Heart of Mercy (Tennessee Dreams)

by MacLaren Sharlene

  She felt her brows lift under the wisp of hair that had fallen over her eyes. “We’ll start what?” She thought she knew, but she wanted to hear him say it.

  He pushed her hair back with both hands as if to free her face for his adoring gaze. “Workin’ on those five kids.”

  “One at a time, I hope,” she said with a nervous laugh.

  “O’ course. More fun that way.”

  Despite the cooling breezes, warmth crept up her face. “Oh, Sam, I—”

  He cut her off with another kiss. As it lengthened, they both grew breathless. At last, he pulled away. “Let’s go home,” he whispered.

  Home. The word touched a sweet chord in her heart.

  She pressed her palm to his hard chest. “I love that you consider Oscar Evans’ house your home.”

  He lifted her chin. “Doesn’t bother me one bit. Home is where you are, honey.”

  Questions for Discussion

  Mercy has lost her two best friends through tragic circumstances, and God seems to speak into her spirit with the words: I will refresh you, My child. Keep your eyes on Me, your Maker and Provider. When all seems lost, have you ever sensed the Spirit of God speaking to you in such a manner? If you are comfortable doing so, share that experience.

  There is a great deal of animosity between the Evans and Connors clans. What is your best recourse when caught in the middle of a spat you want nothing to do with, but certain parties try to drag you into anyway?

  Mercy prays about the man God wants her to marry, but she finds it difficult to determine His leading. Have you been in the position of having to make a tough decision without sensing God’s clear direction? What do you do in a case such as that, especially when time is of the essence?

  When Mercy is going through a particularly difficult time, she silently cries out to God, “Lord, what am I to do? Please give me a sign.” Wait and trust, He seems to answer. How difficult is it to wait on God and walk in faith when life holds nothing but confusion?

  When the kitten comes up missing, a discussion arises about how God wants us to trust Him through the hard times. If you feel comfortable in sharing, tell about a specific time in your life when you had little choice but to trust God through the circumstance.

  Sam quotes Jeremiah 29:11 to Mercy while trying to convince her that marrying him fits best with God’s plan. Read the passage for yourself and see how it applies to your own life.

  When mourning the loss of her friends, Mercy draws a conclusion that God didn’t cause the tragic house fire, but He did allow it. When bad things happen to good people, are you tempted to blame God? Share a specific situation, if you’re comfortable doing so.

  While staying at his cousin Persephone’s house, Sam reads from his Bible, and one passage in particular stands out to him: “Love…seeketh not its own, is not provoked…” (1 Corinthians 13:5). He relates this verse to the family feud and deduces that it all stems from selfishness. Would you agree that most arguments originate from that motivation—selfishness? Can you give an example?

  In counseling Mercy, the reverend refers to Romans 8:28, which states, “And we know that to them that love God all things work together for good, even to them that are called according to his purpose.” Have you found this particular verse to ring true in your own life? Explain.

  In the end, Sam found it in his heart to forgive his mother for the wrongs she committed. How important is it to rid oneself of long-held bitterness toward another? Do you think it’s always possible?

  I love to hear from my readers. Please feel free to contact me at

  sharlenemaclaren@yahoo.com. If you have a specific prayer request, you may rest assured I will add you to my prayer list! There is power in prayer! I love you, my precious readers.

  About the Author

  Born and raised in west Michigan, Sharlene attended Spring Arbor University. Upon graduating with an education degree in 1971, she taught second grade for two years, then accepted an invitation to travel internationally for a year with a singing ensemble. In 1975, she married her childhood sweetheart. Together they raised two lovely, wonderful daughters, both of whom are now happily married and enjoying their own families. Retired in 2003 after thirty-one years of teaching, “Shar” loves to read, sing, travel, and spend time with her family—in particular, her wonderful, adorable grandchildren!

  A Christian for forty-five-plus years and a lover of the English language, Shar has always enjoyed dabbling in writing—poetry, fiction, various essays, and freelancing for periodicals and newspapers. Her favorite genre, however, has always been romance. She remembers well writing short stories in high school and watching them circulate from girl to girl during government class. “Psst,” someone would whisper from two rows over, when the teacher had his back to the class, “pass me the next page.”

