Where Yesterday Lives

by Karen Kingsbury

  “But I treated you so badly. How can you forgive me?”

  “Jane, do you really think I could ever hate you?”

  Jane looked down, staring at the bag in her hands. “I could understand if you did.”

  “I don’t. I never have hated you.”

  “Well, now, there were a few times there…” Jane’s voice trailed off and she grinned.

  Ellen smiled, glad to see her sister’s sense of humor again. She’d really missed it. “I don’t know when we’ll see each other again.”

  Jane nodded and tears glittered in her eyes. “You and Mike’ll have to come spend some time with us.”

  “Or vice versa. There’s always room for your family at our house if you need some time at the beach.”

  “You know, Ellen, despite all the mean things I said…you’d make a great mom.” Jane took Ellen’s hand in hers. “I’ll pray for you…that next time there won’t be a miscarriage.”

  Ellen nodded, too choked up to speak.

  There was an awkward silence then, and Jane looked at her watch. “Well, I’d better get going. The plane leaves in twenty minutes.”

  Ellen nodded, blinking away her tears so she could see clearly.

  “Jane, remember when we were little, what we used to say to each other every night?”

  “Sure,” Jane smiled, her eyes distant. “I remember. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just wondered if you remembered.”

  Jane’s smile faded then and she rushed into her sister’s arms. She held her for several moments, unaware of the people around her. Her voice cracked when she was finally able to speak.

  “Good-bye, Ellen, I love you. See you around.”

  It wasn’t exactly what they had said to each other all those years ago but it was as close as they would come. Ellen smiled, her tears falling onto Jane’s shoulder.

  “Good-bye, Jane,” she mumbled. “I love you, too. See you around.”

  They pulled away then and studied each other one last time before turning, and without looking back, going their separate ways.

  The plane took off smoothly over the Detroit area, circling gently around lower Lake Michigan and heading back across land toward the Atlantic coast. Ellen sat next to the window watching Detroit disappear behind them. She wore her sunglasses again, her back turned slightly to the passengers beside her. She wanted the next three hours to herself so she could remember all that had happened that week, to try to make sense of it.

  She had made peace with everyone, it seemed. Her father, her sisters, her brother, Mike. Even her Savior. But she hadn’t really made peace with Jake. There were things she would have told him if she’d had a chance at the funeral.

  She stared at the tree-covered land below, thinking. Suddenly, she knew what she had to do.

  She opened her bag and found the pad of lined paper and a black ink pen. Gazing into the endless blue sky, she pictured him sitting beside her in his truck, splashing in the waves with her at the beach, letting go of her on his redwood deck. Perhaps things would have been different if she’d met Jake later in life. Or if she had never married and run into him again. But that wasn’t the way it had been…and everything about Jake Sadler was borrowed from a place where yesterday lived.

  She began to write.

  “Dear Jake…” The pen moved effortlessly across the page and Ellen paused, drifting back. With a sigh, she continued.

  I wanted so badly to talk to you at the funeral but you left before I could say good-bye. I think I understand. Mike was there and you wanted the two of us to be alone together. Like we should be.

  I’m in the air as I write this, suspended between your world and my world with Mike, and I feel compelled to talk to you one last time. I cannot put into words what seeing you this week meant to me. It was as if all the years between us disappeared in an instant And yes, it made me wonder.

  I think of your question on the beach, when you asked me if I still had feelings for you, and I can tell you honestly that I do. You were my first love and my heart has not forgotten. It never will. I needed you this week and I will always be glad I called.

  But you were right to let me go, to send me back to Mike. Because what you and I shared has come and gone, and I believe you understand that even better than I. As you said, if we had stayed together it would never have worked. Right now we’d still be fighting over some different girl in a different bathrobe standing on your grand front porch. And I’d still have a broken heart.

  I guess I’m trying to thank you for loving me enough to leave what we shared in the past. You have grown into quite a kind man, Jake Sadler.

  You should know I’m doing all right about my dad. The sadness has faded somewhat, and when I think of him now I see him where I will always see him: sitting with us five kids at a Michigan football game, his cheeks red from the cold, his fist raised in the air and that smile stretched across his face.

  I keep finding myself thinking about what you said that night when we were on the way to your house. “Choices. Passages. Moments that make a difference for a lifetime.” Seeing my dad that way is one of those moments.

  So were you, Jake. You must know that a part of me will always love you, always remember what we shared. And every once in a while I will think of you, as I know you will think of me.

  By the way, about that omelette shop, I really think it’d be a winner. And I’m never wrong, you know. Except once when I was a kid and I thought I’d grow up to marry my best friend. I was wrong about that.

  You have changed so much since then. You’ve made a wonderful life for yourself, and I know one day you’ll find the right person to share it with. When you do, I pray you’ll place God at the center of your home. He alone can make the difference when troubled times come. That much I know from experience. I never told you, but I gave my life to Christ after we broke up. And even though I’m still growing, Jesus has never given up on me. His peace and love truly do surpass all understanding. It might sound like a cliché, but my life really would be nothing without the Lord.

