Ours for a Season

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Then He’ll open a new door for all of us. Trust, Marty.” He kissed her once, then again, and whispered against her parted lips, “Trust.”

  The assurance in his blue eyes, the certainty in his voice, bolstered Marty’s reblossoming faith. She smiled, her lips twitching as a swell of emotion—love for her husband, love for her Maker, gratitude for the second chance they’d both willingly offered her—tightened her chest. “Yes. Thank you. We’ll trust.”

  He tipped his head as if to deliver another kiss, but the crunch of tires on gravel and the beam from headlights passing the window brought Marty to her feet. She dashed to the front door and peeked out. Relief, anticipation, and apprehension all struck with such force that she battled an attack of dizziness. She pulled the door open and then clung to it, her heart pounding while she waited for Elliott and Brooke to share their news.

  Anthony crossed behind her and waved as Brooke and Elliott mounted the porch. A cold rush of air came in with them, and Brooke moved to the middle of the floor, releasing a shudder.

  Marty closed the door and hurried to Brooke. She guided her friend to a chair and gave her a gentle push onto the cushions. Then she took the opposite chair. Wringing her hands, she licked her dry lips and tried to decide what to ask first. When she opened her mouth to speak, all that came out was “Well?”

  Brooke removed her stocking cap and unbuttoned her coat. “Well, Mr. Blackburn—the first and biggest contributor to the project—stomped out with a demand for me to give him his money back.”

  Elliott propped his hand on the back of Brooke’s chair and shook his head. “By the end of January. I told her after the meeting that she should deduct the cost of the food he ate at the meeting. Twice as much as anyone else.” He and Brooke chuckled.

  Anthony strode to Marty and perched on the arm of her chair, sliding his arm around her shoulders. She grabbed his hand and gave Brooke an impatient look. “What did the others do?”

  Brooke shrugged, running the tassel from her stocking cap between her fingers. “Mr. Young wants his money back, too, but he was willing to let me pay it out in monthly increments rather than all at once. And both men forfeited any interest that might have accrued. As for the others…” She glanced at Elliott, and the two of them exchanged a smile. “They are willing to let their investments be a charitable contribution to the project.”

  A squeal of happiness found its way from Marty’s throat. She clapped twice, laughed, and squealed again.

  Brooke burst out laughing. “I can’t honestly say there wasn’t some manipulation. I mean, how can you refuse a bald-headed, cancer-stricken woman and a formerly homeless young man during the Christmas season? If we’d asked at another time of year, when I was hale and hearty, the answer might have been different. But it’s like that story in Esther. God arranged everything to align ‘for such a time as this.’ ”

  And God had prepared Marty for such a time as this, too. She swallowed salty tears and nodded. “It’s perfect. It’s all…just right.”

  Brooke held up one hand like a traffic cop. “There are some stipulations, though. They won’t leave their funds in the project unless my application to create a nonprofit shelter is accepted by the state, I pass all the inspections, I secure all the licenses, and I’m able to put together a staff of qualified people who also pass all licensing requirements. Then they’ll be able to use their investments as a write-off.” She collapsed against the cushions. “There are still some major mountains to climb, but we’ve cleared the first hill, and I’m grateful.”

  Anthony’s fingers clamped a little harder on Marty’s shoulder. “What kind of licensing requirements are there for people on the staff?”

  Brooke shrugged out of her coat. “Basically a background check. There’ll be kids living here—kids who’ve been mistreated and used. Obviously I won’t want anyone on the staff with a felony record or who’s been accused of abusing a child. Any staff members will have to have updated immunizations and so forth, too, to meet health department requirements, but that’s pretty standard for any kind of position working with the public.”

  Her brow furrowed, and she used her fingers to count off. “I’ll definitely want a counselor on staff, and I’ll need grounds workers, workshop teachers, house parents, and at least one cook. I intend to have the kids involved in the workshops, crafting items we can sell to the public to help with expenses out here, and I’ll expect them to contribute by cleaning their own rooms, helping prepare meals, doing chores…all the things that ready them for living on their own.” She dropped her hand to her lap and aimed a grin at Elliott. “I’ve already got my first staff applicant—Elliott wants to stay.”

