Song of the Brokenhearted

ACCLAIM FOR SHEILA WALSH AND

CINDY MARTINUSEN COLOMA

"Rich with symbolism and picturesque Texas landscape, Song of the Brokenhearted is a reminder that our plan for our life is often not in sync with God’s. Readers will enjoy walking alongside Ava on her journey of self-discovery. Sometimes in the most broken places of life comes true transformation, setting us on the path that can only be seen through God’s eyes. Highly recommended."

—BETH WISEMAN, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF NEED YOU

NOW AND THE LAND OF CANAAN SERIES

Lessons in grace abound in this heart-tugging story of broken pasts and futures filled with unexpected hope. In Ava’s struggle to trust and in her eventual triumph, many readers will find pieces of their own stories.

—LISA WINGATE, NATIONAL BESTSELLING AND AWARD-WINNING

AUTHOR OF DANDELION SUMMER AND BLUE MOON BAY

"This heartwarming tale comes from a talented duo. Cindy’s gift of lush storytelling is an ideal match for Sheila’s lovely insights into enduring relationships. Sweet Sanctuary beautifully portrays the complexities of a mother’s heart."

—ROBIN JONES GUNN, BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF THE SISTERCHICKS’ NOVELS

"As a child I assumed that some families (not mine) were perfect. Eventually I grew up and figured out how wrong I was. That’s probably why I appreciate Sweet Sanctuary. Peeling back layers of heartbreaks and secrets, Wren struggles to understand her family’s old wounds and how they impact her own life . . . an important story of forgiveness, healing and hope."

—MELODY CARLSON, AUTHOR OF HERE’S TO FRIENDS AND RIVER’S SONG

Other Novels by

Sheila Walsh

Angel Song with Kathryn Cushman

Sweet Sanctuary with Cindy Martinusen Coloma

Other Novels by

Cindy Martinusen Coloma

Eventide

The Salt Garden

Orchid House

YOUNG ADULT NOVELS

Ruby Unscripted

Beautiful

Caleb + Kate

Song

OF THE

BROKENHEARTED

SHEILA WALSH

AND

CINDY MARTINUSEN COLOMA

© 2012 by Sheila Walsh and Cindy Martinusen Coloma

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means— electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

The author is represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920. www.alivecommunications.com.

Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ThomasNelson.com.

Scripture quotations are taken from The Living Bible. © 1971. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

Publishers Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Walsh, Sheila, 1956-

    Song of the brokenhearted / Sheila Walsh and Cindy Martinusen Coloma.

       p. cm.

    ISBN 978-1-59554-687-6 (trade paper)

1. Life change events--Fiction. I. Coloma, Cindy, 1970- II. Title.

    PS3623.A36615S56 2012

   813’.6--dc23

2012017522

Printed in the United States of America

12 13 14 15 16 QG 5 4 3 2 1

This book is dedicated to those like me who thought our lives were over only to discover that when we offer our brokenness to God, we have only just begun.

—Sheila

To Jenna Jane Benton—for your frendship, inspiration, and creativity that never fails to amaze me. And for making me pray out loud, often.

—Cindy

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Reading Group Guide

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

One

YOU NEED TO WAKE UP, AVA TOLD HERSELF AS SHE GRIPPED THE steering wheel between quick gulps of the coffee she’d grabbed at an all-night gas station.

She turned onto Walnut Street and the directions to the Gibson residence became unnecessary. Her destination was obvious by the cars parked at awkward angles around the two-story stucco house.

Tonight was not the night for casseroles, sympathy cards, or flowers. That would come tomorrow, and in the days that followed. This was the time to arrive empty-handed and with as few words as possible.

She rose from her car into a warm autumn night, pausing to watch gray puffs of clouds drift across the nearly full moon. The moment gave her the strength to go toward the front door and to become the helpful stranger in a house of deep grief.

A bouquet of silver balloons hung unmoving from the lamppost at the end of the walkway. Jars lit by candles lined the path to the house; most had already burned themselves out. A large banner hung over the front door: Congratulations, Joshua and Jessica!

Ava wondered if she should suggest taking down the reminder that hours earlier this had been a house of celebration and joy. Perhaps she could do it herself a little later.

An older man answered her knock wearing rumpled clothing and a deep frown drawn in the corners of his mouth.

Are you a friend of the family? he said, studying her in her designer jeans and beige sweater.

No, I’m Ava. Hannah called and asked me to come.

His frown softened slightly. Come in. We had the media stop by already. Sharks. I don’t know how they heard so fast. Most of the family is in the formal living room. I’m their neighbor across the street there. I’ve known Jessica since she was nine . . . His voice trailed off.

I’m sorry. It’s very painful.

It is, he muttered.

Ava followed the man beyond the foyer and sweeping staircase and toward a silent gathering of people who stood at different places around the room. A half-eaten cake rested on the table.

Hannah? This lady said you called her.

