PRAISE FOR STARS IN THE GRASS
“Ann Marie Stewart writes with immeasurable spirit as she probes the deep currents of faith and love. Abby McAndrews tells her compelling tale of family grief with truth and admirable humor. Stars in the Grass is a powerful novel that will light your way.”
—Alyson Hagy, author of Boleto and Ghosts of Wyoming
“In this remarkable novel, Ann Marie Stewart explores the aftermath of tragedy with intelligence, grace, and subtle humor. Stars in the Grass is a story of great loss, but also of great hope. A beautiful, haunting tale, it is one I won’t soon forget.
—Ann Tatlock, award-winning author of Once Beyond a Time
“Stars in the Grass reminds us that even when we think God has forgotten us, we’re forever on His mind. Ann Marie Stewart’s writing is outstanding and her voice captivating. I fell in love with this intriguing novel from the first page.”
—Bestselling novelist Kate Lloyd, author of Leaving Lancaster, Pennsylvania Patchwork, and Forever Amish
“Ann Marie Stewart’s beautifully crafted prose depicts a family in deep turmoil as they walk through a dark valley…. Told in firstperson narrative by nine-year-old Abby, Stewart gets her voice just right as a precocious child thrust into the world of grief. A thought-provoking and sensitive look into the different paths each family member travels in the aftermath of tragedy, the role of God and faith along the path, and the way time wraps its way around this family until they each can embrace the truth and move forward.”
—Elizabeth Musser, bestselling author of The Long Highway Home and The Swan Hous
© 2017 by Ann Marie Stewart
Print ISBN 978-1-63409-950-9
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-63409-952-3
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-63409-951-6
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
Scripture quotations marked NASB are taken from the New American Standard Bible, © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.
Scripture quotations are from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright 1946, 1952 [2nd edition, 1971] by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Special thanks to Shaunna Bohan for contributing to the discussion questions.
Cover photography: Jolena Long, www.joliemaephotography.com
Published by Shiloh Run Press, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.shilohrunpress.com.
Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.
Printed in the United States of America.
DEDICATION
Dedicated to Julia Marie Stewart No matter how far you travel you’ll always be close to my heart
CONTENTS
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Letter to the Reader
Discussion Questions
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Nick Harrison for always believing in this story and me
Chip MacGregor, agent, for always challenging,
encouraging, and offering sage wisdom
Barbour Publishing for their energy and inspiration
Acquisitions Editor Annie Tipton for listening to Abby’s voice
Holly Lorincz and Joanne Simmons for their insightful editing
Beth Greenfeld and Kitty Eisele, my writing group
Fred Ricker, John Enloe, and Bruce Stewart, all Clock Docs
Michelle Albanese, for her unfailing support, encouragement, and GPS
Gilda Carter, a friend who loves unconditionally
Barb Boughton, my friend and sister in Christ
Lori Galloway, for sharing her journey to hope
on the anniversary of her daughter’s death
Shaunna Bohan for helping with Discussion Questions
The Writers Center, Bethesda, Maryland
Lake Forest Park Presbyterian Church who made God’s house feel like home
Marvin Wayne, for medical information in Blaine, Washington
The Pink Brains Book Club, my favorite book club that never actually bowled
Will Stewart for supporting my writing
Julia Stewart and Christine Stewart, our beloved daughters
Charlie Baxter, my UM professor for “Seeing from the Balcony”
Alyson Hagy for continued friendship
and support beyond being my UM professor
Bill and Ruth Roetcisoender, I love you both so much
James Scott Bell, Lydia Harris, Catron Enloe,
Robert Burroughs, Sherry Larson
My heavenly Father who carries me now and forever
PROLOGUE
I spent the better part of my childhood sitting on a pew in the balcony of Bethel Springs First Presbyterian Church, listening to my dad’s long vowels as he preached on predestination. Sandwiched between my older brother, Matt, and my little brother, Joel, I counted bald heads, doodled on church bulletins, and studied the stained-glass Jesus.
Reverend McAndrews was godlike and mysterious. Definitely not the same man who read to us from Dr. Seuss, ran through the sprinkler on steamy Ohio summer afternoons, or smiled as we played hide-and-go-seek in his Father’s house.
Though I can’t remember many of his three-point sermons, I have other good memories. One Sunday during a hymn, Matt and I sang loudly, changing the words to our liking, “Gladly, the Cross-Eyed Bear,” and crossing our eyes for added effect. When we sat back down, I rested the hymnal on the railing and fanned myself by riffling through the pages. Then it happened. Onto one of the fifty-one shining bald heads below, I dropped the hymnal.
It clapped to the floor, and then in the congregational hush, Mr. Ludema winced in surprised pain. I only looked down long enough to see necks craning up toward the balcony and then turning toward my father and then back to the balcony. Dad squinted to see Mrs. Ludema as she nursed her husband’s head and then looked up at the cause of the disruption. Me.
