In Search Of Her Own. Carole Page Gift
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“How do you do it, Mr. Anders? Where do you begin looking for a missing child?”
Victoria’s pulse quickened.
Philip laughed gently. “Really, Miss Carlin, you don’t expect me to give away trade secrets, do you?”
Embarrassment colored her cheeks. “It’s just so fascinating. If someone were looking for…someone,” she persisted, “you would be willing to go out and search for him—or her?
” He studied her. “Are you looking for someone, Miss Carlin? A missing child?”
She averted her gaze, her thoughts drifting off to a familiar darkness. Yes, I see a nameless, faceless child; my sweet little boy lost; heart of my heart, my very life. I never stop looking, and yet I wouldn’t know him if I passed him on the street.
Victoria’s hands were trembling. “I never said that, now, did I, Mr. Anders?”
His gaze remained unflinching. “Sometimes a person’s silences say more than their words.”
CAROLE GIFT PAGE
writes from the heart about contemporary issues facing adults. Considered one of America’s bestloved Christian fiction writers, Carole was born and raised in Jackson, Mississippi. She is the recipient of two Pacesetter Awards and the C.S. Lewis Honor Book Award. Over eight hundred of Carole’s stories, articles and poems have been published in more than one hundred Christian periodicals.
A frequent speaker at conferences, schools, churches and women’s ministries around the country, Carole finds fulfillment in being able to share her testimony about the faithfulness of God in her life and the abundance He offers those who come to Him. Carole and her husband, Bill, have three children and live in Moreno Valley, CA.
In Search of Her Own
Carole Gift Page
Come now and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow: though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.
Isaiah 1:18
March, Easter Sunday
I went to the cemetery this cold, slate gray morning—had to, felt compelled, driven, as if the choice had been made for me. I stood with my back rigid, my hands doubled into fists, the wind whipping my hair, a torrent of tears dammed behind my eyes.