  Anyway, I wish only the best for you, Jake. I guess that’s all. I don’t expect you to write back or call me when you receive this. It wouldn’t be right. Just know that I enjoyed this past week, being with you again, remembering a thousand memories of the way we were. The way everything was. It was a passage of sorts, another moment. But most of all this past week gave me a few precious days in the place where yesterday lives.

  Thanks, Jake. I won’t forget you.

  Love always, Ellen

  That same moment, in a small country kitchen in Maplewood, Pennsylvania, Imogene Spencer placed a telephone call to Erma Brockmeier.

  “Erma, I’ve just got word from the church office. That young woman we were praying for? You know, Ellen Barrett?”

  “Yes, how is she?”

  “Everything worked out just fine, dear. You can take her off the prayer line.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. Praise the Lord. I’ll be sure to tell the other ladies.”

  “Yes. Now about that other couple, the one in Ohio whose son is in the hospital? Here’s what I think we need to pray…”

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for traveling with me through the hallways of Ellen Barrett’s past. My guess is that the journey will have taken you back to your own yesterdays as well.

  Scripture says, “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past” (Isaiah 43:18). Certainly there can be no growth for today and tomorrow by remaining where yesterday lives. Still, the Lord gave us our ability to remember. He provided us with the ability to capture scenes and log them in a storehouse to be brought out and played again when the occasion allows. I hope Where Yesterday Lives provided such an occasion.

  If so, it is my prayer that by remembering, by visiting once more that place where faith and family and love are born, you were convicted again of the truth that Jesus Christ is our only hope. Unless the foundation is built on him, it is merely shifting sand.


  However, if Ellen’s journey led you on one that was painful, filled with memories of a life devoid of Christ’s love, then there is no time like the present to begin the greatest journey of all. By putting your faith in Christ today, you will start a trail of yesterdays that will one day conjure up beautiful memories.

  Faithfully yours in Christ,

  THE

  FOREVER FAITHFUL SERIES

  WAITING FOR MORNING—Book One

  A drunk driver…a deadly accident…a dream destroyed. When Hannah Ryan loses her husband and oldest daughter to a drunk driver, she is consumed with hate and revenge. Ultimately, it is a kind prosecutor, a wise widow, and her husband’s dying words that bring her the peace that will set her free and let her live again.

  A MOMENT OF WEAKNESS—Book Two

  When childhood friends Jade and Tanner reunite as adults, they share their hearts, souls, and dreams of forever—until a fateful decision tears them apart. Now, nearly a decade later, Jade’s unfaithful husband wants to destroy her in a custody battle that is about to send shock waves across the United States. Only one man can help Jade in her darkest hour. And only one old woman knows the truth that can set them all free.

  HALFWAY TO FOREVER—Book Three

  Matt and Hannah…Jade and Tanner—after already surviving much, these couples now face the greatest struggles of their lives: Parental losses and life-threatening illness threaten to derail their faith and sideline their futures. Can Hannah survive the loss of an adopted daughter? Will Tanner come through decades of loneliness only to face losing Jade one final time?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR…

  Karen Kingsbury is an award-winning author and former reporter for the Los Angeles Times and Los Angeles Daily News. She is also a recognized author with the Women of Faith Fiction Club. Kingsbury lives with her husband and six children in Washington.

  OTHER NOVELS BY KAREN KINGSBURY

  WHERE YESTERDAY LIVES

  In the wake of her father’s sudden death, Ellen Barrett must journey back to the small town where she grew up and spend a week with antagonistic siblings. In the process, she must reckon with a man who once meant everything to her.

  WHEN JOY CAME TO STAY

  Maggie Stovall is trapped inside a person she’s spent years carefully crafting. Now the truth about who she is—and what she’s done—is revealed, sending Maggie into a spiral of despair. Will Maggie walk away from her marriage and her foster child in her desperation to escape the mantle of depression cloaking her? Or will she allow God to take her to a place of ultimate honesty before it’s too late?

  ON EVERY SIDE

  Jordan Riley, an embittered lawyer, sues his hometown to have a public statue of Jesus removed. The conflict causes him to cross paths with a spirited young newscaster named Faith, who opposes Jordan’s suit in surprising ways. Perhaps most amazing of all is how Faith begins to disassemble the walls around Jordan’s heart. Will love be enough when the battle rages on every side?

  WAITING FOR MORNING EXCERPT

  I am in torment within, and in my heart I am disturbed.

  LAMENTATIONS 1:20A

  Sunday Evening

  They were late and that bothered her.

  She had been through a list of likely explanations, any one of which was possible. They’d stopped for ice cream; they’d forgotten something back at the campsite; they’d gotten a later start than usual.

  Still Hannah Ryan was uneasy. Horrific images, tragic possibilities threatened to take up residence in her mind, and she struggled fiercely to keep them out.

  The afternoon was cooling, so she flipped off the air conditioning and opened windows at either end of the house. A hint of jasmine wafted inside and mingled pleasantly with the pungent scent of Pine-Sol and the warm smell of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.

