Waiting for Morning Read online

  PRAISE FOR KAREN KINGSBURY’S

  BOOKS

  Waiting for Morning

  “What a talent! I love her work.”

  GARY SMALLEY, BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “Kingsbury not only entertains but also goes a step further and confronts readers with situations that are all too common, even for Christians. At the same time, it will remind believers of God’s mercy and challenge them to pray for America. The book … reveals God’s awesome love and His amazing ability to turn moments of weakness into times of strengthening.”

  CHRISTIAN RETAILING, SPOTLIGHT REVIEW

  When Joy Came to Stay

  “Kingsbury confronts hard issues with truth and sensitivity.”

  FRANCINE RIVERS, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF LEOTA’S GARDEN

  “Kingsbury’s poignant tale of a lost and broken family and how they experience God’s miraculous healing is a sure guarantee to bring hope and joy to her readers.”

  MELODY CARLSON, AUTHOR OF DIARY OF A TEENAGE GIRL AND IT’S MY LIFE

  “A thought-provoking account of the battle with depression in a believer’s life. It leaves no doubt that God is loving, merciful, and faithful.”

  NANCY MOSER, AUTHOR OF THE MUSTARD SEED SERIES

  A Moment of Weakness

  “Kingsbury spins a tale of love and loss, lies and betrayal, that sent me breathlessly turning pages.…”

  LIZ CURTIS HIGGS, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF BOOKENDS AND MIXED SIGNALS

  “A gripping love story. A Moment of Weakness demonstrates the devastating consequences of wrong choices and the long shadows deception casts over the lives of God’s children. It also shows the even longer reach of God’s providence, grace, and forgiveness.”

  RANDY ALCORN, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF DEADLINE AND DOMINION

  “One message shines clear and strong through Karen Kingsbury’s A Moment of Weakness: Our loving God is a God of second chances.”

  ANGELA ELWELL HUNT, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE IMMORTAL

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues

  are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed

  as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons,

  living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  WAITING FOR MORNING

  published by Multnomah Books

  A division of Random House, Inc.

  © 1999 by Karen Kingsbury

  Published in association with the literary agency of Arthur Pine Associates, Inc.

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from:

  The Holy Bible, New International Version (NIV) © 1973, 1984 by International

  Bible Society, used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House

  Multnomah and its mountain colophon are registered trademarks

  of Random House Inc.

  Excerpts from the hymn Great is Thy Faithfulness by Thomas O. Chisholm ©1923, Ren. 1951 Hope Publishing Company, Carol Stream, IL 60188. All rights reserved. International copyright secured. Used by permision.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission.

  For information:

  MULTNOMAH BOOKS

  12265 ORACLE BOULEVARD, SUITE 200

  COLORADO SPRINGS, CO 80921

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kingsbury, Karen.

  Waiting for morning/by Karen Kingsbury.

  p.cm. eISBN: 978-0-307-56883-0

  I. Title.

  PS3561.I483L66 1999

  813’.54–dc21

  98-45973

  v3.1

  Dedicated to

  my best friend, Donald,

  If life’s a dance …

  then I pray the music keeps playing forever.

  Being married to you is the

  sweetest song of all.

  To Kelsey,

  my softhearted little Norm,

  I can see in you the beautiful

  young woman you are becoming …

  especially your eyes,

  which so closely resemble your dad’s

  and your Father’s.

  To Ty,

  my precious son …

  whose flowers have given me

  the most beautiful bouquet of memories.

  I cherish watching you grow

  in the image of the daddy you

  so clearly emulate.

  To Austin,

  my greatest miracle …

  watching you throw the ball

  and make layups

  is daily proof of God’s unending love

  and faithfulness,

  even in the darkest days.

  And to God Almighty,

  Who has—for now—blessed me with these.

  NOVELS BY KAREN KINGSBURY

  Where Yesterday Lives

  When Joy Came to Stay

  On Every Side

  A Time to Dance

  A Time to Embrace (sequel to A Time to Dance)

  One Tuesday Morning

  Oceans Apart

  THE FOREVER FAITHFUL SERIES

  Waitng for Morning

  A Moment of Weakness

  Halfway to Forever

  THE REDEMPTION SERIES

  (Co-written with Gary Smalley)

  Redemption

  Remember

  Return

  Rejoice

  Reunion

  THE RED GLOVES CHRISTMAS SERIES

  Gideon’s Gift

  Maggie’s Miracle

  Sarah’s Song

  www.karenkingsbury.com

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a novel about the devastating effects of drunk driving was a difficult, emotional journey and one that could not have been taken without borrowing from the pain of others. Searching for that dark place of despair and devastation, I read countless stories of tragic, senseless loss. I pored over the Mothers Against Drunk Drivers Memorial web site and often conducted research through eyes blurred with tears.

