The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Books by Jim and Terri Kraus

  A Note from the Author

  Discussion Questions

  THE TRANSFORMATION

  Published by David C. Cook

  4050 Lee Vance View

  Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.

  David C. Cook Distribution Canada

  55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5

  David C. Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications

  Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England

  David C. Cook and the graphic circle C logo

  are registered trademarks of Cook Communications Ministries.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes,

  no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form

  without written permission from the publisher.

  This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s

  imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International

  Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible

  Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  LCCN 2009929671

  ISBN 978-0-7814-4867-3

  eISBN 978-0-7814-0346-7

  © 2009 Terri Kraus

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications,

  Inc., 7680 Goddard St., Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920

  The Team: Andrea Christian, Ramona Tucker, Sarah Schultz,

  Jack Campbell, Caitlyn York, and Karen Athen

  Cover Design: Amy Kiechlin

  Cover Photos: iStockphoto; Corbis (woman)

  First Edition 2009

  To Elliot—

  My one and only:

  I love you the whole wide world.

  When all is said and done, you are part of me. That’s the way it was meant to be. People are brought together for a reason, everything happens for a reason. I believe the reason that you and me were brought together was because we complete one another. We fill in each other’s missing spots with love.

  —Anonymous

  Are we not like two volumes of one book?

  —Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

  PROLOGUE

  Shadyside

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  1888

  THE HOT IRON HISSED as it made contact with the solder, the silvery metal turning to liquid, rivulets running along the lead channel. Perrin Millet worked fast, not wanting the heat to shatter the shards of thickly tinted glass. He bent the lead frame easily, and with a deft touch, soldered the channel to the master frame.

  Close to finishing, he stepped back. The large window was cradled at an angle in a large, supporting, adjustable wooden frame. A small coal stove held a dozen heating rods, all glowing bright orange, each ready to melt and bend the puzzle of glass and metal slowly growing into sharp definition.

  The Presbyterians had indeed been generous with the budget for their new church. As an artist, Perrin liked Presbyterians. Not so much the Lutherans, whom he thought were somewhat dour, their church designs lacking ambition and creativity. The group of Presbyterian elders, seeking to make a statement with their fine new church on South Aiken Avenue in bucolic Shadyside, on the east side of Pittsburgh, far away from the belching sulfuric steel mills along the river, had presented him a commission to construct nine large storytelling windows. They even allowed him some latitude: He could select the scenes for his windows from more than a dozen approved Bible stories.

  “We only ask that you make the windows big and impressive … and, of course, accurate,” he was instructed.

  Perrin, a master artisan who had created stained-glass windows all his life, was surprisingly not a religious man; he was also given to hard drink and coarse language. But this commission for the Presbyterians had done something to him. Exactly what it had done, Perrin wasn’t certain, yet somehow he felt his completed subjects staring down on him—not in condemnation, but as witnesses to his genius, providing encouragement to his spirit as he labored, almost lost in the process of his handiwork.

  His selections: Adam and Eve with the Serpent; Moses holding the Ten Commandments; Samson destroying the temple (it was Perrin’s first time illustrating that wonderfully horrific story); Jesus holding a gentle lamb (an image Perrin could have done in his sleep); an anguished Jesus in the garden with the disciples, slumbering, in the background; the Last Supper, with Jesus standing off to one side (a novel approach, Perrin thought); Jesus being sentenced before Pilate and the crucifixion, with a wildly stormy background; and the day of Pentecost, complete with dancing flames and beatific expressions.

  The last window, the great circular window to be hung above the high altar, would be a more nebulous subject.

  “We want to see the power of God in that window,” the elders had stated.

  “Power of God?” Perrin had asked.

  The elders were clear: the unbridled power of the almighty God.

  And so Perrin labored for weeks and weeks—poring over pages of sketches, surrounded by wads of discarded papers, tossing and turning in the night with indecision. Then, finally, with his vision clearly before him, he built the large circular frame and meticulously selected the glass. Painstakingly he cut each intricate piece, carefully laying out the lead and solder and sensitively designing the placement of the colors from the center out in a shape that suggested an all-seeing eye. For what could express the power of God more accurately than the Almighty’s ability to look inside the soul of man, casting His scathing light on its innermost parts in search of the truth?

  As Perrin finished the darkness at the edge of the circle, the eye stared back at him. Colors melded from a near-black midnight blue at the edge to true blue, to purple, to burnt sienna, to umber, to a deep, thick, translucent gold in the very center. It was now midday. The work was complete at last.

  Perrin called over two of his assistants, had them pull hard on the ropes, shouting that they must not loosen their holds, even for a moment, and then the window was upright.