The woman from her Bible study stared at Ava a moment, then recognition dawned on her face. She rose quickly from the chair.

Ava. Thank you for coming.

Of course, she said. As they embraced, Ava felt the woman lean heavily against her. For a moment, she feared Hannah would collapse.

She was my only niece, and more like a daughter to me, Hannah said within the sobs that shook her. Such a beautiful girl, and such a lovely heart. They were so happy . . . How can they be gone, just like that?

Ava offered no answers as she held the middle-aged woman while she cried. Ava felt the pain echo in her own heart. Though she often was around tragedies since starting the ministry at church, Ava had yet to become desensitized to the grief.

I can’t believe you came out this late at night, Hannah said, wiping the tears from her face. I’d heard you talk about the Broken Hearts, but I had no idea . . . Do you come out in the night like this all the time? Your husband must hate it.

It’s not just me. Our team takes turns being on call. But nighttime seems to be when most people need help, Ava said, picking up several of the tissues that Hannah dropped on the floor. Is there anything specific you need right now?

I don’t know. Hannah stared at her with a blank look as many did when Ava asked the question. Still, she asked instead of taking over—that, too, would come later.

My sister is upstairs, but she wanted to be alone. Joe, my brother-in-law, was trying to drive to the . . . the site.

Oh no, Ava muttered. On the drive into Fort Worth, Ava had passed the remains of the wreck along a lonely stretch of highway. Red flares dotted the road, dividing drivers from the tragedy strewn in broken glass and bits of metal across the asphalt, off the shoulder, and into the darkened farmland.

Ambulances were gone, and a tow truck was loading a mangled twist of metal that had once been the car of this newly engaged couple who believed their entire lives stretched before them.

Ava shuddered to think if it were Sienna and Preston. Her daughter and fiancé had celebrated their engagement over the summer. Nothing would comfort these parents tonight or for many nights to come. Such a loss was unfathomable, and Ava’s heart felt a physical ache for this family who was planning a wedding several hours earlier, but now would begin planning two funerals.

Seems someone stopped him from going. But I don’t know where he is.

Ava placed her hand on Hannah’s shoulder.

Well, I’m available for whatever you need. The team has helped make funeral arrangements, we can organize food, and we’ve started memorial funds in some cases. We can do a little or a lot, just let me know what’s needed.

The woman cried again. Thank you. I can’t believe we’re talking about this. Their engagement announcement was just five hours ago. It doesn’t seem possible that they’re both . . . gone.

Hannah, a voice called.

Hannah hurried toward the entry and looked up the oak stairway.

She’s asking for you, a woman said, peering down from the top.

Hannah glanced at Ava as if asking permission.

I’ll be down here if you need me, or you can call me in the morning. Try to help her rest for now.

Hannah nodded and headed up the staircase with her jaw clenched and eyebrows rumpled.

Ava had an awkward moment of not knowing what to do with herself. Her eyes swept the rooms that veined off on both sides of the foyer. She moved quietly to pick up cups, plates, and half-empty champagne glasses left over from the engagement party. She found the kitchen still disheveled and set to work. It was obvious the people living here usually kept the house neat and tidy. Having the house clean might not be noticed tomorrow as shock slowly wore off, but a messy one would certainly add to the stress.

After cleaning as much as she could, Ava made coffee and set out mugs beside the cream and sugar on the long tile bar. A few people came in here and there, though none spoke to her. Some took cups of coffee with mumbled thank-yous.

As Ava swept the dining area, she saw a small face under the table staring up at her. She jumped in surprise, then bent down to meet the dark eyes staring back at her.

"Hello. What are you doing down there? she said gently despite the racing in her chest. A child beneath a kitchen table—it touched a memory she’d tried to bury long ago. Come here, sweetie. I won’t hurt you."

The girl didn’t move toward her, but she also didn’t move away as Ava knelt on the floor and inched toward her.

How long have you been there? Would you like something to drink or eat?

The girl nodded. Ava reached for the little hands clenched around her knees. Finally she coaxed the child out.

The girl wrapped her arms around Ava’s neck as she picked her up. Ava guessed she was about five years old, close to the age she’d been on a night when her childhood home had been the hub of a tragic gathering. No one had seen her hiding beneath a table as people talked about her mother’s death.

Oh no, I thought she was asleep, a woman said, flying toward the child. Ava handed her over, but the girl’s dark eyes stared after Ava.

Thank you, Hannah said, standing in the doorway with her hands hanging from her sides as if too heavy to do more than dangle there.

I think she’s thirsty or hungry, Ava said, scooping up the last of the dirt beside the table. She dumped it in the trash and returned the broom and dustpan to the pantry.

Little Grace adored her Uncle Josh, Hannah said, sitting on a bar stool. She played with the rim of a coffee mug. My sister isn’t doing well.

Ava turned on the dishwasher and joined her at the bar.

She won’t for a long time. I’m sure none of you will. Would you like to pray?