  For that reason, I wish to thank Mothers Against Drunk Drivers and every person who has ever helped change or tighten a drunk driving law. You may never know this side of heaven all the lives you have saved in the process. I pray you keep on.

  Thanks also to the amazing staff at Multnomah Publishers. From sales to marketing to cover design to publicity … please know that God is working through you in ways that will continue to produce books that change lives, especially books like this. Thanks so much for all your help.

  Of course, as with my last book, my writing would be nothing without the God-given talents of my editor, Karen Ball. You are a friend and a mentor, and I hope to keep learning from you as long as the Lord allows. Thanks a million times over.

  Also thanks to my husband and family for their support and encouragement during what is always an emotional process—the writing of a novel. I am nothing without your collective smiles, cheers, hugs, and endless love throughout the days.

  As with other projects, my parents and extended family were again an encouragement that I value deeply. Thanks to you and to the friends in my women’s Bible study and other close sisters in Christ who hold me in prayer, asking the Lord to use my writing for his glory.

  And finally, a special thanks to my dear friend, Julie Kremer. One day nearly a decade ago, Julie’s husband got a phone call from their teenage daughter. Her friend’s car had broken down on the side of the road. Julie’s husband did not hesitate but left immediately to help.

  While he was out, he was hit and killed by a drunk driver, leaving Julie a
nd two teenage children alone.

  I never knew Julie’s husband, but I will forever be touched by the way Julie forgave. She brought a Bible to the man who killed her husband, and after that, continued to keep her eyes on the Lord.

  Thank you, Julie, for teaching me what it is to forgive … and for giving me a reason to write Waiting for Morning.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Excerpt from A Moment of Weakness

  One

  I am in torment within, and in my heart I am disturbed.

  LAMENTATIONS 1:20A

  Sunday Evening

  They were late and that bothered her.

  She had been through a list of likely explanations, any one of which was possible. They’d stopped for ice cream; they’d forgotten something back at the campsite; they’d gotten a later start than usual.

  Still Hannah Ryan was uneasy. Horrific images, tragic possibilities threatened to take up residence in her mind, and she struggled fiercely to keep them out.

  The afternoon was cooling, so she flipped off the air conditioning and opened windows at either end of the house. A hint of jasmine wafted inside and mingled pleasantly with the pungent scent of Pine-Sol and the warm smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

  Minutes passed. Hannah folded two loads of whites, straightened the teal, plaid quilts on both girls’ beds again, and wiped down the Formica kitchen countertop for the third time. Determined to fight the fear welling within her, she wrung the worn, pink sponge and angled it against the tiled wall. More air that way, less mildew. She rearranged the cookies on a pretty crystal platter, straightened a stack of floral napkins nearby, and rehearsed once more the plans for dinner.

  The house was too quiet.

  Praise music. That’s what she needed. She sorted through a stack of compact discs until she found one by David Jeremiah. Good. David Jeremiah would be nice. Calming. Upbeat. Soothing songs that would consume the time, make the waiting more bearable.

  She hated it when they were late. Always had. Her family had been gone three days and she missed them, even missed the noise and commotion and constant mess they made.

  That was all this was … just a terrible case of missing them.

  David Jeremiah’s voice filled the house, singing about when the Lord comes and wanting to be there to see it. She drifted back across the living room to the kitchen. Come on, guys. Get home.

  She stared out the window and willed them back, willed the navy blue Ford Explorer around the corner, where it would move slowly into the driveway, leaking laughter and worn-out teenage girls. Willed her family home where they belonged.

  But there was no Explorer, no movement at all save the subtle sway of branches in the aging elm trees that lined the cul-de-sac.

  Hannah Ryan sighed, and for just a moment she considered the possibilities. Like all mothers, she was no stranger to the tragedies of others. She had two teenage daughters, after all, and more than once she had read a newspaper article that hit close to home. Once it was a teenager who had, in a moment of silliness, stood in the back of a pickup truck as the driver took off. That unfortunate teen had been catapulted to the roadway, his head shattered, death instant. Another time it was the report of an obsessive boy who stalked some promising young girl and gunned her down in the doorway of her home.

  When Hannah’s girls were little, other tragedies had jumped off the newspaper pages. The baby in San Diego who found his mother’s button and choked to death while she chatted on the phone with her sister. The toddler who wandered out the back gate and was found hours later at the bottom of a neighbor’s murky pool.

