Season of Blessing

Also by Beverly LaHaye and Terri Blackstock

Seasons Under Heaven

Showers in Season

Times and Seasons

by Terri Blackstock

Emerald Windows

Cape Refuge

Cape Refuge

Southern Storm

River’s Edge

Breaker’s Reef

Newpointe 911

Private Justice

Shadow of Doubt

Trial by Fire

Word of Honor

Line of Duty

Sun Coast Chronicles

Evidence of Mercy

Justifiable Means

Ulterior Motives

Presumption of Guilt

Second Chances

Never Again Good-bye

When Dreams Cross

Blind Trust

Broken Wings

Novellas

Seaside

ZONDERVAN

Season of Blessing

Copyright © 2002 by Beverly LaHaye and Terri Blackstock

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.

ePub Edition June 2009 ISBN: 0-310-86389-9

Requests for information should be addressed to:

Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

LaHaye, Beverly

Season of blessing / by Beverly LaHaye and Terri Blackstock.

p. cm.

ISBN-10: 0-310-24298-3 (softcover)

ISBN-13: 978-0-310-24298-7 (softcover)

1. Breast—Cancer—Patients—Fiction. 2. Cancer in women—Fiction.

3. Missionaries—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. I. Blackstock, Terri, 1957-

II. Title.

PS3562.A3144  S425  2002

813’.54—dc21

{B}                                                                                                      2002009097

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, 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.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.

Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

Interior design by Melissa Elenbaas

This book is dedicated to cancer patients everywhere,

and to those whose lives have been altered because

someone they love has fought this disease…

and to the Great Physician,

who sometimes cures here on earth…

and sometimes heals by taking us home.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Acknowledgments

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

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

About the Publisher

Share Your Thoughts

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Dr. Bobby Graham and Dr. Sharon Martin for being our consultants on this book. Your help was invaluable, and we couldn’t have done it without you.

We’d also like to thank our agent, Greg Johnson, for the vision he had for a Best Years series, which ultimately evolved into these four books. He also had the vision to introduce us to each other in hopes of forming a partnership. That partnership has worked beautifully, and we’ve both been blessed by it.

And we must thank our editors at Zondervan—Dave Lambert, Lori Vanden Bosch, and Bob Hudson—for their tireless work to make sure these stories are the best they can be. And thanks to Sue Brower, who is responsible for letting our readers know that the books are out. This whole team does a wonderful job.

And finally, thanks to you, our reader, for giving us your time and attention as we spun these tales. Thanks for all your letters of encouragement, and for sharing tears and laughter with us as we’ve grown with Brenda, Tory, Cathy, and Sylvia.

May all your crises be blessings, and may you have many, many, many best moments.

I will sing to the Lord all my life;

I will sing praise to my God as long as I live.

PSALM 104:33

CHAPTER

One

Sylvia Bryan had always considered the words early detection to have more to do with others than herself. She’d never had anything that needed early detecting, and if she had any say in the matter—which apparently she did not—she would just as soon jump to the best possible conclusion, and proclaim the lump in her breast to be a swollen gland or a benign cyst. Then she could get back to her work in Nicaragua and stop being so body-conscious.

But Harry had insisted on a complete physical because of her fatigue and weakness, and had sent her home from the mission field to undergo a battery of tests that befitted a woman of her age. She had been insulted by that.

"I hope I don’t have to remind you that you’re a man of my age, she told him, so you don’t have to go treating me like I’m over-the-hill at fifty-four."

Harry had bristled. I’m just saying that there are things you’re at greater risk for, and I want to rule all of them out. You’re not well, Sylvia. Something’s wrong.

She’d had to defer to him, because deep down she’d been concerned about her condition, as well. It wasn’t like her to be so tired. She had chalked it up to the brutal August heat in Nicaragua, but she’d weathered last summer there without a hitch. For most of her life she’d had an endless supply of energy. Now she had trouble making it to noon without having to lie down.

So he’d sent her home to Breezewood, Tennessee, to see an internist at the hospital where he’d practiced as a cardiologist for most of his life. After just a few tests, he’d diagnosed her with a bad case of anemia, which explained her condition.

But then he’d gone too far and found a lump in her breast.

She’d gone for a mammogram then, certain that the lump was nothing more than a swollen gland.

The radiologist had asked to see her in his office.

