Authors: Marilynn Griffith
Tags: #Fiction, #Religious, #General
Made of Honor
is most definitely sassy, cynical, humorous chick lit. But in Mary’s inspired hands, her book is also custom-made with love, faith and a huge dollop of aromatic tenderness.”
—Sharon Ewell Foster, Christy Award-winning author of
Ain’t No Valley
“With a voice that begs you to relax, sit down and put your feet up, Marilynn Griffith writes of the complexities of love, family, friendship and what it means to be the bride of Christ, and does so with honesty, humor and grace. Don’t miss
Made of Honor
or Marilynn—both welcome additions to Christian fiction!”
—Lisa Samson, Christy Award-winning author of
“Marilynn Griffith’s voice just sings! Watch out, world,
Made of Honor
will make you laugh out loud and welcome you into the Sassy Sistahood.”
—Kristin Billerbeck, bestselling author of
She’s All That
“Fun! Fresh! Full of faith! A merry heart does good like a medicine, and Marilynn Griffith’s writing is just what the doctor ordered.”
—Annie Jones, bestselling author of
Mom Over Miami
“With poetic description and compelling storytelling, Marilynn Griffith delights readers with every sentence.”
—Stephanie Perry Moore, bestselling author of the Carmen Browne series
“Hilarious! Marilynn Griffith is a great new voice readers won’t forget!”
—Cyndy Salzmann, bestselling author of
Dying to Decorate
“Whether it’s a book or a blog, Mary Griffith brings a fresh, funny, faith-filled new voice to the world of Christian chick-lit. More, please!”
—Lynn Bulock, bestselling author of
Love the Sinner
“Marilynn Griffith is a fresh voice in Christian fiction. Her funny, breezy style is sure to take the market by storm!”
—Tracey V. Bateman, bestselling author of
Leave it to Claire
“From the beginning to end, you can’t help but see the hand of God ministering through Marilynn Griffith’s work.”
—Vanessa Davis Griggs, bestselling author of
Wings of Grace
“Marilynn Griffith digs deep inside to write a novel about everyday people who love the Lord.”
—LaShaunda C. Hoffman, editor,
Shades of Romance
“Looking for a sassy, engaging read that keeps you turning pages and recalling your faith? Look no further. Marilynn Griffith won’t disappoint.”
—Stacy Hawkins Adams, bestselling author of
Speak to My Heart
“I roared with laughter when I read the opening lines! And what a refreshing change to read a novel where not one, not two, but
of the Christians don’t have lily-white backgrounds!
Made of Honor
is sassy and soulful, laugh-out-loud funny and oh-so-real. A welcome addition to Christian chick lit!”
—Laura Jensen Walker, bestselling author of
Dreaming in Technicolor
For my parents, Donna Lee McElrath and
Michael Onyedika. Thank you for giving me life.
Because of your love I was created, fearfully
and wonderfully made.
Writing a book is never the work of one woman. The fingerprints upon these pages are many. My apologies if someone is not mentioned by name as space is limited. My gratitude, however, is not. I thank you all, with all my heart. That said, special thanks to:
Christ, for helping me tell this story. As always, You brought me through.
Ashlie, Michelle, Fill Jr., Ben, James, John and Isaiah, thanks for eating all that Chunky soup without complaining and for tolerating all the soap and candles I made instead of dinner. I love you all.
Fill, for your unflinching belief in me, for proofreading my proposal, keeping my computer running, making graphics when I need them yesterday and tolerating my mania in general. You are my hero. Your love makes me strong.
My mother, Donna, and all the Freeman clan, thanks for being so funny, even when life was serious. I’m honored to be part of such a gifted family.
Kent and Debbie Nottingham and the family of Calvary Chapel Tallahassee, thanks for loving my family and teaching us the Word for the past ten years. Thanks for being a place of refreshing.
My editor, Diane Dietz, for laughing in all the right places and for being a pleasure even amidst her losses; executive editor Joan Marlow Golan, thanks for giving me a chance and for your hard work for our line.
Dave Robie, for his diligence in finding a home for my work.
Jessica Ferguson, thanks for being my best critic and my cheerleader in hard times. I never could have done this without you.
To the many people who gave input on this book at varying stages: Lisa Samson, Sharon Ewell Foster, Laura Jensen Walker, Linda Baldwin, Beth Ziarnik, Tracey Bateman, Lynn Bulock, Rachel Hauck, Stacey Hawkins Adams, LaShaunda Hoffman, Vanessa Davis Griggs, Stephanie Perry Moore, Dr. Gail Hayes, Cyndy Salzmann, Kristin Billerbeck, Colleen Coble and everyone I’m forgetting to name.