  In recent years, Shar felt God’s call upon her heart to take her writing pleasures a step further and in 2006 signed a contract for her first faith-based novel, launching her writing career with the contemporary romance Through Every Storm. With a dozen of her books now gracing store shelves nationwide, she daily gives God all the praise and glory for her accomplishments.

  Through Every Storm was Shar’s first novel to be published by Whitaker House, and in 2007, the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) named it a finalist for Book of the Year. The acclaimed Little Hickman Creek series consists of Loving Liza Jane (Road to Romance Reviewer’s Choice Award); Sarah, My Beloved (third place, Inspirational Readers’ Choice Award 2008); and Courting Emma (third place, Inspirational Reader’s Choice Award 2009). Shar’s popular series the Daughters of Jacob Kane comprises Hannah Grace (second place, Inspirational Reader’s Choice Award 2010), Maggie Rose, and Abbie Ann (third place, Inspirational Reader’s Choice Award 2011). After that came River of Hope, composed of Livvie’s Song, Ellie’s Haven, and Sofia’s Secret. Heart of Mercy is the first in her latest series, Tennessee Dreams.

  Shar has done numerous countrywide book signings, television and radio appearances, and interviews. She loves to speak for women’s organizations, libraries, church groups, women’s retreats, and banquets. She is involved in Apples of Gold, a mentoring program for young wives and mothers, and is active in her church, as well as two weekly Bible studies. She and her husband, Cecil, live in Spring Lake, Michigan, with their beautiful white collie, Peyton.

  A Preview of

  Threads of Joy

  Tennessee Dreams ~ Book 2

  Coming Fall 2014

  1

  1892 • Paris, Tennessee

  The last shovelful of dirt went into the hole surrounding the stake bearing the beige handmade sign on which was painted, in bright-red letters, The Perfect Fit Tailoring Shop. Joy Westfall stomped on the mound, pressing it into place, to better anchor the sign. Proud of her achievement, she stepped back to assess her work. She might have been less hasty with the lettering, but she was a seamstress, not an artist. Still, it wasn’t bad, standing tall and rather pompous-looking in the center of her yard. It would have been nice to hire out the work, but she wasn’t made of money any more than she was born to fly. Come warmer weather, she’d plant some petunias and pansies around the base of the sign, but for now, it would do just fine.

  She drew her coat collar closer to ward off the biting wind. Yesterday, beautiful sunshine and mild temperatures had seemed to promise a warming trend, with the certainty of spring in the offing. As if an affirmation of that guarantee, she’d even spotted a good number of busy robins with bulging bellies. Now, however, sinister black clouds loomed overhead, boding something altogether different—though she knew not what.

  Next door, at Paris Evangelical Church, a hundred voices or more sang the final stanza of “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” Joy knew it was the last because she’d counted, and they never skipped verses. Across the yard, her beloved daughter, three-and-a-half-year-old Annie, sang along as she dug in the dirt with a wooden spoon, never mind that she didn’t know the words. “Oh, for Christmas Sho
ulders” is what she actually bellowed, but Joy didn’t have the heart to correct her.

  She’d never set foot inside the little white clapboard church, with the red shingled roof and door to match, even though the church property bordered her own. On the other side of the church stood the parsonage, a simple, two-story structure, painted white, with a cozy covered front porch that wrapped halfway around the house. The neat little yard backed up to the church cemetery, where dozens of etched stones and crooked crosses poked up from ancient graves. On occasion, Joy found herself strolling through the grassy lot, reading gravestones, while Annie crouched to gather wildflowers.

  Joy sorely missed the elderly Reverend and Mrs. Younker. They’d been fine neighbors, and she longed for those chats she used to have with the preacher’s wife across the churchyard when they both went out to their gardens to pull weeds or check on their vegetables. The woman always asked after Annie and made a point to drop over every now and again with a plate of fresh-baked muffins or a loaf of bread still warm from the oven. Naturally, Joy would reciprocate, with a fruit pie or a chocolate layer cake. The reverend had liked to say that if it weren’t for his wife’s fine cooking and Joy’s magnificent desserts, he’d be trim as any twenty-year-old. As it was, the old fellow wheezed with every step and had obvious trouble keeping his belly bulge contained in his pants.