Jim Montgomery was one of Harry’s roommates in medical school, and he came into the room holding her film. He’d always had an annoying way of pleating his brows and looking deeply concerned, whether he really was or not. He wore that expression now as he quietly took his seat behind his desk and clipped the mammogram film onto the light box behind him.

Sylvia wasn’t in the mood for theatrics. Okay, Jim. I know you want to be thorough and everything for Harry’s sake, but my problem has already been diagnosed. I’m badly anemic, which explains all my fatigue. So you can relax and quit looking for some terminal disease.

Jim turned on the light box and studied the breast on the film. With his pencil, he pointed to a white area. Sylvia, you have a suspicious mass in your left breast.

Sylvia stiffened. What does that mean…‘a suspicious mass’?

It means that there’s a tumor there. It’s about three centimeters. Right here in the upper outer aspect of your left breast. He made an imaginary circle over the film with his pencil.

Sylvia got up and moved closer to the film, staring at the offensive blob. She studied it objectively, as if looking at some other woman’s X ray. It couldn’t be hers. Wouldn’t she have known if something that ominous lay hidden in her breast tissue? Are you sure you didn’t get my film mixed up with someone else’s?

Of course I’m sure. He tipped his head back and studied the mass through the bottom of his glasses. Sylvia, do you do self breast exams?

She felt as if she’d been caught neglecting her homework. Well, I used to try. But mine are pretty dense, and I always felt lumps that turned out to be nothing. I finally gave it up.

Not a good idea. Especially with your history.

She knew he was right. Her mother had died of breast cancer when Sylvia was twenty-four. She should have known better than to neglect those self-exams. But she had been so busy for the last couple of years, and hadn’t had that much time to think about herself.

Well, I have tried to have mammograms every year since I turned forty… Her voice trailed off. Except for the last couple of years when I’ve been out of the country.

Well, it seems that the last couple of years were what really mattered.

She looked at him, trying to read the frown on his face. But it’s okay, isn’t it? You can tell if it looks malignant…

He looked down at her chart and made a notation. You need to get a biopsy tomorrow, if possible.

The fact that he’d averted his eyes alarmed her. You just evaded my question, Jim. And you know Harry is going to want to know. Does it look malignant to you or not?

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his hands over his stomach. The frown wrinkling his brow didn’t look quite so melodramatic now.

She set her mouth. Be straight with me, Jim. You see these things all the time. I want the truth.

All right, Sylvia. He sighed and took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. It does have the characteristics of a malignancy.

For a moment she just stood there, wishing she hadn’t pressed the issue. Malignancy meant cancer, and cancer meant surgery, and then chemotherapy and radiation and her hair falling out and pain and depression and hospice care and death.

Her mouth went dry, and she wished she’d brought her bottled water in from the car. She wondered what time it was. She had to get to the cleaners before it closed.

Her hands felt like ice, so she slid them into the pockets of her blazer to warm them. Come on, Jim. I don’t have cancer. I’ve been tired, that’s all, and they already figured out it’s from anemia. There is no possibility that I have breast cancer. None. Zilch.

Sylvia, you have to get this biopsied as soon as possible.

Okay. She looked down at her blazer and dusted a piece of lint off. Fine. I’ll get the biopsy, but I’m not worried about it at all.

Good. But he still wore the frown that said it wasn’t good. He turned and jerked the film out of the light box. And you’re probably right. But if it is cancer, you may have detected it early enough that you’ll have an excellent prognosis.

As Sylvia drove home, she realized that, along with early detection, she hated the word prognosis. It was not a word she’d ever expected to have uttered about her own body. This was just a minor inconvenience, she thought. She did not have time to be sick. The Lord knew how hard she worked for him in Nicaragua, and how much the children in the orphanage there needed her. They were probably already grieving her absence.

The Lord surely wouldn’t cut her work off when she’d been bearing so much fruit. He cut off barren branches and pruned those who needed to bear more. But when she spent her life giving and serving, wouldn’t he want her work to continue?

So she determined to push the news out of her mind until she’d actually had the biopsy. She knew in her heart that the mass was benign.

And if the biopsy proved her wrong, she would deal with it then.

CHAPTER

Two

Brenda Dodd wiped the white paint off of her hands and threw the rag across the plywood limousine. She hit Daniel—her sixteen-year-old—in the face.

No fair! I wasn’t looking.