  “Turn it,” Perrin commanded.

  They slowly rotated the frame on its wheels, letting the light shine through the glass, allowing the full force of the sunlight to burst onto that all-seeing eye for the first time in all of creation.

  As Perrin stared up at his work, the blues washed over his body and the gold spilled over his face and shoulders, making it necessary to squint; h
is eyes were filled with too much light and too much color. After a moment, he closed his eyes and let the golden light warm his face, the blue cool his body.

  Finally, he opened them again.

  The entire window erupted with color, filling and penetrating his soul and invading every inch of him. Blinking, he drew in deep breaths, spreading his arms to embrace the light.

  “Let no man claim there is no God,” Perrin said, maybe to himself, maybe to his assistants. “Whoever remains in this light will know the almighty God exists.”

  Then he knelt quietly, wondering why in the name of heaven those words had fallen from his lips … and if that great pellucid light had indeed transformed him.

  Holy Trinity Church

  Jeannette, Pennsylvania

  Thirty years ago

  Seated in the front row next to his mother, young Oliver Barnett was afraid to raise his head. The pastor had called for a time of silent prayer, so Oliver prayed then was done. Yet every other head in the church remained bowed. He lifted his head a degree or two and opened his eyes a bit to see what might happen during a silent prayer, wanting to see if God really filled the room with something. Oliver looked for a magical presence, something that glowed perhaps, or hovered above them.

  He did not see anything.

  Above the pastor, over his left shoulder, stood Jesus in a thick, dark wooden frame, rendered in stained-glass in colors almost too vivid to be found in nature. Oliver never had sat this close to the front of the church before. From the back of the church, where he normally sat, Jesus appeared kinder, gentler, almost ambiguous in intent. But some twenty pews closer, Jesus’ look became more distinct. There was an intensity in His expression, and His eyes—which Oliver once thought were closed in prayer—were open slightly, as if paying attention to those out in the pews who did not close their eyes during prayer.

  Jesus sees me. Oh, God, Jesus sees me.

  Oliver snapped his eyes shut and bowed his head deeper, scrunching his young body like a turtle at the sight of a fox or a badger. He hardly allowed himself to breathe. He prayed again that Jesus had not seen him, had not detected his disrespect.

  The pastor rumbled and called for everyone to rise.

  They sang a song that Oliver did not know. He tried to follow along, but the black squiggles on the page meant nothing to him. He heard his mother’s voice, pitched sharp, knifelike, next to him.

  They sat down again, and the pastor spoke for a few minutes, saying nice things about his father. Oliver heard his mother’s name mentioned, his own name, then his brother’s name. Tolliver was not in church because their mother said he was too young and so he was staying with a neighbor lady from across the street that morning.

  A soloist stood up, an old lady with white hair, and began to sing. Oliver felt like crying, but he refused to cry where anyone could see him. Behind the soloist, in a large metal box, lay the body of his father. Oliver knew his father was dead. The pastor said he would be with Jesus. But that fact didn’t make Oliver feel any better—not one bit.

  As the old lady stopped singing, Rose, his mother, turned to Oliver and placed her hand on his knee, grabbing it with more force than necessary, almost hard, like when she wanted him to listen and listen good. She leaned down, her mouth near his ear.

  “You’re the man of the house now, Oliver. You know that, don’t you?”

  Oliver did not know what that meant exactly but nodded as if he did.

  “You’ll be a good boy, won’t you, Oliver?” she asked, but it was more a demand than a request.

  He nodded again.

  “And, Oliver, you must remember about our secret. You must never tell anyone about our secret. Never. Do you understand?”

  When she squeezed his knee harder still, he was afraid he would cry out in pain if he did not agree. He knew what the secret was. He knew how to keep secrets. He had kept lots and lots of secrets before.

  He nodded.

  “I need to hear you say it, Oliver,” his mother said in almost a hiss. “Stop your nodding and shrugging and tell me with words.”

  Oliver fought the urge to nod again. “I’ll keep the secret, Ma. I promise.”

  She relaxed the pressure on his knee, then smiled. But to Oliver, it looked like that sort of fake smile you give to teachers and big people when you really don’t want to smile, but you have to.

  “I promise, Ma. I promise.”

  Taylor Allderdice High School

  Squirrel Hill

  Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

  Twenty years ago

  Samantha Cohen stood at her locker in the long hallway of the west wing of Taylor Allderdice High School, all but oblivious to the maelstrom of students spinning past her, jostling her, shouting and crowing and laughing. Most of them didn’t know what had happened.