  Joy had long known that retirement lurked on the horizon; she just hadn’t wanted to see it come to fruition. Not that she’d ever listened to one of the reverend’s sermons, unless she counted the times she’d sat rocking on her tiny front porch on a hot summer Sunday and heard snippets through the church’s wide-open windows.

  Her parents had raised her to go to church, even though church attendance was more a ritual than anything, but a sordid past now kept her from it altogether. Women with sordid pasts didn’t go to church, did they? Shoot, women with sordid pasts didn’t even have many friends to speak of. Perhaps that was why she missed the Younkers so much. They’d always treated her with utmost kindness and respect, never condemning her for failing to attend church. Why, the reverend had even said she needn’t come to church at all to experience the Lord’s forgiveness; she could kneel right down in her own living room, if she had a mind to—but she didn’t. Not yet, anyway.

  She knew that the Reverend and Mrs. Younker worried over her soul, for they’d promised to pray for her and Annie every day going forward. She still recalled the day she and had Annie stood on her front stoop, waving their hands like two flags, as the couple drove off, their wagon chock-full of trunks containing their earthly possessions, and headed south to live nearer their three grown children.

  Joy dabbed at the silly dampness collecting in the corners of her eyes. My, one would think she’d gone soft as a down pillow. She pulled up her skirts and approached her daughter. “Time to go inside, dumplin’. It’s gettin’ plenty cold out here.”

  “Aww. Me an’ Dorothy wants t’ keep playin’.”

  Lately, it seemed that Annie’s invisible friend always played some role in her playtime. “I know, but I got t’ check on my soup, and I ain’t leavin’ you outside by yourself. ’Sides, it’s feelin’ like somethin’ might be brewin’ in the air.”

  The fair-haired child squinted up at her. “Brewin’—what’s that?”

  Joy reached down a hand to pull her daughter up—and got a palm full of mud for her efforts. “It means the weather could be takin’ a bad turn.” They mounted the steps together and entered the little house. She would have to stoke the fire to warm up the space. Good gracious, she’d thought she was done using the chimney for the season, but apparently, she’d been premature in hoping it. Mother Nature often played dirty tricks on gullible folks.

  Before closing the door behind her, she let her eyes meander to the little church, where she caught a glimpse of the new preacher in his black suit and satin tie, stepping out of the door and taking his place at the top of the steps, in preparation for bidding his church family a good week. He was a fine-looking man, to be sure, with his dark hair; deep, cavernous eyes; broad shoulders, and towering physique—too darned handsome for a preacher, in her estimation. Glory, no man of the cloth ought to have such striking features. It was a wonder the female parishioners even listened to a word he said; for all she knew, they didn’t. They certainly did swarm him like a band of bees. Why, word had it that the congregation had multiplied many times over in the past months, mostly due to the spinsters who traveled from miles around for a chance to meet the new minister—the handsome, unmarried, thirty-something minister. Disgraceful, that’s what it was. Imagine going to church just to set your eyes on a tall, dark, and handsome preacher.

  She latched her door with a louder-than-necessary click. It would be a hot day in the Arctic before she ever stooped so low.

  ***

  Lucas Jennings sucked in a breath and prepared for the onslaught of female visitors who were sure to introduce themselves at the end of the service, based on his experience every Sunday since he’d started here. He’d seen at least half a dozen unfamiliar female faces this morning. There would be some batting eyelashes, a curtsy or two, and several white-gloved hands reaching out to give his hand an extra long squeeze, each woman hopeful to catch his eye in a special way. He had been ministering at Paris Evangelical Church since October—a full five months—and was sure he’d met every available woman in Henry County and beyond. He knew it would do him well to marry, so he could get on with the business of doing the work to which God had called him—preaching the gospel and serving the needs of others—but he wasn’t about to let that hasten his wedding day. No, when he married, it would be for love alone, and only with the woman whom he knew beyond a doubt God had ordained for him to marry—one with saintly intentions who would serve alongside him in humility of spirit and with a passion to reach the lost sheep of the world—well, maybe not the world, but at least Paris, Tennessee.

