Not a Sparrow Falls

© 2002 by Linda Nichols

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

Ebook edition created 2011

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, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4412-6009-3

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version ®. NIV ®. Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.© Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. The “NIV” and “New International Version” trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International Bible Society. www.zondervan.com

Scripture quotations identified KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Cover design by Ann Gjeldum
Cover photo: Getty Images

To Ron and Laurel Pentecost

and the people of Clover Creek Bible Fellowship,

who showed me the Christ of Calvary

who still changes lives.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many people gave me information and help for this book. Thank you all for your patience and time.

J. W. Gregg Meister answered general questions about Presbyterian church government, as well as Keith Wulff, Coordinator of Research Services for the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.).

Lt. Daniel Pierce of the Fairfax County Sheriff’s Department and Richard Folsom of the Nelson County Sheriff’s Department helped with information on law enforcement.

Phillip Payne, Commonwealth Attorney for Nelson County, Virginia, patiently answered questions regarding legal matters, as did Debbie Giles at the same office. My husband, Ken, was also very helpful to me in clarifying the criminal justice process.

Thanks also to the Virginia Department of Corrections for their information on prisons.

I also want to thank my mother and all my Virginia relatives. In addition to loving me all these years, you answered my questions and helped with my research for this book.

As always, I’m indebted to Jo Ann Jensen, Sherrie Holmes, Sherry Maiura, and Mae Lou Larson for their encouragement and critiques, as well as Bethany Maines, Kathryn Galbraith, Bill DeWitt, and Debbie Macomber. You are more than writing partners; you are friends. I would also like to thank Bridget Honan and the Wednesday night group for supporting me and encouraging me to keep on writing.

As I wrote this book, my devotional life and my writing life became beautifully intertwined. The sermons of Jim Cymbala and the music of the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir,
principles from
Experiencing God
by Henry Blackby, as well as insights from the leadership and people of Clover Creek Bible Fellowship wove into the tapestry of this story.

I’d also like to thank my father for always believing in me and encouraging me.

It has been a privilege to work with all the professionals at Bethany House Publishers. Thanks to Barb Lilland and Sharon Asmus for their insightful and gracious editing, as well as to everyone else who contributed to this book. I’m truly grateful to each one of you. You do your jobs with excellence.

A truly generous person is one who gives to those who can’t return the favor. Nicholas Sparks has done that for me.

Finally, I would like to thank Theresa Park, my agent and friend. Not only have you represented me with skill, intelligence, and dedication, but always with my best interests at heart. You encouraged and believed in me when things looked dark. I will never forget.

Prologue

Hattie didn’t know exactly what she was praying for. Or who. All she knew was that it had awakened her, this hard stirring, like a wooden spoon working and mixing up her insides. Years ago she might have ignored it and gone on back to sleep. Thought it was something not settling in her stomach, or some troubling of her dreams. But she had learned better. After eighty-some years of listening to the Spirit of the Lord, she’d finally gotten acquainted with His ways.

She lay under the heavy layer of quilts and felt the chill of the room on her face. Time was, she might have slipped to her knees by her bedside, prayed silently in the dark so as not to wake Alvin. But Alvin had been gone for twenty years now, and she was so crippled up with arthritis she couldn’t even get herself out of the bed, let alone kneel on the hard wooden floor. The Lord knew.

“Dear Jesus,” she whispered. “Somebody’s in trouble. You know who it is. You know what they need.” She prayed on and on and didn’t look at the clock, but by the time she felt a clearing in her spirit, yellow slats of weak winter sunlight were coming through the blinds and falling across her bed. She’d barely slept a wink, but it didn’t matter. At her age daytime and nighttime were one and the same. Sleep a little here, a little there, and she suspected that death would come along about like that. One day she would doze off in her chair and wake up in glory.

She heard a clatter from the direction of the kitchen. The back door creaked open and closed.

“It’s me, Miss Hattie.”

“Good morning, Martha,” she called back. Her own voice sounded quavery and old, even to her.

She heard the floorboards creak, and she followed Martha’s movements in her mind. Another door opened and closed. Martha was hanging up her coat. Metal on metal—the stove door opening. Then the sound of newspaper crackling and the clunk of stovewood on the sides of the grate as Martha made a fire. Hattie smiled. It would have been easier for Martha to flip on the heat, but she knew how Hattie liked a fire in the stove. Metal on metal again as the stove door closed. More footsteps, and in a moment Martha’s face was beaming over her. Her cheekbones were high, as if cut from some dark stone, and her eyes were almost black. As usual, her pretty mouth was curved into a smile. Martha was pretty and smart enough to have gone out into the world and done something important instead of taking care of an old lady. Hattie wondered if she was satisfied being a home health aide. She never asked Martha, though, afraid she’d put an idea into her head, and some morning another aide would come through the door instead of her friend.

They went through their morning routine. Martha helped her dress, combed out her plait and rebraided it, wound it into a bun, and stuck it down with four hairpins.

“I didn’t poke you, did I, Miss Hattie?”

