by Alana Terry
Table of Contents
What Dreams May Come (A Sweet Dreams Christian Romance)
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
How can you fall in love with someone you’ve never met?
Susannah’s convinced that God has called her to the mission field. That’s why she’s serving him with single-minded focus in Orchard Grove, waiting for the day when she can leave her small town to take the gospel to the nations.
Is falling in love with her missionary recruiter part of God’s plan for her life or a distraction from the real goal?
Praise for What Dreams May Come
by Alana Terry
“It’s so refreshing to read a love-filled Christian romance that shows God’s hand in our lives!” Jan Carney, Book Reviewer
“This is a beautiful story and one of the best Christian fiction I have read this year. I loved the characters and the deep Christian love they had for each other.” Kathy V, Book Reviewer
“This is a sweet and wholesome romance which makes me even happier because it is based on real life. I give it 5 stars for not only the story but for all of the pearls of wisdom regarding our prayer lives.” Anita Santiago, Book Reviewer
“This story is beautifully written.” Darlene Napier Richter, Book Reviewer
What Dreams May Come
a novel by Alana Terry
Dedicated to my husband. I’m so thrilled to (finally) get the chance to share our story with the world ... or at least the fictional version of it!
Note: The views of the characters in this novel do not necessarily reflect the views of the author, nor is their behavior necessarily being condoned.
Although the premise of this story is inspired by true events, the characters in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to real persons is coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form (electronic, audio, print, film, etc.) without the author’s written consent.
What Dreams May Come
Copyright © 2017 Alana Terry
October, 2017
Cover design by Cover Mint Designs.
Scriptures quoted from THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.
www.alanaterry.com
CHAPTER 1
Snow fell from the sky at a listless, melancholy pace. Susannah was early, like normal.
Susannah was always early.
Early to graduate high school so that now she was the only teenager she knew who was already this bone-crushingly, soul-wearyingly tired. As if she’d lived four or five decades already.
Dear God, when did I grow so old?
She slipped into her regular spot in the sanctuary. Folks at Orchard Grove Bible Church worked themselves up about a fair number of important issues, pew placement being fairly high up on the list.
Some things would never change. Her aching spirit knew that much with an unyielding certainty. Like the snow. It would keep on falling, keep on covering the drab, muddy winter scene in a beautiful, pristine white, but by tomorrow the landscape would be painted only with grays and browns. Murky, dirt-stained, a smudge of mud and slush, just like it had been when she woke up this morning.
Father, forgive me for grumbling, and help me to be thankful for everything. Even the snow and the mud.
“Good morning, Susannah.”
She forced herself to smile at the pinch-nosed woman leaning over the pew in front of her.
“Good morning.” Susannah accepted Mrs. Porter’s stiff, awkward hug. Most folks at Orchard Grove were content with a handshake from a comfortable three feet away, but since last fall, Susannah had been hugged, embraced, or otherwise enfolded against every bosom of every retired farmer’s wife in town.
Mrs. Porter clasped Susannah’s hand in hers. “And how are you doing?” She put special emphasis on each word, as if to convey a hidden meaning behind the otherwise mundane question.
Last fall, Susannah might have lied that she was fine, but she knew better now. Knew that Mrs. Porter and those like her expected a certain degree of dignified stoicism. It was a role. The role of the tragically bereaved heroine.
“Thanks so much for asking. I’m feeling ok.”
She also attached some unstated significance to this last word, and Mrs. Porter smiled, apparently satisfied at the depth of expression in Susannah’s inflection and features. She held onto her hand for just a second more before adding, “You know, we’re all praying for you,” and dismissed herself without another word.
Susannah had only recently learned how these promises to pray could abruptly end any conversation. She’d heard it all too often. People had no clue what to say, so after an awkward moment of trying to cheer her up, they simply told her they would remember her in their prayers. Words that might make a newcomer to Orchard Grove grateful, but Susannah had been born and raised in this congregation. She knew enough to suspect that Mrs. Porter and her friends from the church’s women’s missionary league spent ten minutes gossiping about Susannah’s personal life for every two seconds they actually prayed about it.
Did you see the Peters girl in church yesterday? I thought she looked a little pale. Or maybe it was just the dim light.
No, I ran into her at the store just a few days ago, and she was in such a rush to get by, she didn’t even notice me.
It’s to be expected. You know, she’s not even twenty yet, poor thing.
Poor thing ...
Poor thing ...
Susannah glanced at the Bible in her lap, drawing a small dose of comfort as she ran her fingers across the leather cover.
Thank you, Father, for the precious gift of your Word.
