Refuge

Marvelle Zollars

Description

Sara Franklin is seventeen and, at first glance, seems to have everything. She is beautiful, she is rich, and she is adored by her father. But she is also spoiled and willful and arrogant. And she is pregnant. Her Daddy must NOT knownor her hateful new stepmother, Caroline! The election is fast approaching and she can only imagine what the media would do with this piece of news. She must make some sort of decision, and do it quickly, for Caroline has already made arrangements to send her back to Miss Priscillas Academy for Girls and she certainly cant arrive there in her condition. Sara remembers the girls at that dreadful academy speaking of abortion, and how it is quick and easy and that everybody is doing it these days! She thought it sounded barbaric at the time, but now it would appear that it is her only option. As the taxi pulls to a stop, she sees a sordid building before her and the decrepit sign that reads: The Womens Clinic of Abortion. She shudders with dread, then reaches for her purse. At that moment she notices a discarded magazine on the seat beside her. The picture of a great white house catches her eye, the headline above proclaiming it as THE REFUGE: A Christian Alternative to Abortion. Hey, Miss! You gettin out? But she is busily scanning the caption under that wonderful picture. a beautifully rambling old home where women can find Christian direction, warm understanding, and medical care during an unplanned pregnancy. Sara glances again at the unkempt street outside her window and slowly shakes her head. No, she answers with sudden determination. No, I Ive changed my mind.

Informations

• Publié par: Inspiring Voices
• Date de parution: 23 avril 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781462401383
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Refuge
 
 
 
 
Marvelle Zollars
 
 
 
 


 
 
 
Copyright © 2012 Marvelle Zollars
 
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.
 
Songs (in public domain): Up from the Grave He Arose — words and music by Robert Lowry
The Old Rugged Cross — words and music by George Bennard
 
 
All Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version
 
Inspiring Voices books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:
 
Inspiring Voices
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.inspiringvoices.com
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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.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
 
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
 
 
ISBN: 978-1-4624-0139-0 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4624-0138-3 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012937618
 
 
Inspiring Voices rev. date: 04/20/2012
Contents
Sara  
Tom  
Ben  
Jonathon  
Amy  
Crystal  
Charlie  
The Wedding  
Sara  
The battered old taxi rattled down a wide country road, raising a billowing cloud of dust that obliterated everything in its wake. The ancient car’s inadequate air conditioning system added to the racket but provided very little respite against the heat. As they barreled down that pitiful excuse for a roadway, a large sign came into view.
“Stop! Stop right here!”
Startled, the driver hit the brake with unexpected force, hurling his passenger forward against the seat that separated them. He gazed at wide emerald eyes in his rearview mirror, seeing an angry hauteur that he had seldom encountered in one so young.
“W-what’s wrong?” he asked timidly.
“I want out right here,” the girl stated with certainty as she reached for the oversized suitcase that lay in the seat beside her.
“You’re gettin’ out here? ” he asked incredulously. “But, ma’am…”
“How much do I owe you?” she asked, interrupting his protests and flinging her long auburn hair away from her striking face.
“Uh, well, it’s a good long ways from the bus depot clear out here…”
“How much?” she asked again, her impatience quickly changing into extreme annoyance.
“Uh, that’ll be $12.50,” he answered, a note of apology in his voice.
She tossed a twenty dollar bill onto the front seat with careless negligence and wrenched open the door on her right. It shrieked with resistance as she pushed it wide. She began to drag her heavily packed bag across the seat, then noticed that the driver was busily counting out her change and shook her head with disgust.
“Use that money to get some oil for this door,” she shouted as she slammed it shut and waved him on.
Finally fed up with her rudeness, he stomped on the accelerator and took off with a roar, leaving “her highness” coughing and spluttering in the suffocating blanket of dust his spinning tires spewed forth. Fuming with rage, the young woman squeezed her eyes tightly shut and tried not to breathe until some of the horrid dirt began to settle.
When she finally dared open an eye, she saw a dingy world come slowly into focus. Lush vegetation filled the ditches, but it appeared to be a sick yellowish color. Leaves, completely covered with the fine dust that seemed to hang forever in the air, drooped listlessly. And the heat! She felt as if she had stepped into the very jaws of hell.
She looked down at her expensive clothing with dismay. She had worn long sleeves this late August morning against the chill of autumn that already permeated the beautiful valley in Montana where she had been born seventeen years ago. The deep green of her western style silk shirt now nearly matched her tan slacks, and her favorite boots struggled to peak through the sand on the road. She furiously brushed the grimy dirt from her clothes as she surveyed this totally foreign place that was called Oklahoma.
Where in the world were the trees? What few she saw, dotting the flat countryside, were of some unknown variety and looked very different from the lofty pines and firs and tamaracks that covered the mountainsides near her home. The area seemed utterly remote. She half expected to see a band of renegade Indians appear suddenly on the horizon to come tearing across the prairie toward her.
She sighed and wiped the perspiration from her forehead, which was already turning red in the blistering sun. She had never felt such scorching heat in all of her life! She thought wistfully of the new snow that she had noticed only this morning on the mountain tops above Missoula, as her plane had lifted into the big, astonishingly blue sky that Montana is famous for.
She gazed at the large sign on her right that announced her arrival at this obscure destination.
WELCOME
TO
THE REFUGE
In You, O Lord, I have taken refuge;
let me never be put to shame… (Psalm 31:1)
 
