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    Hope from Heaven: A Novella
    Hope from Heaven: A Novella
    Hope from Heaven: A Novella
    Ebook73 pages1 hour

    Hope from Heaven: A Novella

    By Mark S. R. Peterson

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Previously published as Gabriel's Hope.
    "It's the little things that make a big difference"
    Larry Wahl has terminal cancer and knows his days are numbered. While he goes to bed one night, he prays to God. But not to make his illness go away. Instead, he apologizes to God for leading such an unimportant life.

    Larry soon meets a child angel named Gabriel. She takes him on a journey throughout his life. She shows him seven people he met, and through small seemingly insignificant actions, has led to extraordinary results.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMark S. R. Peterson
    Release dateApr 12, 2014
    ISBN9781311478078
    Hope from Heaven: A Novella
    Author

    Mark S. R. Peterson

    Born in small-town northwestern Minnesota, Mark S. R. Peterson knew he had a love of writing as far back as 2nd grade.His genre interests are as expansive as his musical tastes–from classics like Mozart and Beethoven to heavy metal like Poison and Metallica. He writes thrillers, horror, science fiction, and fantasy, and even dabbles into nonfiction and inspirational.He is a graduate of Bemidji State University, majoring in criminal justice and psychology. He wrote his first book between homework and achieving his 2nd Dan black belt in Tae Kwon Do. He has over 15 years of law enforcement experience and currently lives, according to a Washington Post article, in the “ugliest county” in the United States.BEHOLDER’S EYE is his first published thriller novel, the first in his Central Division Series. KILLZONE is the first in his Shadowkill trilogy.

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      Book preview

      Hope from Heaven - Mark S. R. Peterson

      Hope From Heaven

      (Previously published as Gabriel’s Hope)

      A novella written by

      Mark S. R. Peterson

      Copyright 2013 © Mark S. R. Peterson

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold

      or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

      please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did

      not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to

      the vendor and purchase your own copy.

      Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      DEDICATION

      To Melissa,

      For always keeping the hope alive

      And to our Gabriel.

      For the latest news on upcoming publications, consider joining my mailing list: Author Mark S. R. Peterson

      Want more to read? For a list of all my books by your favorite retailer, please click on this link for a complete listing.

      This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

      Terminal is such a strange word—it’s used to name train or bus stations as well as cable ends—yet it’s this word my doctor used to describe my condition. In all definitions though, it can be summed up simply as end of the line.

      I won’t bore you with explicit details, but needless to say I have cancer. They first found a mass in my stomach. Then, after a battery of other grueling tests, they found more in my liver and pancreas.

      Here, there, and everywhere, as another great doctor is fond of saying.

      And, of course, it’s terminal. End of the line, buddy boy.

      Some would say I’ve lived a full life, but this would only be in terms of years spent breathing. I’ve never done anything significant, like rescuing an entire family from a burning building or striking it rich by inventing the next gizmo and donating piles of cash to worthy causes. Nope, I know I could’ve done more. Then again, doesn’t everyone say that when they’re standing at Death’s door?

      My Dad probably didn’t. He was the epitome of having lived a full, meaningful life. He served a tour in Vietnam, joined the Peace Corp where he eventually met Mom, and then decided to come back home to become a pharmacist. He was a darn good one too. The nicest homes in our small Minnesota town were owned by the banker, an insurance broker, and us.

      He was so well-loved, his funeral was held in the high school gymnasium. There isn’t a week that goes by when someone tells me a memorable moment of Dad, whether it was how he navigated the complex bureaucratic Medicare beast or studied one’s smorgasbord of medication in order to minimize the side effects or even discovered an obscure financial assistance program to help pay for expensive medication.

      I worked alongside him as a clerk and saw first-hand the miracles he performed. He passed away while I was in college. Mom sold the pharmacy to one of the major chains. Even though it still goes by Wahl Drug—honest to Pete, it’s even listed that in the phone book to this day—it’s not the same.

      I’m not a very outwardly religious man—I attend services at the same country Lutheran church I attended as a kid, but you don’t see me spreading the Gospel to my coworkers or even to random strangers—yet I don’t remember a time when I didn’t believe in God. I always believed He was there though. No question about it.

      I knew a girl in college who went away one summer and came back in the fall this born-again Christian. She invited me to participate in a Bible lesson series she was leading and by the end she told me that now, since I had professed that Christ was my Savior, I was born-again.

      But how could I be born-again when I never even left?

      The bedroom walls are bare, save for a small framed portrait of a cross with the Lord’s Prayer printed on it. It was a wedding gift, given to Theresa and I by our pastor. I open the dresser drawer to get a pair of pajamas, then I remember I dirtied my last pair this morning when a wave of intense nausea overcame me and I didn’t quite make it to the bathroom.

      Wish I would’ve remembered that earlier. I could’ve washed them. Now what am I going to wear?

      I open the dresser wider, on the off-chance I stuffed an old pair way back, and see sweatpants.

      Good enough for me.

      As I take them out, a thin pile of photos and a ring scatter along the bottom. Seeing them causes my heart to skip a beat or two. I drop the pants, and pick up the top photo. It’s from our wedding, of the entire wedding party: Theresa and myself, two bridesmaids and groomsmen, and two flower girls—the only boy on either side was eleven months old, so she thought it would be cute if each girl carried a ring.

      Mine, of which, is now along the bottom of the drawer.

      God, Theresa was so beautiful. I sift through the contents and . . . ah, there it is!

      My favorite wedding photo of her was a headshot of just her, taken with a special lens my uncle purchased just for the occasion—he

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