Dad stared at me for fifteen seconds. I know because I counted every one of them. I did not look away; instead I memorized his thick sandy hair fringed with gray streaks. I couldn’t see his eyes because the sun was reflecting on the lenses of his glasses. His mouth was closed, his thick jaw tense. The congregation waited for the Reverend McAndrews, and so did I. At last he said, with a nod to the balcony and a sigh, “And the Word has come down from on high.”
During responsive reading, his voice rose and fell so predictably, I was
nearly lulled to sleep unless I pulled out a pencil to sketch the hills and valleys. “‘O give thanks to the LORD, for he is gooood,’” Reverend McAndrews read from Psalm 136. His voice grew louder and the pitch higher until the word Lord, where he paused and let it fall off to a low, soft, long, concluding gooood. We echoed, “‘For his steadfast love endures for ever.’” After repeating it twenty-six times, what I thought everlasting was the psalm itself.
I did not question the psalmist’s message until I was nine and Matt was fifteen and we crossed a crevasse of pain. It took struggling through that jagged blackness of doubt and fear for the girl in the balcony to finally consider the words, and to really connect with the man in the pulpit and the woman at the organ.
My mother looked just like Jackie Kennedy. I don’t know if our former First Lady could play the organ, but my mother could not, despite the expectations of the elders of BS Pres. (Such an unfortunate acronym, but one this preacher’s kid enjoyed flaunting.) The organ faced forward, so my mother’s back was toward the congregation, which could have been symbolic considering her reluctance to play the role. Though my mother’s keyboard technique lacked beauty and grace, her speech did not. My mother’s voice was soft and gentle, full of intricate words she shared, always believing in expanding her children’s vocabulary at every opportunity. Nothing about her projected strength, but I would learn she had enough for all of us.
The summer before I turned ten was idyllic—until August 3, 1970. At the time I didn’t know what that word meant, not having heard it in a sermon or one of Mom’s vocabulary lessons. But it perfectly describes a time when I thought the world was safe and good things lasted forever. What I couldn’t know then, but try to remember now, is how fragile and delicate are the moments we most treasure, and if they break into pieces, repairing means seeing anew.
ONE
We rushed upward into the night sky, lifted by an unseen force. The higher we climbed, the cooler the air, the fainter the smell of hot dogs and cotton candy, and the softer the music from the merry-go-round below. With my arms outstretched, I traced a wide curve, embracing a crescent of beach fires, twinkling lights, and dimming pink sunset. Birch Bay was black, nearly invisible, the people now dots on the landscape. I leaned against Dad’s shoulder and stared up at the stars. Then we crested the top and plunged downward.
After a dizzying return up, the Ferris wheel slowed and then stopped, leaving us hanging in the sky.
“What happened?” I asked.
“They’re letting people off at the bottom. The ride’s over.”
Now with each lurch we measured time; my stomach sagged in disappointment. I could see my brothers swinging below at ten o’clock. Kicking my legs up and down, I tried to make our carriage rock back and forth. Was it really over? Each time the wheel stopped, more riders dismounted. And then it was our turn, and the man unlocked our lap bar. As we left the amusement park, I turned to see the carriages filled and beginning another circle, like hands on a clock.
“Joel rode the Ferris wheel,” I told my mom as we returned to our campfire.
“I rode with Matt,” Joel burst out, looking up proudly. Joel’s “wiff” instead of “with” always made me smile. But not Mom, who turned to Dad and gave him a scolding look.
“I’m fifteen, Mom,” Matt reminded her, his arm around Joel.
“But he’s only three,” Mom answered.
“It’s safe, Renee. There was a safety bar across his waist,” Dad explained. “You worry too much.”
I gazed back at the Ferris wheel spinning in the distance, a moving spiderweb in the sky. Mom dug into the grocery bag and pulled out marshmallows, Hershey’s chocolate, and graham crackers.
After s’mores and storytelling, Joel fell asleep, cradled in Dad’s arms at our campfire on the beach. We lay in a circle, our feet to the fire like spokes, our heads pillowed against beached driftwood, the sound of the waves lapping the shore. The air was warm and still, and I wished we could stay there forever. Washington felt so far from Ohio and yet so familiar beneath the same canopy of stars.
“Vega, Antares, Altair, Arcturus. And there’s Polaris—the North Star,” Dad said, outlining the dotted sky. “‘He determines the number of the stars, he gives to all of them their names,’” Dad added gently, not in his minister voice. Poking the fire with his stick, Matt kicked up a hot flame. Sparks sputtered and crackled.
“Cygnus is the swan.” Dad traced his fingers along a band of dots, connecting stars into shapes. I blurred my eyes, trying to see a swan, though it looked more like an umbrella. “And that is Pegasus, the winged horse.” He drew what looked like a hairy spider. I could only find the Big Dipper.
The warmth from the fire made me blissfully drowsy and I closed my eyes. Mom played with my hair, running her fingers through it before letting it trickle downward, just how I liked it.