The young woman wrinkled her brow with distaste. She realized that she was going to have to put up with a lot of religious nonsense in this place. But that had to be better than confronting her father—or that witch, Caroline!
She reached for her heavy bag that was now coated with the ever-present grittiness of this place. The copse of large trees that surrounded her new home seemed much further away now that she stood alone on this gravel inferno. The retreating cab was but a dirty smudge on the horizon.
She thought fleetingly of another taxi in a faraway city, and the ride that had somehow changed her destiny. That had brought her with unmistakable verity to this unknown place. As she began to walk wearily toward the beckoning spot of green in front of her, she remembered with remorse the beautiful wooded valley that she had left behind.
* * *
Whenever Sara Franklin thought about her childhood, she saw it in two distinctive chapters, rather like the BEFORE and AFTER pictures she sometimes saw in magazine advertisements. But, unlike the illustrations of dingy, unpainted houses, or drab, unattractive women without makeup, her BEFORE was bright and beautiful, a full-color portrait of love and laughter. No, it was in the time AFTER that torturous summer day that her life had changed forever. The world she had always known had come crashing down around her in an avalanche of heartache, and had become a daguerreotype of pain and loneliness and rebellion.
Sara was born to Laurie and Lance Franklin, loving parents who had taught her to respect them, to respect God and His creation, and to respect herself. She had lived the early years of her life in an unpretentious farmhouse just to the northeast of Missoula, Montana. Rattlesnake Creek bordered their property on the east, and beautiful Squaw Peak, sparkling white in winter and a soft smoky blue in summer, looked down upon their small tree-covered acreage with benevolence. Her father owned a modest lumber mill and “farmed” their forested land with care, always replacing the harvested trees with seedlings that would preserve the beauty and value of the land, as well as protect its wildlife.
Sara learned to ride almost as soon as she had walked, and her first love had been her little mare, Nellie. She and her mother had explored every nook and cranny of their picturesque valley, riding almost daily through the thick forests and along the numerous streams that rushed from the snow-covered peaks above.
Life had been good, with none of the luxuries of great wealth, but abounding in the joys of discovery and the warmth of love and security. Until the summer that she had turned nine, and that one day that had started innocently enough, only to end in a terrifying nightmare of sudden pain and sirens, and the desperate finality of death.
The details of that day had been permanently etched in her memory. She could still see the soft wash of pinks and lavender in that early morning sky as the sun had inched its way above the rugged peaks rimming Hell Gate Canyon. It promised to be a fine August day. The air was crisp and cool as she hurried to the barn to check on the baby raccoon that she and Mama had found down near the creek the day before. The tiny animal had clearly been abandoned, and was near starvation.
She had cradled the little ball of fur in her hands all the way home, and then Mama had helped her force a few drops of warm milk down the poor creature’s throat. Later that night, the little raccoon, which she decided to name Bandit, had swallowed the milk with a bit more enthusiasm.
Sara was delighted to find Bandit much stronger on that morning, as he eagerly accepted the dropper full of warm milk and then nuzzled at her hand for more. She held him and cuddled him for some time, then rushed back into the house where Mama had a stack of pancakes and a pitcher of hot maple syrup waiting for her.
“Bandit’s better today, Mama,” she shouted as the door slammed behind her. “He drank all of his milk and begged for more!”
“We’ll give him another dropper full in a couple of hours,” Mama answered with a glad smile. “It’s better not to