  They couldn’t know—could they?

  Samantha was well known, with all her extracurricular activities, but close to only a few other students in the sophomore class. She stood a nickel under six feet tall, so most of the boys ignored her; and her classic good looks, with a touch of the exotic, made her an outsider to most of the girls.

  She slipped her books onto the top shelf of the locker, took her notebook and math book, slammed the door, spun the lock, and headed to study hall. No one would care if she was a few minutes late. No one would dare say a word to her, not today of all days.

  She was right. The room, filled with raucous laughter, swirling with students who didn’t pay her one bit of unaccustomed attention, didn’t settle down when she entered. A few noticed her, whispered to a friend, pointed, made gestures with their hands. Samantha paid none of them any mind. She took her seat, opened her math book, leafed through her notebook, took a pencil from her purse, and began trying to catch up on a week’s worth of missed assignments.

  Mr. Wansour entered the room, put a finger from each hand in his mouth, and attempted an ear-piercing whistle. The shrill sound was worse than the worst train whistle Samantha had ever heard. She hated him when he whistled like that.

  “Settle down, people. Everyone. Quiet. Sit still, please. No hall passes for the first fifteen minutes.”

  The room stilled to a gentle undercurrent of whispers and passing notes and opening books. Mr. Wansour flapped a manila folder onto the desk and opened it, extracting a test sheet from two periods earlier. He took a pen from the pocket of his sport coat and began to click it methodically, obsessively.

  Twenty minutes into the period, the classroom door opened and everyone looked up. An older woman, gray hair combed into a severe mannish style that caused most of the student body to wonder, entered the room, cradling a clipboard the way a fisherman would cradle a prize trout. “Samantha Cohen?”

  The room erupted in a chorus of “Ooohhh,” as if Samantha had already been indicted, tried, and convicted of some heinous student crime against authority.

  Samantha hesitated, then raised her hand.

  “Come with me,” Miss Rosenberg, one of the school’s four guidance counselors, said.

  Another chorus of “Ooohhh” erupted, then snickers.

  Samantha gathered her purse, book, and notebook to her chest and meekly got up from the desk. The soft soles of Miss Rosenberg’s sensible shoes were hushed on the tile, her heels making a squish, squish, squish sound down the empty halls.

  Samantha followed the counselor to a series of compact offices by the general administration office. To the right was the principal’s secretary, presiding over his waiting room. To the left were the guidance offices.

  “Come in. Sit down, Miss Cohen,” Miss Rosenberg invited.

  Over the counselor’s right shoulder was a wire rack with neatly stacked college brochures lining the pockets. Samantha had never set foot in this office; she wasn’t thinking about college yet, so she wondered why in the w
orld she had been summoned.

  “Miss Cohen, we are aware of what’s happened. We know that losing your mother that way can be a shock. We just want you to know that if you need to talk to someone, you can always make an appointment with one of the guidance counselors. We’re always available for appointments.”

  Samantha nodded.

  “You understand?”

  “I do,” Samantha replied. “But I think I’ll be fine.”

  Miss Rosenberg narrowed her eyes, obviously not believing a word Samantha said. “Look, Samantha, sometimes children think that this sort of behavior is hereditary or something equally as foolish. It isn’t. I’ve done a lot of reading on the subject. You don’t have anything to be worried about. You know, as I like to say, the sins of the father … or mother … don’t always visit the children. Sometimes children think it’s their fault. The school has a list of qualified therapists if you find that you are troubled. Or can’t sleep. Or get weepy.”

  Samantha had no questions for this strange woman.

  “You’ll let us know if you run into problems? Help is only a phone call away. If you’re having a hard time coping, there are a number of medications available, and I’ll bet your family doctor would be happy to help you with that.”

  “No, Miss Rosenberg. I think I’m fine. Really.”

  The counselor allowed a long, long silence to fill the room. “Or a member of the clergy. We could call one for you.”

  “No. Thank you, though. I’ve … I’ve talked to our rabbi.” Samantha, not skilled at lying, hoped keeping a solemn expression would help her made-up stories sound true.

  “Okay then. Since it’s almost time for your next class, why don’t you stay here until the bell rings?”

  Samantha had already stood up, smoothing her skirt. “No. If it’s okay with you, I’ll go back to study hall.”

  Miss Rosenberg shrugged. “Have it your way. Here’s a pass to get back to class,” she said. Then she began to write something in a notebook.

  Samantha slowly gathered her books together. One of Samantha’s talents was reading upside down—honed from reading her father’s writing as he worked at his desk. As she unhurriedly collected her belongings, she watched Miss Rosenberg write.