  He grinned. “I can be a maintenance worker or groundskeeper, and I’d like to help organize the workshops.”

  Brooke bobbed her thumb in his direction. “I figure someone with his experience as a street kid will be a valuable asset in understanding the residents’ mind-set. I’m thrilled to bring him on board.”

  Marty peeked up at Anthony, and he nodded, a gesture she recognized as permission. She turned to Brooke. “We—Anthony and me—want to apply, too. To help with maintenance and cooking, or to be house parents.”

  Brooke went completely still, her green eyes wide and unblinking. Uncertain how to interpret the reaction, Marty swallowed. “That is, if you’ll have us.”

  Brooke’s eyes swam with tears. She released a shuddering breath, and the trembling tears spilled down her cheeks. “If I’ll have you?” The words choked on a half laugh, half sob. “Marty, I couldn’t think of anyone better.” She leaned forward and grabbed Marty’s hands, her gaze bouncing between Marty and Anthony. “But are you sure? These kids won’t be babies. They’ll be almost grown, and stinky and obstinate and…well, pretty much the way I was as a teenager. They’ll come in every color of the rainbow, with all kinds of trust issues and bad habits. Are you sure you want to stay and deal with all that instead of going home and trying to adopt a baby?”

  Certainty filled Marty, a mighty rush that brought both tears and a smile she couldn’t have contained if she’d wanted to. “If God decides to give us a baby somehow, we’ll accept that, too, but both of us have been called to minister to the kids you’re trying to reach.”

  Anthony gave a solemn nod. “I talked to the deacons at our fellowship when I was in Indiana for Thanksgiving. They gave us their blessing if we decided to stay here and minister to kids coming out of human trafficking, and they said if the shelter didn’t open, we’d have their support in being foster parents for teenagers in Pine Hill. So, yes, we’re sure.”

  Marty gripped Anthony’s hand and beamed at him. “We’re very, very sure.”

  Brooke again gaped at both of them for several seconds. Then she collapsed into the chair, and a deep, contentment-laden sigh eased from her. “I don’t know what to say except thank you. Thank you for coming, thank you for helping me, thank you for pointing me to my Father, thank you for opening my eyes to what could be. Just…thank you.”

  Marty leaned into Anthony’s frame. “Don’t thank us. Thank God for putting all the pieces together. This was His plan all along.”

  Elliott rested both elbows on the back of Brooke’s chair. “Like it says in Jeremiah twenty-nine, right?”

  Anthony’s hand squeezed sweetly on Marty’s shoulder. “Exactly right.”

  Marty closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer of gratitude. God the Father had worked His will in His time, and she’d never been so hope filled, so joy filled, so whole. She gave Elliott a watery smile. “We’re moving toward His expected end. And I know it will be”—she met Brooke’s gaze—“a season of joy breathing deeply.”

  Epilogue

  Two years later

  Marty

  “Here, Dorothy, take this to the table, please.” Marty handed the bowl of fluffy mashed potatoes to the newest resident of Promise House. “B
e careful. It’s hot.”

  “Okay, okay. I got it.”

  Marty smiled as she released the bowl. “Thank you.” Every staff person at the youth shelter modeled good manners. What better way to teach than by example?

  The dark-faced sixteen-year-old rolled her eyes. “You’re welcome.” She sauntered through the doorway to the dining room, her ponytail of black spirals bobbing.

  Phyllis, the sweet-faced fiftyish woman who stayed in the dormitory with the girls, chuckled. “That one’s all sass and vinegar, but I can’t help but love her. Her sass’ll probably be a blessing in the long run.”

  Marty couldn’t argue. Sass for these girls, as it had been for Brooke, was a sign of inner strength. Dorothy would need sass, time, and a lot of prayers to recover from the emotional wounds inflicted by the so-called uncle who’d manipulated her into selling herself.