He flung it across the prop and hit Leah across the forehead. She slung it at Rachel, her twin sister, leaving a smudge of paint across her cheek. Rachel tossed it at Joseph.

Preoccupied, twelve-year-old Joseph hardly noticed. He stood in front of his father, watching him sand the steering wheel that would go inside the car. It seems like an awful lot of work to go to, Dad, if you’re not even going to come to church and watch the play Wednesday night.

Brenda’s smile faded, and she looked at her husband. David had that tight, shut-down look that he got whenever the subject of church came up.

I don’t mind.

But, Dad, I’m the star. I play the Good Samaritan who drives into town in his limousine and helps the guy who got mugged. How can you not want to see that?

David cleared his throat. A cool breeze blew through their yard, ruffling his wavy red hair, but he still had a thin sheen of sweat above his lip. Son, you know how I feel about church.

I know, Dad, but it’s not like something terrible will happen to you if you come.

I’m not a hypocrite.

But I want you to see me. I’ve practiced so hard. And I’m good, aren’t I, Mom?

Brenda knew better than to get involved, but she couldn’t let her child down. He is good, David.

It’s not that he’s good. Fourteen-year-old Leah slopped more paint on her shorts and bare legs than she did on the car. It’s just that he’s such a ham. He’s a terrible show-off.

I am not.

Are too. Rachel came to sit beside Leah. I thought they were going to have to pry that microphone out of your hand the other night at rehearsal. They wanted you to sing one verse, but you sang three.

Joseph snickered. Hey, I felt moved by the Holy Spirit, okay?

Rachel laughed. Yeah, moved to stand in the limelight just a little longer.

Okay, guys. Brenda got up and went to the other paint can sitting on the picnic table. Leave Joseph alone. He’s a talented performer, which is why he was chosen to play the Good Samaritan.

Joseph struck a pose. And Dad isn’t even going to see.

Enough, Joseph. David sanded the steering wheel, blew the sawdust off.

Joseph shrugged and grabbed a paintbrush and stuck it in the black paint.

Brenda winced as he dripped it across the lawn. This paint’s for the windows, Joseph, and we might not have enough. Be careful not to let it drip.

I won’t. With great care, he began to outline the windows. But really, Dad. I know you don’t want to come to church because you don’t believe in Jesus, but I don’t see why you couldn’t just fake it every now and then.

David sanded harder. I don’t fake things, Joseph. You don’t fake your feelings just to please other people.

"But why don’t you believe? I mean, it’s just so obvious to me."

David shot Brenda a look. Joseph, could we drop it?

But why, Dad? You always say that we should ask questions when we don’t understand.

Daniel turned to see his father’s reaction. Rachel and Leah stopped painting. Brenda said a silent prayer that their son’s probing would make David think. If anyone in the family could get away with questions like these, Joseph could.

David set the steering wheel down. He looked at Joseph, then at Leah, Rachel, and Daniel.

Okay, here’s the thing. He sat down on the bench and leaned his elbows on his knees. Your mother is a believer, and I’m not. I’m a facts kind of guy. She’s more…spiritual. Ever since she became a Christian a few years into our marriage, I’ve agreed that she can raise you guys in church. I figure if she’s wrong, it doesn’t hurt anything. And you guys seem to like it. But ever since I was a kid, I’ve hated church. It’s just a personal thing.

That didn’t satisfy Joseph. But you wouldn’t hate our church. It’s a good church.

I’m sure it is.

Brenda knew that David would never tell them that he’d been the son of a preacher who had run off with the church organist, or how the church had thrown his mother and him out of the parsonage—leaving them homeless—in order to take a moral stand against the divorce that resulted. He would never tell the children how the church members had insisted that he was demon-possessed when his anger about his broken family surfaced. His father had died with a shipwrecked faith, and just five years ago, his mother died without ever forgiving his father—or the church.

Brenda didn’t blame David for being bitter about the church.

But, Dad, if you’re a facts man, then how come you can’t see the true facts? It wasn’t so long ago that I was dying, and Jesus healed me. Now I’m perfect, Joseph said.

Perfect? Leah grunted. Get real.

I mean my body is perfect. I’m healthy and normal, except for all the medicine I have to take. But I was dying, Dad. God didn’t have to give me a heart transplant, but he did.

