Wishing on Dandelions: A Maranatha Novel

Wishing on Dandelions: A Maranatha Novel

by Mary E DeMuth
     
 


Maranatha Winningham admittedly has some trust issues, As she tries to sort out the confusing layers of love--of friends, of family, of suitors, and desperately, of God--Natha struggles to find herself before she turns into a scared shadow of a girl.  See more details below

Overview


Maranatha Winningham admittedly has some trust issues, As she tries to sort out the confusing layers of love--of friends, of family, of suitors, and desperately, of God--Natha struggles to find herself before she turns into a scared shadow of a girl.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781576839539
Publisher:
Tyndale House Publishers
Publication date:
09/15/2006
Series:
Maranatha Novels
Pages:
384
Product dimensions:
5.56(w) x 8.30(h) x 1.01(d)

Read an Excerpt

Wishing on DANDELIONS

A Maranatha Novel
By Mary E. DeMuth

NAVPRESS

Copyright © 2006 Mary E. DeMuth
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-57683-953-9


Chapter One

Summer 1987 Burl, Texas

EVERY YEAR ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF his stroke, and many times in between, Maranatha retraced the route she and Camilla had ridden that day. In front of her bike tire beckoned a serpentine of gray pavement radiating heat. The more her shirt clung to her body in a sticky embrace, the better she liked it.

Penance.

She'd learned the word from Bishop Renny. He said something about trying to make things right by abusing yourself. Said Jesus took the need for all that away. But she knew Jesus would say something different to her, considering how she'd nearly killed Uncle Zane because of her selfishness.

The hot Burl breeze tangled Maranatha's hair so that it whipped and wrangled about her face. She didn't mind, didn't even brush a casual hand to her face to clear the hair from her eyes. At seventeen, she welcomed the wildness, wearing her tangles like a needed mask. A gust of sideways wind whipped the mask from her face.

Maranatha passed the costume shop where, behind a cracked front window, one headless mannequin sported a faded Santa suit and another, a sequined Twenties dress. She pedaled past the farm implement shop whose yard was dotted with ancient rusty plows. This strip of road held most of Burl's broken dreams - a turn-of-the-century white farmhouse, now converted into a bedand breakfast that no one visited, a hand-painted For Sale sign declaring the dream dead. A mobile home stood way back on a fine piece of property, the structure tilted oddly to the left where the cement blocks had deteriorated. A goat preened on its roof, claiming it for himself. Four years ago, children had played out front. She and Camilla had even waved to them. So carefree for such a day.

Wiping the sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand, she glanced down at the too-small bike, despising it, as if it had once held her hostage, carrying her away from Uncle Zane's need four years ago when she and Camilla had been drawn toward the lure of cotton candy and caramel apples.

Maranatha veered onto the familiar gravel driveway flanked by crepe myrtles. She stopped, straddling her bike, catching her breath. She listened for cars but heard only the labored noise of a tractor, far away, until the engine sputtered and died.

The silence roared at her.

It should have blessed her with peace; instead, she remembered Uncle Zane's hair askew and wondered why God let a selfish girl like her take up space in this world.

She looked behind her. Her thoughts shifted as a deeper worry played at her, taunting her. Though she never voiced it, she lived with a constant fear that someone would burst from the silence and grab her. She hated that she always looked behind, like she was expecting some crouching phantom to nab her. She'd been running from monsters bent on destroying her ever since General first drawled, "Hey, Beautiful" in her ear. Even though she was sheltered in uncle Zane's white house and safety was no longer elusive, she always felt the presence of evil five steps behind her. Ready to suffocate her.

She glanced at her wrist to soothe her fears. Circling it was her name, MARANATHA, each sterling letter separated by a bead. Zady'd given it to her a year after she found out that her real name wasn't Mara but Maranatha. Part of her quest in discovering her identity was a need for a name that meant more than "bitter." When she learned that her real name meant "come, Lord Jesus," a part of her heart enlivened, as if it knew she was named that all along. She touched each letter, thanking God that He added Natha to the end of her name, that he changed her from bitter to a heart where Jesus could live. If he wanted to, that is.

She got off her bike. The same wrought-iron gate stood erect before her, chalkboard black and foreboding, with an out-of-place silhouette of a squirrel at its arched top. It always reminded her of Willy Wonka's gate, the gate that prohibited children from seeing the mysteries within the glorious chocolate Factory. She laid her bike in its familiar dusty place behind the crepe myrtles and approached the gate. Locked.

As usual.

Heart thumping, she tried the handle, a ritual she performed every time she ventured to this place, the scene of her selfishness. Why she thought it would magically open today, she didn't know. When she tugged at it, the gate creaked a warning, but it didn't budge. Looking back toward the road, she listened again. Nothing. Only the sound of a dove calling to its lover and the crackle of too-dry grass rubbing against itself like a fiddle against its bow. She breathed in the hot air and touched the angry wrought iron. She returned to the bike, unzipped the pouch behind her seat, and stretched on her bike gloves. Attacking the gate again, she pulled herself up, up, up until she could swing her leg over the gate's pointed top. She scampered down, preferring to jump the last three feet.

