Crying in the Morgue, Laughing in the Dark

A. Allen Mary

Description

With four active boys at home, forty-one-year-old Stella Grayson has no energy or desire to raise another child. When she becomes pregnant, she does everything she can to deny her pregnancy exists. When little Myra is born, Stella refuses to acknowledge the child, hoping she can put the baby up for adoption. Stellas husband, John, would never agree; hes been hoping to raise a little girl. The doctor sends Myra to the morgue to die. But God intervenes, and Myra is given a chance at life. Despite Myras deep feelings of inadequacy, the Lord gave her an unquenchable love for others and an irrepressible joy for life. Her journey through childhood and her adolescent years is long and the struggles are hard, but the end result surprises even Myras bruised and tender heart. Based on an inspiring true story, Crying in the Morgue, Laughing in the Dark is filled with deep emotional truths that speak to the heart of women. With real and sympathetic characters, the story weaves a picture of Gods tenacious love and the joy that could not be contained in his precious daughter.

Informations

• Publié par: Inspiring Voices
• Date de parution: 18 décembre 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781462410798
• Langue: English

Extrait

Copyright © 2014 Mary A. Allen.
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
Author photo by Brandy Photos; www.BranyPhotos.com
 
 
Inspiring Voices
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.inspiringvoices.com
1 [phone]
 
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
ISBN: 978-1-4624-1080-4 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4624-1079-8 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014921630
 
 
Inspiring Voices rev. date: 12/11/2014
Contents
Acknowledging the Ingredients
A Little Something Extra
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
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Authors Note
Personal Reflections for the Reader
This book is dedicated to my husband, Bob Allen. You have walked with me through this incredible writing journey with love, encouragement and prayers. Have I told you today that I love you? I do, you know, with my whole heart.
Acknowledging the Ingredients
If there is anything praiseworthy in this book, then the glory should go to God for all He has done in and through my life. I am thankful for my walk with Jesus. I may veer from the path at times, but He never leaves me . He remains my constant companion.
Through my writing journey, I have discovered a lot of ingredients go into writing a book. I am grateful to the following people God brought into my life to help me with the book “recipe.”
Loretta Sinclair, Jane S. Daly, and Michelle Murray who filled my bowl with main ingredients such as encouragement, love and instruction. (That’s what critique groups do. Love and cheese, ladies.) Jodi Brown and Clareen Aseltine for the final edits that gave finishing touches to frost my completed creation.
John-Thomas Pryor for the cover design which garnishes the book with beauty and appeal. Elyse Allen, MA LMFT for her ability to stretch my creativity and make things palatable by keeping me real. Diana Symons for her honesty about my first draft and giving me the basic recipe for success. Dawn Kinzer for her friendship that walked me through the editing process, and challenged me to take chances with creative ingredients and methods in order to serve a more appetizing meal.
A Little Something Extra
My life is filled with people whose encouraging words will never fade from my memory. Their words are permanently etched upon my heart. Without them, this book may never have been written. This is a special thank you to some of those people. Chuck Grifasi, Jane Grifasi, Michelle Griffiths, Betty Harding, Maggie Hodge, Barb (Bee) Hunt, Deanne Karnaze, Linda Kral, James and Shirley McClure, Barb Ricotta, Gayle Roper and Vicki Quirarte.
And to my ordinary family for whom I have extraordinary love-I’ve been blessed and inspired by you: James, Jacob, Joy, Tony, Heather, Thomas, Isabella, Mary, Anna, Jacob F., Matthew, Jacob A., and Eleanor. I love you.
This story is a work of fiction based on a true story. ( Mine.)
Chapter One
Present Day
All eyes were fixed on her. Myra Collins paused and scanned the small audience, her heart racing. She stared down at her notes. What compelled her to reveal a story that lay dormant for so many years? Would these fifty women understand how the tale impacted her? Would anyone understand? Could what she had to say help even one woman in this room?
Myra gave her audience a tentative smile. “I’ve lived like so many other people, getting out of bed every day, going about my business, doing my best to live a decent life.”
She sighed. Her life seemed so routine, so mundane. She’d spent the majority of it without value or purpose, without goals, aimlessly living one day to the next, never believing she had anything to offer.
“To tell you the truth,” she continued, “it never occurred to me that my life is filled with purpose, or that I could be of any use to anyone.” The words written in her notes emboldened her. “But recently, a series of events radically altered me. Change is something I struggle with. But through it emerged purpose.”
She glanced at the audience as memories of her mother drifted through her mind.

Myra’s Mother, Stella
October 1955
The chill of the bathroom tiles seeped through Stella Grayson’s threadbare nightgown as she rested her head on the wooden toilet seat. Tears stung her eyes as anger burned within her like a red-hot flame. No, she wouldn’t cry. She was far too angry. And nauseous. And tired. It wasn’t the stomach flu or food poisoning. If only it were. No, it was something far worse than a mere life-threatening bout with botulism. She was pregnant. Again.
She should have been done having babies. For goodness sake, she was forty! Her four boys already performed plenty of mischief and kept her on edge, both physically and emotionally. From the twelve-year-old to the two-year-old, each managed to challenge her sanity. Most days, she was a bundle of raw nerves. She woke before dawn exhausted, to prepare the day for her family. She cooked, cleaned, and kept the house running in smooth working order, and she was the last one to fall into bed at night, even more drained. Would it ever end? She should be looking forward to having grandchildren, but instead she’d face overflowing diaper pails, more laundry, larger meals, bigger grocery bills, and less time for herself.
Stella contemplated her options. There weren’t any. No need to tell anyone of the pregnancy just yet. After all, she’d gained so much weight with the other kids no one would ever suspect she was pregnant. Maybe she would get lucky and lose this baby.
Stella shuffled to the sink to wash her face. She touched the crow’s feet next to her eyes, the frown line around her lips. She felt old and haggard. The reflection in the mirror confirmed it . I am old, I have always been old . Never young, carefree, or without responsibility. Only two and a half when her mother died, Stella aged fast.
Stella didn’t remember her mother, but a warm feeling possessed her when she pondered the days before the 1917 pandemic stole her mother away. Her father—an imposing man—wasn’t prone to moments of warmth or tenderness. Shortly after her dear mother’s death, Papa had lifted her into his large, black touring car. The cold evening wind had stung her cheeks. Stella didn’t remember being in Papa’s touring car before, and was afraid to ask where they were going. Unspoken words hung between them as fear threatened to strangle her and breathing became quick and shallow.
By the time they arrived at their destination, her stomach was in a tight knot. Papa set her down on the sidewalk in front of the large, frightening brick building, where she immediately threw up beside the car. Papa took hold of her wrist with great force and pulled her toward the massive, weather-beaten doors. She sobbed, desperate to know why she was being brought to this horrible place.
The door opened with a terrifying creak, and a stern-faced woman appeared in front of them. She wore a long, black dress with a funny black and white cape draped over her head. Papa handed her over to the woman and with a nod, turned and walked back to his motor car without looking back.
The horror of that moment washed over Stella now as she remembered. “Papa, I’m sorry. I won’t throw up again. Come back, please, come back.” Tears coursed down her face.
But the strange woman held her back with an iron grip. “That’s enough,” her words snapped.
As her father drove off into the blackness, Stella’s heart shattered like an icicle falling to the ground.

The boys’ laughter bounced through the house, filling each room with childish joy and exuberance. It pinged off the light fixtures, ricocheted from the ceiling, danced over the area rug, reflected off the mirrors, and settled over every surface in the house. But it didn’t touch Stella. It never drew close to the dark corner of her world.
The ache in her stomach brought her back to the bathroom. Her throat burned from the bi