David met Brenda’s eyes again. She knew Joseph had put him in a tight spot. They had agreed that he would never denigrate the children’s belief in God. But how could he defend his own beliefs without doing that?

Isn’t that proof, Dad? Joseph demanded. David swallowed. To some people it is.

But not to you? He went back to the paint can and got more paint on his brush. Dad, it’s like this. You know how I was dying, and I couldn’t be healed without a heart transplant? Somebody had to die so I could live?

Yeah.

Well, that’s a lot like what happened with God. We were all dying, and we had no hope. So Jesus came and died in our place, so that we could have a new heart and a new spirit. So that we could live.

I know how it works, Joseph. David’s aggravation shone clearly on his face.

But how could you not want to live?

David gazed down at his son. I think I am living, son. Don’t we have a good life?

Well, yeah, but it’s not just this life that you have to consider.

Brenda suppressed her smile and caught a black drip cutting down through the white paint. She doubted David had ever had the gospel presented to him in such a clear way. She knew that seeds had been sown, whether they took root or not.

Joseph was getting sloppier with his painting, but Brenda didn’t dare interrupt. His words to his father hit dead center.

David reached out and tousled Joseph’s hair. I appreciate your concern, son. I really do. And I’m proud of you for being able to make your case that way. Someday you’ll probably be a lawyer. If I ever have to face a judge, it’s you I’d want speaking for me.

Joseph’s face betrayed his sorrow as he looked up at his father. When you face the Judge, Dad, I won’t be with you. You’ll have to answer him for yourself.

CHAPTER

Three

Up.…down… up.…down…"

Tory Sullivan mouthed the words with Melissa, the physical therapist, as she moved Hannah’s legs in an effort to tone her weak muscles. The small woman sitting on the classroom floor had become like a member of their family, ever since Hannah had been born with Down’s Syndrome. Now, at twenty-two months, the child was just beginning to make the effort to stand on her own. Watching the other Down’s babies at the Breezewood Development Center had been an encouragement to Tory, reminding her that these children did develop, even if they did it slowly.

But the struggle didn’t get easier for Tory. A former Miss Tennessee, she had always expected near perfection from herself and her family. Her home was immaculate and decorated like something out of House and Garden. Brittany, her ten-year-old, was into frills and curls, ribbons and lace, just as Tory had been at her age. Eight-year-old Spencer was a textbook boy—athletic, outgoing, and definite leadership material, even if he was sometimes a handful.

And then there was Hannah. It was almost like the Lord had declared Hannah the one to be imperfect in the Sullivan house-hold, just to remind her that not everything could line up under her checklist of expectations. Everything didn’t have order and logic. God’s order often came without explanation.

Hannah had taught Tory to lean on God more than she ever had before…to lower her expectations…to exult in the unexpected.

Still she longed to know that Hannah would walk, talk, learn…That she would live a happy life without daily battles to function…That she would develop and grow and progress to her full potential.

The truth was, she wanted everything for Hannah that she wanted for her other two children. But Hannah had challenges that Spencer and Brittany would never have. She always would. But Tory considered it a miracle that the baby had come this far when just a few months ago she hadn’t believed she would ever even sit up alone. She knew the walking wouldn’t come for a while yet, maybe even a year or two, but the fact that Hannah tried to pull up now gave her great hope.

A knock sounded on the classroom door, and Mary Ann Shelton, the director of the school, stuck her head in. What are you guys doing here so late? It’s after five.

My fault, Melissa said. I had a dentist appointment this afternoon and had to reschedule Hannah.

Mary Ann came into the room. I’m just glad I ran into you, Tory. I was going to call you. Can I talk to you in my office for a minute?

Tory smirked at Melissa as she got up from the floor and dusted off her pants. Oh, boy. Hannah hasn’t been cutting class again, has she? Is that why I’m being called to the principal’s office?

Mary Ann laughed. No, I just wanted to talk to you about a job we’ve had that just came open.

Tory couldn’t imagine what a job opening had to do with her. Mary Ann knew that raising Hannah took up every moment of her time.

But the director led her into her office and sat down behind her desk. Tory sank onto the plush easy chair, feeling as if she had forgotten something important. She realized she had never been in here without Hannah on her lap.

So what’s this about a job? Tory asked.

Mary Ann’s eyes inspired excitement, whether she talked about school tuition or the janitorial staff. We’ve had an opening for a part-time teacher’s assistant in the older children’s class, ages six to nine, and I was thinking that maybe you would be interested.