  It was always the same. Hannah would absorb the story, reading each word intently, and then, for a moment, she would imagine such a thing happening to her family. Better, she thought, to think it through. Play it out so that if she were ever the devastated mother in the sea of heartache that spilled from the morning news, she would be ready. There would be an initial shock, of course, but Hannah usually skimmed past that detail. How could one ever imagine a way to handle such news? But then there would be the reality of a funeral, comforting friends, and ultimately, life would go on. To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord; wasn’t that what they said? She knew this because of her faith.

  No, she would not be without hope, no matter the tragedy.

  Of course, these thoughts of Hannah’s usually happened in less time than it took her to fold the newspaper and toss it in the recycling bin. They were morbid thoughts, she knew. But she was a mother, and there was no getting around the fact that somewhere in the world other mothers were being forced to deal with tragedy.

  Other mothers.

  That was the key. Eventually, even as she turned from the worn bin of yesterday’s news and faced her day, Hannah relished the truth that those tragedies always happened to other mothers. They did not happen to people she knew—and certainly they would not happen to her.

  She prayed then, as she did at the end of every such session, thanking God for a devoted, handsome husband with whom she was still very much in love, and for two beautiful daughters strong in their beliefs and on the brink of sweet-sixteen parties and winter dances, graduation and college. She was sorry for those to whom tragedy struck, but at the same time, she was thankful that such things had never happened to her.

  Just to be sure, she usually concluded the entire process with a quick and sincere plea, asking God to never let happen to her and hers what had happened to them and theirs.

  In that way, Hannah Ryan had been able to live a fairly worry-free life. Tragedy simply did not happen to her. Would not. She had already prayed about it. Scripture taught that the Lord never gave more than one could bear. So Hannah believed God had protected her from tragedy or loss of any kind because he knew she couldn’t possibly bear it.

  Still, despite all this assurance, tragic thoughts haunted her now as they never had before.

  David Jeremiah sang on about holding ground, standing, even when everything in life was falling apart. Hannah listened to the words, and a sudden wave of anxiety caused her heart to skip a beat. She didn’t want to stand. She wanted to run into the streets and find them.

  She remembered a story her grandmother once told about a day in the early seventies when she was strangely worried about her only son, Hannah’s uncle. All day her grandmother had paced and fretted and prayed.…

  Late that evening she got the call. She knew immediately, of course. Her son had been shot that morning, killed by a Viet Cong bullet. A sixth sense, she called it later. Something only a mother could understand.
>
  Hannah felt that way now, and she hated herself for it. As if by letting herself be anxious she would, in some way, be responsible if something happened to her family.

  She reminded herself to breathe. Motionless, hands braced on the edge of the kitchen sink, shoulders tense, she stared out the window. Time slipped away, and David Jeremiah sang out the last of his ten songs. Lyrics floated around her, speaking of the Lord’s loving arms and begging him not to let go, not to allow a fall.

  Hannah swallowed and noticed her throat was thick and dry. Two minutes passed. The song ended and there was silence. Deafening silence.

  The sunlight was changing now, and shadows formed as evening drew near. In all ways that would matter to two teenage girls coming home from a mountain camping trip with their father, it couldn’t have been a nicer day in the suburbs of Los Angeles. Bright and warm, a sweet, gentle breeze sifted through the still full trees. Puffy clouds hung suspended in a clear blue sky, ripe with memories of lazy days and starry nights.

  It was the last day of a golden summer break.

  What could possibly go wrong on a day like this?

  Two

  How deserted lies the city, once so full of people!

  LAMENTATIONS 1:1A

  Sunday before Dawn

  Long before the sun came up, Dr. Tom Ryan stirred from his rumpled sleeping bag and nudged the lumpy forms on either side of him.

  “Pssst. Wake up. One hour ’til sunrise.”

  The sleeping figures buried themselves deeper in the down-filled bags, and one of them groaned.

  “Ahhh, Dad. Let’s sleep in.”

  Tom was already on his feet, folding his sleeping bag in a tight, Boy-Scout roll and wrapping it with a nylon cord. He poked his toe first at one form, then the other, tickling them and evoking a giggle from the chief complainer.

  “Daaad. Stop!”

  “Up and at ’em. We have fish to catch.”

  Alicia Ryan poked her head out of her bag. “We have enough fish.”

  Tom was indignant. “Enough fish? Did I hear a Ryan daughter say we have enough fish? Never enough fish. That’s our creed. Now come on, get up.”