  So far, Kate Ryerson might fit the bill. One of his parishioners had introduced them at a dinner she’d hosted, having invited both of them with the secret purpose of matchmaking. At first, he’d been put off by the trickery, but he’d found Kate quite pleasant and had followed up with several outings after their initial meeting. So far, he hadn’t found in her a single fault—unless it was her over-zealousness for speeding up the relationship process. She was twenty-nine, and she’d hinted more than once that she wasn’t getting any younger. From what he knew of her, she came from a good, hardworking, God-fearing family, had a heart for the Lord, and exuded warm, friendly personality. Best, she didn’t attend Paris Evangelical Church. Not that he wouldn’t welcome her attendance at some point; but, presently, he wanted to keep their budding relationship private. He did not need the likes of Mrs. Grassmeyer or some other busybody spreading gossip about his personal life with the rest of the congregation. Good grief, he had a job to do—one that demanded an investment of heart and soul. The fewer the distractions, the better!

  An unusually cold blast of air accosted him as he stepped out onto the concrete landing. Just last Sunday, he’d stood in the dazzling, seventy-plus-degree sunshine to shake the hands of his parishioners; today, he shivered. He decided to go back inside, but before he could reach the latch to pull the door shut, he noticed a sign in the neighbor lady’s yard that hadn’t been there yesterday. He narrowed his eyes, trying to make out what it said, but he couldn’t quite decipher the letters. No doubt, it had something to do with that sewing business she operated from her home. He gave his head a little toss. She was a strange one, that woman—pretty as any picture, as was her little girl, but distant as the rocky shores of the Pacific. Why, he’d never so much as gotten a simple wave out of her when he happened to spot her across the churchyard. It wasn’t as if he wanted or needed her friendship, but he wasn’t accustomed to people—women, in particular—completely ignoring him when all he wanted to do was say hello.

  “You best close that door, Reverend. You’ll turn us into pillars of ice.” This came from
Alan Potter, one of the church elders who’d served on the pastoral search committee that had hired him.

  Lucas reined in his thoughts and shut the door against the frigid winds.

  “You’d never believe it was short-sleeve weather just a couple o’ days ago,” remarked Mrs. Potter, a pleasant woman with a pear-shaped body whose gray hair was pulled back into a bun so severe that it nearly ironed the wrinkles right out of her face. She had a big, toothy smile that made up for the dour look.

  “’Bout the time y’ think spring’s arrived, we get hit with a cold streak,” Mrs. Mortimer supplied, crowding in for the first handshake of the morning. “Can’t complain, though. Ain’t had but half an inch o’ snow all winter.”

  Lucas smiled down at the petite older woman, who would have had to rise up on tiptoe to make five feet. She had a curved spine, which told him she’d seen taller days. He extended his hand as a queue formed behind her. “You’re right as can be, Mrs. Mortimer. Your Tennessee winter was a welcome reprieve for this Michigander. I’m used to digging out from snowdrifts two and three feet deep. I’ll take that half inch and be happy with it.”

  She nodded, drawing her coat collar up close around her neck. “Fine sermon, by the way,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Lucas knew his sermons weren’t anything to brag about. Following up a seasoned preacher like Reverend Younker, PEC’s beloved pastor of twenty-some-odd years, proved a tall order to fill. This was only Lucas’s second assignment, his first post having petered out altogether when the small, aging congregation in St. Ignace, Michigan, reached a point at which nearly everyone was too old and feeble to leave home. The small Methodist church had essentially died right along with its parishioners. When he’d read in the Evangelical Brethren Herald about a pulpit opening down in Paris, Tennessee, he’d sent his credentials to the powers that be, along with a written essay detailing his Christian testimony, and the next thing he knew, he was hopping a train to a warmer climate and a larger congregation made up of varied ages. Why, they’d even provided him with a parsonage and an actual salary—meager, to be sure, but enough to survive on. Not only that, but if money did get tight before his monthly stipend arrived, the Lord always laid it on someone’s heart to stop by with a covered casserole and some sort of delectable dessert. In his opinion, it couldn’t get much better than that.