  Using pot holders, Marty removed the glass dish of green bean casserole from the oven and placed it on the stove top. She sent a quick glance around the industrial kitchen. Everything else was already on the table. As soon as she brought out the casserole, they could eat. She smiled. Their first Thanksgiving at Promise House. But she doubted it would be their last. A news reporter’s visit a week earlier had resulted in a front-page feature in Kansas City’s biggest newspaper. Brooke had received a dozen calls from social service organizations and police chaplains since the article released, and she’d told Marty and Anthony to brace for a deluge. Marty couldn’t imagine a better kind of flood.

  She entered the dining room, Phyllis following. Three tables, each four feet wide and twelve feet long, built by Anthony from materials scavenged from the abandoned buildings around the old ghost town, filled the floor. Marty had given the seven girls residing at the shelter the task of decorating a table for their holiday meal, and they’d chosen to set the center table. Appropriate, considering how these girls had managed to weasel their way into the center of Marty’s heart.

  She crossed to the table, leaned across the long bench that substituted for chairs, and placed the casserole dish in an open spot. Not easy to find with everything else cluttering the top. Marty’s gaze trailed along the crusty rolls, marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, buttery corn, relish plates, stuffing, and of course the beautifully browned twenty-pound turkey waiting at Anthony’s end of the table, where he could easily reach to carve it.

  She tapped her finger on the centerpiece, a woven basket holding dried leaves and pine cones. Jordan, a stunning seventeen-year-old runaway who’d subsisted on panhandling for nearly two years before coming to the shelter, circled the table and placed a single pine cone beside the water glass at each plate. Marty stepped back so Jordan could put the last one on the table. She smiled at the girl. “The table looks wonderful.”

  Jordan tossed her head, sending her blond curls over her shoulder. “It’ll do.”

  In the three months since Promise House opened its doors, Marty had learned that girls coming off the street or out of the trafficking industry were hardened. She’d also learned, thanks to Ernie Wedge’s counseling and Elliott’s experiences, that the hardness was a defense mechanism. In time, when they felt safe, they would lower their walls of protectiveness and dare to show their real emotions. She’d seen Elliott blossom, so she knew it could happen. In the meantime, she determined to be patient with their seeming disinterest.

  Marty grazed Jordan’s shoulder with her fingertips in lieu of the hug she longed to deliver. “It’s more than all right. It’s very warm and welcoming. Thank you for doing such a good job.”

  The girl shrugged and stepped away. “We’re all about to starve. I can’t believe how long it takes to make dinner around here. Can we eat now?”

  “Of course. Kay?” Marty called to the petite Hispanic girl who stood in the beam of sunshine flowing through the stained-glass window Elliott had crafted with Mr. Ernie’s help. The mosaic rainbow painted dots of color on Kay’s face and simple blue jumper, the uniform worn by all the residents. “Would you ring the dinner bell?” Kay headed for the door, and Marty gestured to Charlene, Regina, and Ronnie, who lounged at another table. “Come on over, girls. Where are Dorothy and Susan?”

  The clanging bell covered Ronnie’s answer, but before Marty could ask her to repeat it, the two girls emerged from the hallway that led to the bathroom. Their hands still dripped from a recent washing.

  Marty welcomed them with a smile. “Take your places. As soon as everyone gets here, we’ll eat.”

  Kay darted to the end of the right-hand bench, the spot she’d chosen for every family-style meal since her arrival. Charlene and Regina, who’d arrived the same day and had been inseparable, took the center of the left-hand bench, and Ronnie scooted in next to them. Susan and Jordan slid in beside Kay, and Dorothy left a space between herself and Susan for Mr. Ernie, as the girls called the grandfatherly man who now lived in Myron and Lucas’s former trailer. With his warmth, patience, and kindness, he would probably break through the girls’ barriers before any of the other adult staff members could.