The book binding was fancier than she might have liked. She didn’t want people to think she was the kind of Christian who paid more attention to her Bible’s exterior than to the holy words it contained. She also had to fight off a twinge of guilt when she thought about believers in other countries where Scripture was so scarce. Where she could send ten or twelve or twenty paperbacks for the price of this one engraved edition.
But it was a gift from her mother, a gift she would cherish.
One of Susannah’s only belongings that she planned to take with her when she made it to the mission field.
If she made it to the mission field.
When, God? Is it ever going to happen? Why would you put this desire into my heart if you’re never going to bring it to pass?
So many questions. So much silence.
That was all she’d encountered during the past four months. Four trying, exhausting, torturous months.
The din from the foyer increased. Almost everybody at Orchard Grove Bible Church arrived exactly five minutes early. Any sooner and it looked like you were trying too hard. Any later, you’d get glared at as you made your way to find an empty space in the pews. Not that Orchard Grove was overly crowded. There were as many empty seats as filled ones, but they were interspersed so inconveniently across the sanctuary that you would have to step over five or seven or ten different pairs of legs before you could sit.
Orchard Grove’s self-imposed punishment for those guilty of tardiness.
Susannah inhaled deeply. Well, Lord, I’m here. It’s been such a long week, but you know how much I’m craving to connect with you today. Please show up, Lord.
That had been her prayer so often lately. Just asking God to show up.
Crying softly in her room, unable to accept the reality of what had happened. Please show up, Lord.
Stroking Kitty’s forehead, wishing for some kind of breakthrough. Please show up, Lord.
Staring at her phone, knowing she would never hear his voice again, still holding onto some sort of senseless hope that he might call.
Please show up, Lord.
Pastor Greg made his way up front. He and his wife were new to Orchard Grove, but he had already learned that the retired orchardists’ and farmers’ wives here appreciated — no, demanded — punctuality. Each week he opened the service at 10:29 and ended at 11:44 without fail. This morning, with about thirty seconds to spare, he smiled at the congregation, and Susannah ran her fingers over her name embossed on her Bible.
Susannah Wesley Peters. A play on words. An homage to some great-uncle or other distant ancestor named Wesley as well as a tribute to Susannah Wesley, the mother of John and Charles. The original Susannah Wesley had never traveled to foreign countries spreading the gospel, never preached to crowds of thousands, never penned hymns or sermons that survived to this day. But she interceded for her sons, who rose up to serve foundational roles in the enlightenment movement on both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. Susannah had lost track of how many times her mother had told her about Mrs. Wesley’s commitment to God, how she would flip the skirt of her apron over her head in order to create a mobile prayer closet. How she devoted several hours a day to interceding for her family and maintained regular times of fasting to ask God to use her children to advance his kingdom.
Susannah was grateful for the prayerful example of her namesake, but on days like this, she wondered if praying was the only work for God she’d ever accomplish.
Father, don’t you see I want to do so much more?
Sometimes the hunger to move from Orchard Grove, to be God’s agent of revival and salvation to distant shores was so great it was like a tidal wave ready to surge through her spirit. And when it came crashing down, she couldn’t be held responsible for whatever damage was caused by the tsunami of her passion.
And other times, she felt like Orchard Grove’s dried-up riverbed, its smooth and rounded rocks the only indication of the rushing waters that had once flowed so powerfully through her.
CHAPTER 2
“Good morning, brother.”
Scott glanced at the large clock hanging up in the foyer. “It’s afternoon now, isn’t it?”
Carl chuckled. “I suppose you’re right. I’m still not used to this late service. Well then, good afternoon. How’s that?”
Scott shook his pastor’s hand. “That’s better. And how are you?”
Carl patted his pot belly. “Wife’s still got me on that high-fiber, low-carb diet of hers. So I’d say that I’ve been better, because what I’m really craving is a nice steak and baked potato dinner.”
Scott smiled. “It’s a good thing Christmas is coming up then, isn’t it?”
Carl nodded. “You’re joining us Christmas Eve, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Unless your wife’s going to replace her traditional ham with tofu.”
Carl chortled. “Not even my Sandy would be that crazy.” He clapped Scott on the back. “You enjoy the service,” he said, “and then why don’t you come over and eat with us? Call it early supper or late lunch. You can take your pick.”
“You sure?” Scott asked. “Wouldn’t want to impose last minute.”
Carl shook his head. “Not an imposition at all.” He grinned and nudged Scott playfully. “Besides, you come over and Sandy’s just that much more likely to fix up something sweet for dessert. Not her usual whole wheat almond milk pudding or whatever that health-nut stuff is she’s been trying to force feed me.”