Maranatha smiled. Before her was an open field whose hair was littered with dandelions past their prime. Bits of dandelion white floated in front of her like an idle snowfall, only these flurries drifted toward the sun, away from the ground, in lazy worship. Beyond the field stood the remains of the charred mansion.

Now shaded by the house's pillars, she remembered uncle Zane's eyes the day of his stroke. The smile left her face.

She ran to the middle of the field, trying to shake the memory - her laughing, laughing, laughing while Uncle Zane pled for her. She stopped. Maranatha picked one dandelion, held it to her mouth, and blew a warm breeze over its head, scattering wishes toward the has-been mansion. Jesus, You know my name. I want to live up to it. I want my heart to be a place where You want to come. But I'm afraid it's too dark there. What I've done. What's been done to me.... I'm sorry I'm so needy, but I have to know, have to know it in my gut. Please show me You love me anyway. Whatever it takes.

It had been her wish since she met Jesus under the pecan tree at her home, back in the days when Uncle Zane had a quiet will and Zady, his housekeeper and her friend, kept house without the intrusions of Georgeanne, who had invaded their peaceful home with her schemes. Zady dished out helpings and helpings of his love every day at uncle Zane's table, but Maranatha never seemed to be able to digest even a scrap. She experienced Jesus at church, surrounded by Mama Frankie and faces darker than her own. When dark-skinned Denim spoke or his pale-faced stepdaughter Camilla rhymed truth, Maranatha thanked God for making unique folks, for giving her friends. Still, Jesus' love seemed far away, and she, undeserving.

A portion of her little girl's heart had been abducted by General, the boy-turned-man who violated her so many years ago. His pocked face visited her in nightmares where she had no voice, no safety, no escape. He seemed to lurk behind every stray noise. He didn't haunt Burl anymore, but he lived firmly in her mind, igniting dread. She feared he'd stolen the only part of her that could have understood God's love. She feared he held the middle piece to the puzzle of her life.

Am I wishing for something I'll never have?

Maranatha shielded her eyes from the pursuing sun and walked toward the burnt house. Four once-white pillars stood tall, blackened by angry flames. She remembered when she'd first seen Uncle Zane's home nearly a decade ago, how it loomed large on its street, how she'd longed to be the owner there someday. But reality was more complicated than that. Sure, she lived there now. Little by little, she was renovating it to splendor, but lately the joy of transforming it had waned thin, like a pilled swimsuit at summer's end. Fixing things was hard. She'd painted and painted until her fingernails were permanently speckled. Then the pier and beam foundation settled further, cracking her handiwork.

As she gazed upward at the four pillars that reached for the sky, where the abandoned house's roof once lived, she wondered if she'd ever have a home of her own, children about her legs, a husband to love her. The thought of marriage both repulsed her and pulsed through her. Hatred and longing - all in one girl.

She walked through the rubbish, darkening her red-dirted shoes, looking for a sign from heaven. She played this game sometimes, asking God for signs, for sacred objects that showed her that He saw Her, that he knew she existed. That He cared.

Something glinted off and on as the sun played hide-and-seek through the trees. She bent low to the ashes, her body blocking the sun. The glinting stopped, so she stood and let the sun have its way again. There, spotlighted beneath the gaze of the pillars, was a simple, thick-banded gold ring. She retrieved it, dusted the ashes from the gold, and examined it, turning it over and over in her hand.

Inside the ring was a faint engraving. Forever my love.

"Thank you," she whispered, but her words melted in a hot wind. Dark clouds obscured the sun. The sky purpled. She'd seen a sky like that before. She slipped the ring into her shirt pocket and ran toward her bike, climbed the hot gate like a criminal pursued, and dropped on the other side.

She mounted her bike. From behind she heard a bustled scurrying, like the furious bending of too-dry alfalfa.

Then darkness.

Someone's hands suffocated her eyes, obscuring the day, stealing her screaming breath. She kicked her leg over the ten-speed, struggling to free herself from the firm grip, and tried to holler. Like in her nightmares, she was mute from terror. Though she knew General's presence was illogical - he'd been shipped off to some sort of juvenile-offender boot camp - she could almost smell his breath as she gasped for her own. She heard a laugh but couldn't place it. It sounded familiar, like family.

She kicked and elbowed like a kindergarten boy proving his manhood against a playground bully, but the hands stayed enlaced around her eyes.

More laughter. Even more familiar.

She took a deep breath and screamed. Real loud.

Thunder answered back.

(Continues...)



Excerpted from Wishing on DANDELIONS by Mary E. DeMuth Copyright © 2006 by Mary E. DeMuth. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Meet the Author


Mary E. Deluth has spent the last fifteen years as a writer. Winner of the 2003 Mount Herman Christian Writers Conference’s Pacesetter’s Award, she now splits her time between writing and, together with her husband, Patrick and two other families, planting a new church in the South of France, where they live with their three children.

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