  Years ago when Marty had fussed about not liking the children at the neighboring farm because they played too rough, Great-Grandma Lois had quoted part of Matthew 5:46 in gentle admonition. The sweet voice tiptoed through Marty’s memory. “ ‘For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye?’ Some people are harder to love than others, Martha Grace, but when it’s hard, you love on ’em with Jesus’s love. You might just get rewarded by seein’ a change in ’em if you do.” Marty fully expected to see her great-grandmother’s words proven true in the lives of the residents at Promise House.

  Anthony, Ernie, and Elliott came in, bringing a wash of cold air and the scent of fall with them. Ernie rubbed his hands together as he bustled to the table, his trademark chortle raising grins from the girls. He climbed into his spot, and Elliott sat across from Dorothy, next to Anthony’s chair.

  Phyllis took the end of the bench closest to Marty’s left, which was also the closest seat to the kitchen. The dear woman was prone to jumping up and retrieving different items at least a dozen times during every meal.

  Anthony stepped behind his chair at the head of the table, and Marty took her position at the foot. She couldn’t resist sending a slow look at each face around the table. Some young, some not so young, but each so precious. Her rainbow family, her blessing after loss. She loved them, every one of them, and she still marveled at how much her life had changed since that June day two and a half years ago when the packet arrived in the mail from Brooke.

  Anthony no longer owned Hirschler Construction, but Steve Kanagy, the new owner, had kept the name since people were familiar with it and the quality work it represented. She couldn’t wait to welcome Rex, Dawna, and their children for a visit this coming weekend. Anthony had built wooden trucks for the boys, and she had doll quilts ready to give to her nieces. Although the dull ache of loss continued to haunt the recesses of her heart, the pain no longer consumed her. She’d be able to cradle little Claire and shower all of Rex and Dawna’s children with the love Brooke had told her needed to be expressed.

  Ah, Brooke, I wish you were here, my friend. The thought could have been melancholy, but it wasn’t. Now a full year into her remission, with a full head of thick white hair she called her badge of honor and refused to dye, Brooke divided her time between garnering sponsors for the shelter’s residents, speaking at events to educate people about human trafficking, and flipping properties to help pay for expenses at Promise House. She’d never been busier or happier, and Marty wouldn’t ask her to quit running all over the state no matter how much she missed time with her childhood friend.

  Anthony glanced left and right. “Who would like to ask the blessing?”

  Elliott raised his hand. “I will.”

  Everyone joined hands, creating a circle the way Marty had always imagined her family would do, the way they did at ev
ening Bible study in the old chapel when Anthony closed their time together in prayer. They bowed their heads.

  “Dear Lord”—Elliott’s low, reverent voice echoed against the old building’s rock walls—“for all You have given us, may we be truly thankful. Amen.”

  Marty opened her eyes and met Anthony’s smiling gaze at the opposite end of the table. He gave a gentle nod, and they whispered in unison, “Amen.”

  Author’s Note

  Dear Reader,

  Human trafficking is a topic that is difficult for most people to discuss, but it’s one we cannot ignore. This criminal industry that exploits people and tramples souls is active in every country of the world and has even infiltrated small-town Kansas, part of America’s heartland. It has now overtaken drug trafficking as the most financially lucrative illegal business. After all, a packet of drugs is sold for a single use; a human being can be sold again and again. So how to bring an end to this vile, harmful practice?

  First of all, be aware. If something seems suspicious, such as what Marty observed in the mall parking lot, report it. It’s better to err on the side of caution than ignore it and, in so doing, allow abuse to continue.

  Second, be an advocate. There are countless agencies trying to rescue individuals from the industry. Seek out those with ties to your community and support them financially or ask what else you can do to help keep their doors open. Volunteer with programs such as Big Brothers Big Sisters or become a foster parent or grandparent. If you’re a business owner, be willing to hire young people coming out of the industry and give them a chance to rebuild their lives.

  Third, be active. Write to your local, state, and national leaders and inquire about what they’re doing to bring trafficking to an end. Submit editorials to your local newspapers, encourage school counselors to address the issue in schools (prevention is important!), or distribute pamphlets about rescue agencies in places where trafficked individuals might find them—truck stops, rest areas, bus stations, and hotels.