Scott nodded. “It’s a deal.” He glanced into the sanctuary, already crowded ten minutes before the start of service. “I guess I better find a seat. You know, you keep preaching the Word like you’ve been doing, this place is going to need a whole new addition to hold everyone even with the extra service.”
Carl nodded. “That would be a nice problem to have, wouldn’t it, brother?”
Scott glanced around the sanctuary even though he wasn’t sure what or who he might be looking for. He’d attended St. Margaret’s since arriving back in the States, but he knew less than a dozen members here by name. He still wasn’t sure where he fit into the fellowship. A thirty-something-year-old bachelor was something of a congregational misfit. He was too old for the college and careers group, or at least he felt like it the time or two he’d tagged along for Frisbee golf or bowling. He’d spent the first decade of his adult life on the mission field and never settled down long enough to marry, so he didn’t belong in any of the Bible studies or prayer groups for couples, parents, or divorcees, either.
He liked St. Margaret’s Church. Liked that there were groups for everyone. Everyone, that is, except for singles in that in-between age group where you’re not fresh out of the nest but certainly not middle-aged either, where you’ve spent your entire adult life on the mission field and don’t want to admit how difficult it’s been adjusting to a comfortable, relatively stress-free life in the States.
Well, maybe stress-free wasn’t the right way to put it. For the past two years, Scott had overseen the home office for Kingdom Builders, the mission agency he’d worked with ever since he finished his Bible college certificate. And now that their community engagement manager had left to work at some girls’ home up in Vermont, Scott was in charge of the recruitment arm of the ministry as well. Sometimes he jokingly grumbled about working sixty or seventy hours a week on his pitiful missionary salary, but then he realized that even if he had more free time, he wouldn’t know what to do with it.
Things were different earlier this year. He’d leave work at 5:30 each day, half an hour before Susannah ended her shift at the assisted living home. Just enough time for him to get home and heat up a quick freezer meal before calling her. Ask about her day. Listen to the smallest details — the Bible verse she’d read that morning or the resident she’d been able to pray with during her shift. The way she chattered about her work, you’d think she’d received a special Mother Theresa-like call from God to change bedsheets and spoon-feed the elderly way out there in central Washington.
Until you got her talking about missions. About how she physically hurt sometimes with the burning desire to carry the gospel to the nations. Nobody within a fifty-mile radius could deny that she was called to foreign soil. Not that Scott had actually been within a fifty-mile radius of Susannah Peters, but over the years he had met enough missionaries and prospective workers to get a feel for the kind of believer who would be most effective in the field. The day he’d interviewed Susannah for the Kingdo
m Builders summer internship, he emailed his field director and told him he’d found the next William Carey. Or maybe the next Hudson Taylor, he couldn’t remember. Either way, from that first phone conversation on, Scott knew this was a young woman with an incredibly unique calling and passion.
Which was what had made the past four months so complicated.
But that’s life for you. If he’d learned anything from his decade overseas, it was that God has a way of keeping you on your toes. Never get too comfortable. Never settle down.
Even Scott’s stint in Massachusetts was temporary. His two-year commitment to the home office was up in March, and then he was off to wherever God might lead him next. The Kingdom Builders had fields all across the world, and every single one of them was in need of mission support. When people asked what he did overseas, Scott’s go-to response was that he was the “missionary to missionaries,” offering spiritual guidance and soul care to the men and women working on the front lines. It was the perfect job for him, really. Perfect for someone with no family connections, nothing tying him down.
Of course, now that he was overseeing the home office, he was more stationary, but he managed to find reasons to leave the country every three or four months, even if only for short stints.
He enjoyed the lifestyle. Appreciated the freedom. He rented a small bachelor pad in Medford, just a ten-minute walk from the Kingdom Builders home office. With the Boston public transportation system running so efficiently, he never even bothered buying himself a car. The fewer roots he established here in the States, the easier it would be to leave the next time God called him overseas for a long-term placement. It’s the way he’d lived for the past decade, the way he’d probably keep on living for the rest of his life. The fact that he could walk into a church service with three thousand other people and realize that there wasn’t a single one here who would miss him if he hopped on a plane tomorrow was a small price to pay for the ministry he was able to lead. The life he was able to enjoy.
A life of excitement. Travel. Freedom.
That’s the way he wanted it. That’s the way it would be.
Scott found an empty seat toward the back of the sanctuary and sat down, wondering what the church service would be like where Susannah Peters lived in Orchard Grove — a quaint, quiet town that he’d never heard of until this time last year.