Angela, Jackie, Vicki, Donna, Rosemary and the other godly single women in my life. You inspire me.
My friends, Joy, Melissa, Gail and Claudia, thanks for tolerating my silences and disappearances. Each of you is a gift to me.
The ladies of The Threshing Floor: Amy, Jennifer and Staci, thanks for your great feedback and support. You mentored the mentor.
Yolanda Callegari Brooks, for your friendship and support. I love you. Sisterly.
My Faithchick.com sisters. Blogging with you and getting to know you has been a pleasure. I’m honored to know you all.
To Heather, Claudia, Bobbie, Paula and all my friends in the blogosphere. Thanks for being there. It means a lot.
To the Word Praize family, thanks for your support and friendship and for hanging around despite all my absences. I believe in each of you.
m turning into a Chia Pet.
Little children are starting to toss dandelions when they see me. The brides of Leverhill, Illinois, have taught the kiddies well. One little darling wants to grow up and be just like me—a big flower girl. She nailed it, especially about the big part, but we’re not going there. Not today, with my formerly fat friend looking like Twiggy-goes-bridal, while I gasp for breath in a dress fit for a train wreck. My only consolation is not having to worry about Tracey aiming a floral missile—known to some as a bouquet—at me later on.
She wouldn’t do me like that, would she? Nah. At least that’s what I tell myself, but then I thought this wedding wouldn’t happen, either. Still, this bride is one of my closest friends and my roommate for the past three years. Tracey Cox—well, Tracey Blackman now—has picked enough baby’s breath out of my teeth to know better.
Just in case though, a pint of Chunky Monkey and a pedicure appointment await me after this reception. Who knows? Tracey just might snap and throw long. Marriage does things to people.
One day they’re normal and the next they’re inviting total strangers to wear ugly dresses in their weddings, and then after the ceremony, said brides proceed to cut off all communication with members of the wedding party except for goofy Christmas photos of the newlyweds cradling an ugly dog, signed “from all of us.” And don’t let them actually get pregnant. Have you ever seen an entire album of birth photos? Not cute.
Do I sound bitter?
I’m not. I have friends. And trying to keep up with them, keep my job and stay right with God occupies most of my time. Like now. I need to find Rochelle, my other best friend—yes, I have two—and founder of the Sassy Sistahood e-mail list. If I don’t catch up to her soon, she might make a fool of herself.
Though my girlfriend is a paragon of virtue most days, weddings turn Rochelle into a gelatinous pool of desperation. Remember the birth photo album I mentioned? It’s worse. Okay, so nothing’s worse than that, but it’s bad. Even the sight of me, tangled in tulips after a bouquet toss, is easier on the eyes.
Using my emergency X-ray vision, activated by squinting so hard I almost fused my contacts to my eyeballs, I glimpsed a pink satin horror similar to my own, but a set of three-inch shoulder pads blocked my view. Who would wear a power suit to a wedding—?
My boss. There she was, looking just as angry as when I’d left her at work last night. I ducked before she saw me, recovering from my shock that she’d even shown up. The bride, who left our office to start her own graphic design firm six months ago, insisted on inviting Naomi, her former and my current employer, and Renee, my assistant, who was probably somewhere taking pictures of me for later blackmail. She’d be giggling in my ear for the next month. At least.
My next few weeks of torture aside, I was proud of Naomi for actually leaving the office—I think she secretly lives there. For her to show up at her own funeral would be the height of eti
quette. Some people just don’t grasp interaction, you know? And having “interacted” with Naomi daily for the past six years, I could do without her today. Besides, I needed to find Sassy Sistah #1 before she melted down and kissed somebody.
With that thought as fuel, I forced my satin shoes that were dyed to match the gown—the dye was free, I guess Tracey couldn’t resist—across the sprinkle of autumn leaves on the ground. Rochelle tiptoed up beside me, fanning her face, despite the growing chill. Man Mania was in full swing.
“Did you see Ryan’s brother?” she said breathlessly. “From the looks of things, Tracey should have picked him.”
From the reality of things, anyone seemed a better choice. I mentally squashed the nagging doubt about my friend’s hour-old marriage. Thoughts like that were getting me nowhere. It was done. God would have to take it from here. Me worrying myself to an ulcer before I got back to work on Monday was definitely a waste of resources.
I shook my head at Rochelle and considered reaching out and shaking hers. This time she was really in the zone. I spoke right into her ear, hoping it would jar her brain. “I wasn’t really paying attention to the brother of the groom.” Or any other man around here. What would be the point? The last guy I dated had just married my best friend.