“Gossamer,” she said softly.
“What’s that?” Matt asked.
“Something delicate.” Mom closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. “Sort of how this night feels.”
“Gossamer …,” I whispered, trying it on for size.
The next day at Birch Bay, after digging for clams, building sand castles, and splashing in tide pools, we headed back to our car, strolling the remaining crescent of beach. Joel picked up a long piece of seaweed tethered to a rubbery ball and dragged it behind him, leaving a trail in the sand. He was slowing, the time for his afternoon nap long past. Now the tide was coming in and we were running out of beach, so we shifted to the narrow strip of sidewalk between the surf and the road, the tide pressing us on the right, cars inching along the road on our left. Whenever we strayed too close to the road, Mom gently nudged us back toward the beach.
“Go to Bossy Cow!” Joel whined.
“We’re not there, Joel,” Dad said. “We can’t stop now. Just keep walking, buddy.” The Bossy Cow, a diner at the tip of the crescent, served the best shakes. Thick, muddy chocolate milkshakes Joel could never finish.
We walked in slow motion, in no hurry to get anywhere, Joel’s pace becoming ours. Even now I wish we had stopped. Like an unwound clock. Time never ticking forward.
“Bossy Cow?” Joel asked again.
“No Bossy Cow, but how about some boats?” I looked to Mom, hoping she’d agree with my suggestion.
“Oh, all right,” she said, seeing Joel clap his hands in excitement. Joel and I had discovered the diamond-shaped caramels covered in white chocolate with an almond for a sail. We crossed the street to the Sea Shoppe to buy half a pound. Matt wanted to play in the game rooms, but Dad said it was time to get back to our campsite. I savored a boat, first licking off the white chocolate, then relishing and finally chewing the caramel.
“Carry me, Matt,” Joel asked, dropping his r’s but not his chocolate sailboat.
“C’mon, Joel, just a little farther.” I pulled him along by his wrist, avoiding the sticky candy in his fist. “Mom, Joel’s tired. He’s too slow.”
“Matt, please?” Joel begged, his polite “pwease” making his whining endearingly effective. “Mattie, Mattie.”
“Hop on board, little buddy.” Matt bent low so Joel could jump on his back. They looked like such a pair, Joel’s head resting on Matt’s shoulder, his arms around Matt’s neck.
“He’s going to fall asleep and let go,” Mom warned as Joel’s eyes closed.
Dad stepped forward. “I’d better carry him.”
“Me and Matt.” Joel yawned.
“C’mon, Dad, he wants me,” Matt argued. “I won’t let anything happen to him.”
“Mattie, Mattie,” Joel agreed sleepily.
But Dad pried him off Matt’s back and stretched out his arms to lift Joel high in the air, Joel’s back blocking the sun’s rays. Dad’s smile was warm and his eyes so tender. He lowered Joel as if he couldn’t resist giving him a hug. Joel’s legs wrapped around Dad and his arms circled his neck, his head nestled beneath Dad’s chin.
I’ve heard that people block
out traumatic moments, but I remember it all. The line of cars was moving slowly, like a processional, until a blue Chevy lurched free and swerved off the road. In the filmy haze of that afternoon, it almost looked like the car was heading straight toward us in slow motion.
My mother screamed and pushed me out of the way and I stumbled backward, but with enough time to see the car hit Dad, tossing Joel into the windshield and away. Then all I could see was the car.
I remember the Washington license plate and the broken windshield with spidery veins across the glass.
I remember the driver, a woman who jumped out of the blue car, screaming, “I’m so sorry. I just don’t know what happened. I missed the brake. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry!”
I remember my mother screaming, “Where is he?”
I remember people helping my dad up. I remember him walking, then wincing in pain as his leg buckled beneath him. He stood again and hobbled, searching for Joel.
I jumped up and ran for my dad.
“Abby!” Mom screamed as she crossed the line of cars now at a standstill. I caught up to Dad and followed him, gripping the back of his T-shirt. He staggered toward a group huddled around something on the road. Everybody was pushing Dad away until he yelled, “I’m a minister!”—his ticket to join the circle—and then they all just let him through.
Matt was already there with the group, his fists balled up against his sides. He was shaking his head.
“Let me through! Let me through!” I could hear my mother scream. I turned to see someone holding her back. There was something we weren’t supposed to see. Something Matt had already seen.
Joel lay on his back. He looked asleep but so different from the way he slept on the beanbag chair in our family room at home. There was blood on the road. Was it Joel’s? I knelt down as my dad touched Joel’s damp forehead and whispered to him. I wanted Dad to make Joel open his eyes.
“He’s bleeding,” Mom moaned as she burst through. “Where’s he bleeding? Where’s he hurt?”
I studied the growing pool of blood and realized it was coming from Joel’s ear. Matt stared as if straight through Joel to the pavement below.
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