Monday Morning Faith
Also by Lori Copeland
Morning Shade Mystery Series
A Case of Bad Taste
A Case of Crooked Letters
A Case of Nosy Neighbors
Child of Grace
Christmas Vows
Brides of the West Series
Faith
June
Hope
Glory
Ruth
Patience
Roses Will Bloom Again
Men of the Saddle Series
The Peacemaker
The Drifter
The Maverick
The Plainsman
Stand-Alone Titles
Monday Morning Faith
Now and Always
Simple Gifts
ZONDERVAN
Monday Morning Faith
Copyright © 2006 by Copeland, Inc.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Zondervan.
ePub Edition July 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-56637-3
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan,
Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Copeland, Lori.
Monday morning faith / Lori Copeland.
      p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-310-26349-4
1. Women librarians âFiction. 2. Papua New GuineaâFiction.
I. Title.
PS3553.O6336M66 2006
813'.54 â dc22
2006010171
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the
Holy Bible: New International Version
®
. NIV
®
. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.
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 â electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other â except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Interior design by Michelle Espinoza
To the men and women who serve the Lord on the mission field
Table of Contents
Read a sample chapter from Lori Copeland's Now and Always
I
manhandled my carry-on luggage and an oversized umbrella down the long jet bridge, aware of the
thump thump thump
of my rubber-sole shoes against the carpeted floor. I sounded like a butter knife caught in the disposal.
As I entered the plane, my heart rate accelerated.
This was it.
No turning back now.
The point of no return. The real thing.
I squeezed past the smiling flight attendant, passed the stairway on the plane to the upper lounge, and made my way through first class into the cabin section. I paused, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the 747 Boeing aircraft. My eyes traveled row upon row of cabins. How would they ever get this thing off the ground? They would â I knew from prior experience â but right now my fact meter had blown a fuse.
Moving along, I passed the galleys, glancing at my ticket and excusing myself when I stepped on toes or bumped into a fellow passenger blocking the aisle. I eased through business class, past even more galleys, the lavatories, and the coach/ tourist/economy section. I studied my ticket. My seat was in the back of the plane. So were the majority of bathrooms.
At long last, I spotted my row. With my purse on the end of an armrest and my oversized umbrella tucked underneath my arm, I swung around â almost knocking a man unconscious with the clumsy rain gear. When I heard the solid
thwack!
I spun, horrified. The wounded passenger clutched the side of his head. For a heartbeat my voice failed me, but I managed to sputter out a weak, “I'm
so
sorry!”
I turned back to store the umbrella in the overhead bin, but the burdensome wood handle nailed a woman seated next to the aisle and flipped her spectacles two rows up. She grabbed for the flying missile and missed. Squinting, she glared up at me.
By now all I wanted to do was crawl in a hole and pull the dirt in behind me. Everything I did drew more attention to my clumsy entrance. Glasses were passed back, and the hostess appeared with an ice pack for the passenger's smarting injury. I tried to stuff my carry-on in the overhead bin; the hostess took the umbrella and assured me she'd give it back when we landed.
I sank into my seat and wanted to die.
And I figured I would. This monstrosity â this jumbo jet â would never get off the ground, let alone fly thirteen hours over land and sea. Had I done that once before? Me.
Johanna ⦠Johanna â¦
What
was
my last name?
I brushed at crumbs on the front of my suit jacket. I had yet to walk through O'Hare and pass a hot dog stand without indulging. Chicago Dogs.
Starbucks.
See's Candies.
My nerves and I hit them all; I was eating my way to the hereafter. I pushed my glasses up on my nose. Contacts would be impractical where I was going. The climate was far too hot. I'd left them at home with my wool coat.
I glanced out the window a final time. Saginaw, Michigan â and Mom, Pop, and Nelda â was eons away. My entire existence had been marching toward this moment in time. Would I measure up?
Of course, since this man-made contraption would never get off the ground, I wasn't sure it mattered whether I did or not.
Sniffing the faint scent of wieners in the air, I settled back to await my death.
M
y descent into madness began in the fall â October 13, to be exact, which happened to be my birthday. The dreaded fortieth. I was old enough for the bloom to be off the rose, but still young enough to shrink from the AARP card coming my way in another ten years.
How I reached the milestone so fast and how I could feel so young on the inside and so ancient on the outside still puzzled me. I used to be a brunette, but my hair was showing touches of silver, and if those were laugh lines around my eyes, I must have been having a better time than I'd realized.
I dried my hands on a paper towel and gave a final glance in the restroom mirror. Johanna Holland, old maid. A tag I hadn't planned on when I charted my life. I'd counted on the bungalow, picket fence, loving husband, and two perfect children. But here I was, aging so fast I couldn't catch my breath, and so wrapped up in work and other things that marriage was the last thing on my mind.
Sighing, I prepared to face my birthday festivities. Never mind that I was the one who'd set up the community room at the Holfield Community Library, where I'd worked for twenty years (crepe paper, obligatory balloons that read
Half Dead, One Foot in the Grave
, and the old standby
Over the Hill
)
.
I'd also helped address the party invitations and ordered the refreshments, which was one way of getting what I liked, I suppose.
My aunt Margaret, Dad's sister (a sweet lady, but nutty as all get-out) had ordered my birthday cake, so there was no telling what I would be stuck with this year. She'd indicated a surprise.
Surprise
and
Aunt Margaret
were words that I never wanted to hear in the same sentence. The last time she “surprised” me, I ended up on a blind date with a widower named Harvey. He had ten kids and was looking for a live-in babysitter. He did offer marriage, on the first date, which I declined. I realized he was desperate, but I wasn't. In fact, I wasn't even needy, and for a forty-year-old woman that was doing okay.
I pushed my glasses farther up my nose.
The noise level grew louder as I approached the library community room. I smiled, spotting the balloons dangling from the ceiling. One for every year I'd graced the earth with my presence â forty big, round, shiny helium globes, announcing to the whole world that I was hopeless.