Tory frowned. Oh, I don’t know, Mary Ann. I haven’t really thought about getting a job. I’m so busy at home with Hannah.

Well, that’s just it. Mary Ann set her hands palms-down on the desk. You could bring Hannah with you and she could play in the nursery while you work with the older kids. I thought it would be an encouragement for you to see how these older children are learning. And I can tell from watching you with Hannah that you’d be a godsend for these children as well.

Tory had never considered working with the older kids, but the truth was, she spent a lot of time standing outside the door of that classroom, peering through the window at those older kids who could walk and dance and talk and sing.

You wouldn’t have to do any planning or preparation. Linda, our teacher in that room, would do all that. You’d just help two mornings a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’ve gotten another parent to commit to three mornings, and we have a couple of teenagers who help in the afternoons.

Two mornings a week, Tory repeated. That wouldn’t be so bad. Might even be fun.

And of course, it wouldn’t interfere with Hannah’s class. Mary Ann caught her breath. Oh, I forgot. It pays too. I don’t want you to think it’s a volunteer position. And it might be good for Hannah to play with some of the other babies without you around. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s wonderful to have you there. I wish we had more mothers as involved as you. I’m just saying that maybe she needs to start socializing a little and learning to separate from you.

Tory knew that was true. Even now she had a hard time leaving Hannah with a baby-sitter, even at church.

I’ll need to think about it. She got up, anxious to get back to the child. I need to talk to Barry and pray about it some. Can I get back to you?

Sure, Mary Ann said. Take your time. I will need to hire someone by the end of August. But you were my first choice.

Tory ran the possibilities through her mind as she drove home that evening, and wondered if taking the job would indeed be good for everyone involved.

CHAPTER

Four

Cathy Bennet sat at her kitchen table, her patchwork family feasting on tacos, as if they had never been touched by divorce or remarriage or jail. Having her new family all together was a dream come true.

She didn’t know why Mark had chosen to ruin it.

What do you mean, you don’t want to go back to school? Her taco crumbled in her hand, and she threw it onto her plate. Mark, I know you had school in jail, but you didn’t finish. You still need a diploma. I want you to go to college. I thought you were finally getting your head on straight.

I am getting my head on straight, Mom! Mark chomped into his taco, and shredded cheese and ground beef avalanched out.

Then what are you talking about?

Mark swallowed the bite in his mouth without enough chewing. "I didn’t say I planned to drop out altogether. I just want to get my GED, that’s all. Then I can go to college or get a job."

A job? Steve leaned up on the table, studying the boy who sat across from him. Mark, what kind of job do you think you can get without an education?

"I have an education."

A complete education. Steve wiped his hands on a napkin. Mark, you have to think of what kind of money you could make without finishing school.

Tracy tapped her spoon to the side of her glass, drawing all eyes to herself. If he quits school, I get to quit, too.

Steve shot his twelve-year-old daughter a disgusted look. You can think again, buckaroo.

Why? In some countries kids are finished with school before they ever get to my age.

Nineteen-year-old Annie pushed her food around on her plate. Since she’d come back from Nicaragua with Sylvia, she had gone on a health food kick and refused to eat anything that even looked like it had calories. You should see the kids in Nicaragua, wandering the streets digging through trash for food. They’d kill to be in a school like yours.

Cathy turned her gaze back to Mark, her blonde ponytail waving with the movement. Why don’t you want to go to school, Mark? I thought after being in jail for a year you’d want to go back to normal.

Mark dropped his taco and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Don’t you see, Mom? I can’t go back to normal. I’ve changed.

I can’t go back to public school because the guys I got in trouble with still go there."

Cathy met Steve’s eyes. Well, at least he sees that.

Steve leaned up on the table. So why couldn’t you go back to home schooling with Brenda’s kids? She’s already said she’d take you back. And she needs the money we’d pay her.

Man… Mark propped his face on his hand. I feel like I’ve grown up past that. Going to school with little kids and having her hovering over me. I don’t have anything against her. I really like Miss Brenda. I do. But I just need to get on with things, you know?

Cathy started to tell him that he wasn’t as grown up as he thought he was, when Rick’s cell phone rang, injecting life into the otherwise silent twenty-one-year-old who sat staring at his food. He pulled the phone from his