  Minutes passed. Hannah folded two loads of whites, straightened the teal, plaid quilts on both girls’ beds again, and wiped down the Formica kitchen countertop for the third time. Determined to fight the fear welling within her, she wrung the worn, pink sponge and angled it against the tiled wall. More air that way, less mildew. She rearranged the cookies on a pretty crystal platter, straightened a stack of floral napkins nearby, and rehearsed once more the plans for dinner.

  The house was too quiet.

  Praise music. That’s what she needed. She sorted through a stack of compact discs until she found one by David Jeremiah. Good. David Jeremiah would be nice. Calming. Upbeat. Soothing songs that would consume the time, make the waiting more bearable.

  She hated it when they were late. Always had. Her family had been gone three days and she missed them, even missed the noise and commotion and constant mess they made.

  That was all this was…just a terrible case of missing them.

  David Jeremiah’s voice filled the house, singing about when the Lord comes and wanting to be there to see it. She drifted back across the living room to the kitchen. Come on, guys. Get home.

  She stared out the window and willed them back, willed the navy blue Ford Explorer around the corner, where it would move slowly into the driveway, leaking laughter and worn-out teenage girls. Willed her family home where they belonged.

  But there was no Explorer, no movement at all save the subtle sway of branches in the aging elm trees that lined the cul-de-sac.

  Hannah Ryan sighed, and for just a moment she considered the possibilities. Like all mothers, she was no stranger to the tragedies of others. She had two teenage daughters, after all, and more than once she had read a newspaper article that hit close to home. Once it was a teenager who had, in a moment of silliness, stood in the back of a pickup truck as the driver took off. That unfortunate teen had been catapulted to the roadway, his head shattered, death instant. Another time it was the report of an obsessive boy who stalked some promising young girl and gunned her down in the doorway of her home.

  When Hannah’s girls were little, other tragedies had jumped off the newspaper pages. The baby in San Diego who found his mother’s button and choked to death while she chatted on the phone with her sister. The toddler who wandered out the back gate and was found hours later at the bottom of a neighbor’s murky pool.

  It was always the same. Hannah would absorb the story reading each word intently and then, for a moment, she would imagine such a thing happening to her family. Better, she thought, to think it through. Play it out so that if she were ever the devastated mother in the sea of heartache that spilled from the morning news, she would be ready. There would be an initial shock, of course, but Hannah usually skimmed past that detail. How could one ever imagine a way to handle such news? But then there would be the reality of a funeral, comforting friends, and ultimately, life would go on. To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord; wasn’t that what they said? She knew this because of her faith.

  No, she would not be without hope, no matter the tragedy.

  Of course, these thoughts of Hannah’s usually happened in less time than it took her to fold the newspaper and toss it in the recycling bin. They were morbid thoughts, she knew. But she was a mother, and there was no getting around the fact that somewhere in the world other mothers were being forced to deal with tragedy.

  Other mothers.

  That was the key. Eventually even as she turned from the worn bin of yesterday’s news and faced her day, Hannah relished the truth that those tragedies always happened to other mothers. They did not happen to people she knew—and certainly they would not happen to her.

  She prayed then, as she did at the end of every such session, thanking God for a devoted, handsome husband with whom she was still very much in love, and for two beautiful daughters strong in their beliefs and on the brink of sweet-sixteen parties and winter dances, graduation and college. She was sorry for those to whom tragedy struck, but at the same time, she was thankful that such things had never happened to her.

  Just to be sure, she usually concluded the entire process with a quick and sincere plea, asking God to never let h
appen to her and hers what had happened to them and theirs.

  In that way, Hannah Ryan had been able to live a fairly worry-free life. Tragedy simply did not happen to her. Would not. She had already prayed about it. Scripture taught that the Lord never gave more than one could bear. So Hannah believed God had protected her from tragedy or loss of any kind because he knew she couldn’t possibly bear it.

  Still, despite all this assurance, tragic thoughts haunted her now as they never had before.

  David Jeremiah sang on about holding ground, standing, even when everything in life was falling apart. Hannah listened to the words, and a sudden wave of anxiety caused her heart to skip a beat. She didn’t want to stand. She wanted to run into the streets and find them.

  She remembered a story her grandmother once told about a day in the early seventies when she was strangely worried about her only son, Hannah’s uncle. All day her grandmother had paced and fretted and prayed….

  Late that evening she got the call. She knew immediately of course. Her son had been shot that morning, killed by a Viet Cong bullet. A sixth sense, she called it later. Something only a mother could understand.

  Hannah felt that way now, and she hated herself for it. As if by letting herself be anxious she would, in some way, be responsible if something happened to her family.

  She reminded herself to breathe. Motionless, hands braced on the edge of the kitchen sink, shoulders tense, she stared out the window. Time slipped away, and David Jeremiah sang out the last of his ten songs. Lyrics floated around her, speaking of the Lord’s loving arms and begging him not to let go, not to allow a fall.