive without you.”

  “That wasn’t me,” he said.

  I nodded, understanding what he meant. God had brought him into my life for a reason. Wayne, the calming light that helped me find true freedom, was my soul mate. He came when I most needed him and showed me the meaning of forgiveness.

  “Let’s go,” he said again, a huge smile on his face.

  “I can’t believe that I’m going to see them all again.”

  “You won’t see them if you don’t get out of this car.” He laughed.

  I laughed with him. His humor gave me the courage to open the door. I stepped out of the car and immediately heard the distant sound of laughter and children at play coming up from the lakeshore. Taking Wayne’s hand, I followed that sound. That joyous sound seeped into my soul with each step. It filled me.

  As I topped a gentle rise, the sound of guitar, keyboard, and tambourine mingled with the laughter of children. At the top of the grassy hill, I froze. Down below me, a family spread out under a giant tree. I saw people sharing pictures and heard others telling stories. I watched as groups of people laughed and hugged.

  Overwhelmed, I turned to Wayne. I had a large lump in my throat.

  “Can this really be happening?”

  “It can.” He hugged me and whispered in my ear. “This is your family, honey
!”

  With a deep breath, I walked toward the reunion. The faces below became clear and more familiar. A small group of children raced toward us, engrossed in their own game of tag. I had never met them before, but I could see my family reflected on their cherubic faces.

  “Frances!” someone yelled.

  I looked up and saw Jimmy walking quickly toward me. He took me in his strong arms and hugged the air out of my chest. He shook Wayne’s hand and clapped him on the back.

  “This is a miracle,” I breathed.

  The smile on his face said it all. It was as if he were glowing from the inside.

  “Come on,” he said. “Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  Jimmy led me to the park shelter. We passed several long tables covered with dishes of food. There were black-eyed peas, potato salad, fried green tomatoes, macaroni salad, deviled eggs, fried chicken, catfish, hush puppies, and some of the most beautiful pies and cakes I’d ever seen. My stomach rumbled when I took in the smell.

  I spied Brenda immediately, sitting in a chair at the end of the first table. She was handing out chips and cookies to passing children like a mother bird feeding her young. The tenderness I remembered from our childhood radiated from her like a warm, loving hug. All the children felt it too, and they flocked around her.

  “Hi, Sissie,” I said.

  My sister rose to her feet and spread her arms. I hugged her for what felt like an hour. Our embrace only ended because the children were restless. They wanted their treats. Brenda laughed, and the sound was like music to my ears.

  I sat beside her and we visited, talking as we had at her house, only this time she was smiling! Happiness and contentment radiated from her eyes. Jimmy and Wayne sat with us. Everyone seemed at home, as though we had never been apart. The band struck up another song, and I noticed Brenda swaying to the music. Nellie walked over and joined us. We were all together again at last.

  To my surprise, when that song ended, Brenda walked over to the band. She whispered to them and they nodded. I was shocked when she picked up the microphone; Brenda is a very reserved person in public and is not one to call attention to herself—ever. When the tune started, though, my heart missed a beat. It was a gospel song my mama used to sing to us when we were children.

  “Farther along, we’ll know all about it . . .”

  I stood up, as did Jimmy and Nellie, and listened to Brenda sing. Her voice embraced us. She sounded so much like Mama that it was as if my mother were there with us. We were a family again.

  My eyes brimmed over, and a tear slid down my cheek. That was the moment that the whole inside of me filled to overflowing. It filled with Brenda’s lovely voice, with Jimmy’s strong presence, with memories of Susie and Mama. It filled with people of my blood, a family I had lost so long ago. It filled with love and forgiveness.

  I reached out behind me, searching. A familiar hand found mine. I squeezed and looked up into Wayne’s eyes.

  “Thank you,” I said out loud.

  He looked down at me and smiled. “Don’t thank me.”

  I smiled back, feeling the warmth of his embrace. “I wasn’t thanking you, Sweetheart.”

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to acknowledge and thank Brian Hampton and each person at Thomas Nelson whose talent, patience, and wisdom shaped Cruel Harvest into the book we prayed for. The creativity and editorial skills of Kristen Parrish and Janene Maclvor are priceless! I am in awe of your talents.

  I want to thank Joel Miller, whose faith and insight pushed this book forward. I am certain that God worked through Joel Miller to birth Cruel Harvest.

  Lori Lynch, Julie Faires, Jennifer McNeil, Chad Cannon, Katherine Rowley, Brenda Smotherman, Kristi Henson, Debbie King, April Dupree, Lisa Schmidt, and so many others behind the scenes at Thomas Nelson deserve a medal! Your kindness and patience seem limitless. Thank you all!

  I want to thank everyone for their prayers during the years that it took to write this book. You know who you are. Your encouragement and faith is deeply appreciated.

  I would also like to acknowledge the Helen Reese Agency.

  And a special thank you to Wayne Grubb, my husband and friend, who held my hand and prayed faithfully beside me, never doubting for seven years as I wrote and rewrote page after page. Your contribution is priceless.

  Most of all I want to thank Jesus Christ for allowing me the privilege of knowing Him and for finding the perfect home—the home He chose, for Cruel Harvest. Thank you, Lord!

  Author’s Note

  Wayne and I wanted very much to find Mary Anne, but we never learned Millie’s maiden name or if Mary Anne took the name of her real father, so, sadly, we were unable to find either of them.

  Wayne searched the Internet for my mama and learned she had died several years after my dad died. She is buried in Spartanburg, South Carolina, in her sister’s family plot.

  Mr. Spencer, Jackie, and I remain friends.

  About the Author

  Fran Grubb travels across the southeast United States with her husband, Wayne, singing her way into the hearts of her listeners and speaking at churches, tent revivals, prisons, women’s shelters, children’s homes, drug or alcohol rehabilitation centers, or any place there is need. Fran and her husband are founders of Feed the Hungry Children, a nonprofit working with the hurting in Kenya.

  For more information see www.frangrubb.com.