Rochelle made a clucking sound. “You should have been paying attention. His brother is fiiine.” She rolled her neck for effect, but didn’t quite pull it off. I just stared. She’d been watching too much UPN again.
“Come on.” I tugged at her arm and started back across the smattering of red-gold leaves, away from Mr. Fiiine. She’d hate me tomorrow if I didn’t. If a man showed up later on in response to Rochelle’s flirting, she would run for her life while dictating a restraining order into her recorder.
Usually, her wedding trance would have been long since broken. But this was Tracey’s wedding. And whether Rochelle and
I were willing to admit it or not, we’d both thought that if anyone got married, it’d be us, not the cute, fat, geek of the group. Not that Tracey was fat anymore. Plump-but-cute girl was currently being played by
, my midsection pressed against the strangling fabric of my dress as if in agreement.
Rochelle made a shrill sound, almost like a whistle. The weary-in-well-doing sigh. Not a good sign. Her pink leather t-strap shoes, designed by her own hand and much prettier than my prom knockoffs, peeked from underneath her Pepto-pink frock, several sizes smaller than my own. Our skirts skimmed the lawn every few steps. This was downright antebellum.
Rochelle’s words cut through my thoughts. “I can’t help feeling romantic on days like this. Lately, I even wonder if—”
“If what?” My body stiffened. I’d heard this speech before. All my die-hard single friends give this little talk before crossing over into the sea of wanna-be wives. Tracey’s little rant three months ago was still fresh in my mind. Rochelle? Despite her wedding breakdowns, I never thought I’d hear it from her. Well, not this soon anyway.
“I’m just talking,” she said, moving faster. “It’s nothing, really.”
More like a big something, but I decided to leave it. This day had enough mess going without adding to it. Time for a detour. “I hope the punch is good.”
Rochelle nodded, gathering her skirt to gain a little speed. Good punch could cover a multitude of sins. Even Tracey marrying Ryan. Okay, he’s not so bad. He’s rich, handsome and loves her to pieces. But there’s just something creepy about the guy. I don’t know. Forget I said anything.
While I pondered the groom’s strangeness, Rochelle grabbed my wrist, digging her natural-length nails into my flesh. Without looking at her, I knew it was already too late. And we’d almost made it to punchdom.
Tracey wouldn’t, couldn’t throw that bouquet at me.
But she did.
A few inches ahead, a group of women floated onto the green in front of us, forming a frightening pastel cloud. The bride broke through, holding her weapon of choice—peach hybrid roses from the Leverhill Botanical Gardens.
“Run!” Rochelle screamed with the concern of a fire marshal at a brewing blaze.
Obeying her command was my first mistake. The stop-drop-and-roll technique is always best to achieve my goals: avoid head trauma, keep the contacts in and keep the dress covering my backside.
As previously stated, I deviated from this method.
When nothing tagged the back of my head—seriously, they stopped aiming for my hands two summers ago—I did a dumb thing and turned around. The bouquet slapped against my forehead like a Jackie Chan sound effect. I tripped on my skirt trying to escape—she’d already nailed me, of course, but it was instinct. My dress ballooned around my waist like a giant boat made of Bubble Yum.
Then…the pain burned beneath my eye. What was that? I dropped to one knee, jerking the whole pink mess of me back into place, while peeking through my fingers. Something I mistook for tears trickled into my mouth. Blood.
I wobbled to my feet. “What in the world?” I’d been hit with a lot of flowers, a few small shrubs even, but no one had ever drawn blood. This was past wrong.
Rochelle hovered over me, panting and picking greenery from between my braids. Satisfied with her job on that, she peeled back my fingers and surveyed the scratch under my eye. “The thorns. Tracey forgot to have them removed. It was the only thing on her list…sorry.”
I took my hand off my eye. Rochelle’s tone let me know that she hadn’t been in on this but she had been aware of the possibility. Not for the first time, the Sassy Sistahs made me mad. Tracey approached slowly, waving like she always does after doing
something crazy. I felt my anger wash away at the sight of her silly grin. Still, this was a bit much. “Thorns? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Wish I was.” Rochelle dabbed my face with a napkin from her clutch. No doubt there was a first-aid kit, needle and thread, makeup bag and two shades of pantyhose crammed in that tiny thing. How she’d even managed to hold on to it while trying to drag me to safety was beyond me, but I’d long given up on trying to figure out Chelle’s superhuman womanhood. She just has skills like that. I’m lucky to keep my shoes on. Although I did manage to keep my contacts in. A new accomplishment.