“No, darling, but it wouldn’t matter if you had. I’m not tender headed,” she answered and tried to help as best she could as Martha helped her to the bathroom and dressed her. She leaned forward while Martha buttoned up her dress and lifted her twisted feet as Martha worked them into her Hush Puppies and laced them up. Martha hummed. Hattie watched her hands, so quick and gentle.

As blessed as she was to have someone to care for her, she wished again she could do more for herself. She was used to doing for others, not having them do for her. The faces of loved ones came into her mind. She couldn’t do anything for them either. She could only pray. She felt a heaviness settle under her breast, but almost instantly she realized the truth. Praying was doing something. It accomplished more than she
ever could have, even when her own hands had been quick and her legs strong.

Martha helped Hattie into her chair, wheeled her into the kitchen, and parked her at the table. Hattie watched as Martha went about making their breakfast. She was singing, as usual. This morning it was “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.”

“Would you like some sausage and gravy with your eggs this morning, Miss Hattie?”

Hattie answered yes and thanked her.

Martha put the sausage on to fry, then opened up the flour bin and shook a few cups of flour into the chipped mixing bowl. Hattie had never measured anything either. Martha added baking powder, salt, cut in some Crisco, then poured in milk. She mixed with her bare clean hands, just like Hattie always had. It took a touch to know when the dough was the right consistency. You couldn’t tell just by looking. Martha shaped it into a mound, dusted the top with flour, and rolled it flat with a clean glass.

“We’ll just have hoecake instead of biscuits this morning, Miss Hattie, if that’s all right with you.”

“That would be just fine, Martha,” Hattie answered but with only half her attention, for she was distracted again. She felt the burden return, the same pressure that had awakened her last night, only stronger now, and this time the call to pray came with a picture. She closed her eyes, and a scene appeared on that dark screen behind them.

She saw a sheep alone in the desert. It lay on bloodied sand. Its neck was torn, and it was too stunned and wounded to cry out. A wolf was circling, teeth bared, eager to finish it off.

Hattie felt a flash of anger, and words, loud and fervent, tumbled from her mouth. “Father, the enemy wants to destroy a child of yours. This one is hurt, Lord, with no one to help but you.” She’d been reading the book of Daniel last night before sleeping, and suddenly it seemed to be no accident. “Lord, you were the fourth man in the fiery furnace where the king threw your three servants, and not even a hair on
their heads was singed. Father, when Daniel was put into that lions’ den, you sent your angel to shut the mouths of the lions, and he was delivered. Not a scratch on him.”

“
Yes,
Lord,” Martha called out, agreeing in prayer from her post by the stove. “
Nothing
is too hard for you.”

“You’re the same now as you were then,” Hattie cried. “Show us your power, Lord. Rescue this child of yours.”

“
Yes,
Lord,” Martha agreed again.

Hattie heard an egg crack against the side of the skillet, then sizzle as it hit the hot grease.

“Your heart is tender, Jesus, and your arm is
mighty
to save,” Martha declared.

Hattie’s eyes were still closed, but the picture on the dark screen began to change. A shadow moved between the injured sheep and the predator. As the figure became clear she could see it was someone young and strong and clothed in a dress so white it was blinding in the desert sun. It was her, she realized as the face came into view. She reached toward a beautiful golden scabbard strapped to her waist and pulled out a bright, gleaming sword. The blade flashed in the glaring sunlight and sliced the air as she threatened the wolf. He bared his teeth again, and his yellow eyes glowed with hatred as he slunk back into the shadow of the rocks. She watched for a few more moments, but the image began to break up, chunks of it dissolving into splashes of color and light.

Hattie opened her eyes. Martha turned the eggs, slid them onto a plate, opened the screeching oven door, and brought out the golden hoecake. Hattie felt the tension drain from her. She was worn out, as though she’d fought a battle.

Martha drained the sausage, and when they were each seated at the table with a hot cup of coffee and their breakfasts before them, Martha spoke, nodding as if she had just decided something. “I feel like the Lord heard our prayer,” she said. “He’s moving.”

Hattie nodded, too. Her spirit had cleared. She was hungry. “Pass that damson jelly over here, if you please.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Martha said, waiting until Hattie had a good hold of the jar before letting it go.

Hattie ate until she was full, thankful she could still manage a fork. When they were finished, Martha wheeled her chair over by the stove. The fire was burning hot, crackling when Martha opened the door to add another stick of wood. The room was warm. Hattie felt herself become drowsy. Martha began singing again as she started on the dishes. “I’ve got a feeling everything’s gonna be all right.”

Hattie smiled in satisfaction, closed her eyes, and drifted off.

One

“Will that be all for you, then?” The cashier, an old man with bifocals and a droopy gray moustache, gave her a curious look, but nothing more. Mary Bridget Washburn smiled just a little, not having to pretend to be timid, and cast her eyes down at the array of cough and cold preparations on the counter in front of her.

“It’s the flu,” she lied. “Whole family’s laid out with it—my husband and children. I’m doctoring my mama and daddy, too.” She fingered the driver’s license in her pocket, one of the many Jonah had paid the fellow in Charlottesville to make for her. Sometimes they asked for ID when you bought this much stuff, even if you were paying cash.