Tomorrow's Sun (Lost Sanctuary) - By Becky Melby Page 0,102

head bent to the floor. God, forgive me. I did think.

She saw the hand held out to her as clearly as if she were back in the hotel room, pouring her heart out to people she’d known less than a week. She saw the little blue pill on the palm of the hand. Take this and forget about the jerk. She took it. Maybe it will make this all go away.

Her fingers curled on the gray linoleum. Her breathing was too fast, too shallow. Her lips tingled. She couldn’t remember what to do to stop it. God, I was so hurt, so lost. I wanted the pain to go away for a little while. When Sierra asked her to go skiing, she thought the Ecstasy had worn off. Her heart rate had slowed and she thought she was clearheaded. She hugged Susan before she left the room. Something she never did. She hugged Sierra when they met in the hall. It seemed so natural.

On the lift, the breeze on her face felt like bubbles. The snow sparkled like tiny Fourth-of-July sparklers dotting the hill. Snow-covered trees seemed soft and fluffy, as if she could stretch across their tops and feel weightless. She’d grabbed Sierra’s hand just before they reached the top of the mountain. “I’m not mad at Keith anymore. I’m going to call him and tell him I forgive him.”

Sierra knew about the breakup, but not the pregnancy. No one knew but Keith. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

They hopped off the lift. “Of course it’s a good idea. It’s a wonderful idea. I forgive him. Who could stay mad on a day like this?” Her last words before pushing off were, “Look at the sun on the snow. It’s a beautiful day and life is beautiful!”

Emily stared at the cross. She didn’t know who’d put it there, or why, in a house otherwise stripped bare, someone had chosen to leave this sanctuary as it was. Maybe Cara’s parents had hoped this place would draw their children back to the Lord. Maybe Nana Grace had requested it never be disturbed. Whatever the reason, Emily knew that God had orchestrated this moment, this place of refuge, for her.

Six months ago, she’d planned her death. She’d written letters to her parents, her sister, and Sierra. She’d sat on a dock at the Clinch Park Marina in Traverse Bay, alone on a cold, moonless night, and emptied sleeping pills and pain meds into her hand. Two hours passed. Her body grew numb to the cold as she watched her breath crystallize over the pale yellow ovals and pink-and-blue capsules. But just as she raised her hand to her mouth, the northern sky lit with streaks of green and tinges of purple that shimmered and danced over the water.

She’d known then that God had put her in that place at that time to witness His handiwork and choose life. And she knew now that He’d put her in this place to make another decision. “Emily knows You have forgiven her. Help her to embrace that truth with every cell of her being. Grant her the courage to step out of the dark and walk in the freedom of Your light.” She stared at the cross. “I don’t know how.”

Trust Me.

Not words, not voice. The message embossed her spirit. She knelt by the bench. Her mouth formed the lines of the psalm. “I praise thee, for thou art fearful and wonderful. Wonderful are thy works! Thou knowest me right well; my frame was not hidden from thee, when I was being made in secret, intricately wrought in the depths of the earth.” The words swam. “Thy eyes beheld my unformed substance; in thy book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.”

There were no days formed for her child.

Not this side of heaven.

She could spend the rest of her life in shame and regret—in darkness—or she could choose to trust.

And step into the Light.

Emily awoke on the cold square of gray linoleum. Rain beat hard on the roof. Wind rattled the window. It was nearly dark. She rose to hands and knees, arching her back out of habit, though nothing hurt. A month ago, lying on the hard floor would have stiffened her for days.

Rubbing her arms, she pulled the quilt from the pew and wrapped it around her. Her fingers skimmed a faded rose and stilled at the edge