Just before Tracey reached us, someone from the groom’s family intercepted and wheeled her away. The beginning of the end. She was no longer my roommate, my best friend. She was someone’s wife. We walked past Tracey, giving us the “be right there” signals.
I sulked. “Knowing Tracey, she probably thought it was more Christlike to leave the thorns on.” Mock disgust sounded in my voice. I was trying to be mad and couldn’t.
“Hush you,” Rochelle said, using our code phrase for when one started in on another of the three. It was the standard defense, but right now I felt like pushing past it.
Tracey joined us and slipped an arm around—well, almost around—my waist. “Got you, didn’t I? Sorry about your eye though.”
“You’d better be glad I love y’all,” I whispered as people packed in around us. Pain seared my scalp where Rochelle had raked a stem through my hair.
“Maybe if you’d helped with the wedding errands, you could have taken care of those thorns,” Rochelle said, reaching back in her purse for her dabbing cloth.
Ouch. That hurt way more than my eye. The truth always does. I pushed away Rochelle’s hand, preferring to blink my own
way back to health. In a minute, there’d be no skin left on the right side of my face. That girl was dangerous with a Kleenex.
Tracey started to say something, but was called away…again. I took a deep breath, watching her walk to the punch table with her mother-in-law. Where was the groom? Why was I the one getting jealous instead of him? Shouldn’t her husband have been the one hunting her down?
Like I said, he’s a little weird. This whole deal was. But there was no use trying to explain that to Rochelle. She wasn’t trying to hear it. So I did what I always do—tried to explain it anyway. “Look, Rochelle, I already regret not helping out with the wedding. But I just wasn’t sure about this. When I dated Ryan—”
She tried the neck thing again. With success this time. “Dated? Is that what you call it? That mess was so boring he just stopped calling and came back to the singles group. So he wasn’t for you. No reason he can’t be the one for Tracey.” In a deft motion, she grabbed a napkin from the table next to us, wadded it quickly and removed several layers of my epidermis. “There’s just one last spot….”
She reached out again, but I shook my head, thinking I should have thrown in some cookies with the Ben and Jerry’s waiting for me at home. The line we’d joined without meaning to inched toward the punch and some gruesome-looking cake with what appeared to be bubble gum toothpaste for filling. I definitely should have helped with the wedding plans. At least the punch looked good. It would have to be.
The line crept on. So did the conversation, though I was reluctant to respond. “Just to be clear. I do not want Ryan. Never did. I don’t want anybody. And I don’t appreciate the insinuation.” My lips barely moved as we spoke through our smiles so no one would hear. Only a ventriloquist could do better.
Rochelle nodded. “Okay, so that was a bit much.”
“Quite a bit. I’m just not feeling Ryan, okay? I know you’ve got a chapter and verse for why I shouldn’t think that, but I’m
just being real. Tracey is like a piece of me. How can Ryan be totally wrong for me and totally right for her? I’m having a hard time understanding that.” I glanced toward the punch bowl at Tracey. She looked happy. So why did I doubt she’d stay that way? “I’m surprised Ryan put down his cell phone long enough to get married, actually.”
“Me, too,” Rochelle whispered, in a moment of weakness. “But he married her,” she said, regaining strength. “Now we have to keep them lifted up in prayer.” She squeezed my hand.
I squeezed back, knowing she’d prayed for me just that quick. She was right. I needed to let this go. “I can’t believe you thought I was jealous though.”
I wasn’t, was I?
Rochelle smiled. A knowing smile. “The real problem is that with Tracey gone, you’ll be alone like the rest of us.”
My neck craned forward, as if to catch the truth of her words before they hit the ground. The punch bowl was almost close enough to touch now. I needed a cup. Bad. When my friends nail me, I get thirsty. And this time, Rochelle had me. Since my mother’s death, I’d only lived with Trevor years ago, the boyfriend I almost married, and Tracey. There were always Dad’s sporadic visits when he wasn’t drunk, but not frequent enough to count. Going it alone with God was frightening, but exciting, too.
An older man, the color of ripe peaches and scented with Old Spice, lingered over the cups. I slid my feet back into my shoes—I wanted to kick them off so bad—and tried to be patient. I couldn’t help thinking that a drive-thru would have been faster than this.
I rubbed my arms. Between the tight sleeves and the cold air, it was a wonder my blood was still circulating. “You got me about the living alone thing. In my defense though, I did suck it up—with the help of a Lane Bryant cheetah girdle no less—and put on this dress. There has to be some points for that. Do I look like Miss Piggy with cornrows or what?”