Think and Grow Rich. Napoleon Hill
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“Mom, you’ve already raised your family. You’ve paid your dues,” Kate said.
“Not really,” Beth answered quietly, and both her daughters glanced at her sharply, on the point of arguing, but she spoke again.
“I’m married to Doug. I’m his wife. My ‘dues,’ as you call them, include helping my husband if he needs my help. And this time he does. And so does his precious three-year-old grandson. No. Don’t say anything. Just pause a second and think about that. I talked to our pastor when he was in the hospital, and he reminded me of one important fact.”
“But, Mom—”
“He said, ‘When you do it for the least of these, you do it for Me.’ Just think about that,” Beth said, hoping she sounded decisive.
VIRGINIA MYERS
has been writing stories since childhood. She has published ten novels, historical and contemporary, for the general book market. A few years ago she decided to write novels reflecting her growing religious faith. She has now written four faith-based novels.
Virginia has taught the art of novel writing in several Washington colleges, and a number of her students are now published novelists. She has lectured, participated in panel discussion and conducted workshops at several writers’ conferences and is a faithful worker in her church.
Having lived most of her life so far in a series of big cities, Virginia has now settled happily in the small town of Longview, Washington. This is the only town that has built a special bridge for squirrels from tree to tree over the street so they won’t get run over by cars.
September Love
Virginia Myers
MILLS & BOON
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When you do it for the least of these,
you do it for Me.
—Matthew 25:40
To those many people
who raise their children’s children.
They go so much, much farther than the extra mile.
Dear Reader,
I hope you enjoyed reading September Love, a story I’ve wanted to write for a long time. Today in America there are more than three million children living with their grandparents. For whatever the causes—drugs, drinking, the general collapse of our moral structure—a whole generation of young people have simply abandoned their children to their parents to raise.
Then the grandparents, instead of living a leisurely retirement, must start all over—booster shots, PTA meetings, managing college tuition—during a time of life when they are less able to do it. These are the silent, unsung heroes of our turbulent time. I wanted to tell you a story about them. This is it. So the next time you see a harried grandparent coping with an energetic three-year-old, take a moment for a smile and a cheerful word. They deserve it.
Blessings,
Contents
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 One
At first Beth thought the thin blond girl was going to ask her for spare change. She had the look of a street kid, with her long, unkempt hair and her odd assortment of clothes. She wore a long, very faded, green-and-white print dress, topped by a man’s brown jacket, worn and much too big. On her bare feet were old floppy sandals. But street kids didn’t come into residential neighborhoods. They stayed in Seattle’s various business districts.
Beth sighed. If only she had come home from her errands a few minutes sooner or later, she might have avoided this. Then, as the girl came closer, she saw the small child, a little blond boy. He clung with grubby desperate hands to the flowing skirt, half hidden by it. She thought, He shouldn’t be barefoot. It’s too cold a spring.
She was immediately sorry for her rush of impatience. What right did she have to be impatient with this woman and her child? They were obviously destitute. She, in her classic gray spring suit, about to enter her beautiful old home, was blessed far beyond anything she deserved. She paused, beginning to open her handbag. True, the classic suit was in its second spring, and the lovely old home was now a bed-and-breakfast. And it had not been a good day. As her younger daughter, Jill, might have said, it had been a mega-stress day, full of problems and worry—and two new guests were due before five. For just an instant she longed intensely for Doug’s good-humored acceptance of life as it happened. He would bring out his favorite calm-down comment: “Lighten up, Beth my true love. The sky will not fall today.”
The blond girl, close up, wasn’t a girl. She was a woman of about thirty. When she spoke there was a whine in her tone and she looked exhausted.
“You must be Beth. You’ve simply got to be Beth. I’m beat. And you look just like my aunt said—dark hair with no gray, dark eyes and dressed like a model. I must say this—you’ve sure kept your looks.”
Who in the world was this woman? “Yes, I’m Beth,” she said cautiously.
The woman gave a sigh of relief. Clean, with her hair styled, she would have been pretty. Now, in sudden exasperation, she turned on the little boy and smacked at his grubby clinging hands.
“Leggo my dress. I’m tired of you hanging on to me.”
The child, scowling and silent, let go and backed away a step, watching her intently. Then, as if this burst of anger had taken the last of her strength, the woman persisted tiredly. “And you married Douglas Colby?”
Sudden alarm bells sounded in Beth’s mind. She half knew and dreaded what was coming. Surely, this couldn’t be Kayla, Doug’s daughter. No. Definitely not. Doug had said that Kayla had a child, but that child was a girl who would be about eight. This child was a boy, not more than three or so. But her quick sense of relief was shattered.
“I’m Kayla, Doug’s daughter,” she said flatly, and Beth saw the little boy’s hands creep toward the flowing skirt and grasp it again, as if it were some sort of lifeline. Now she noticed that both his knees were skinned. Sometime some place today he