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Authors: Fran Elizabeth Grubb

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Cruel Harvest

Praise for
Cruel Harvest

“A story that seizes the reader's attention . . . the reader can't look away.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Fran Grubb's childhood odyssey is a shatteringly dark tale of despair. But that's not the end of her captivating life story. Each page of
Cruel
Harvest
reveals a remarkable journey of rescue and redemption. Your heart will be moved as you witness Jesus' power to deliver, forgive, reconcile, rebuild, and love.”

—Denalyn and Max Lucado

“A deeply harrowing story, told with compassion and simplicity, by an extraordinarily brave writer.”

—Anjelica Huston

“Cruel Harvest
is an incredible story of survival and forgiveness. Fran's ability to survive brokenness as a child and even into adulthood and then to overcome those experiences through faith and forgiveness is a true testament to the power of God's love for each of us. Everyone can be inspired by her story.”

—Sheila Walsh, author of
God Loves Broken
People
and Women of Faith speaker

“Against all odds, Fran survived her trip through the ‘valley of the shadow of death.' I loved reading this story of deliverance. Thank you for the reminder that God can turn our mourning into dancing!”

—Gracia Burnham, former hostage and author of
In the Presence of My Enemies

“It is hard endorsing
Cruel Harvest
with just a few words. I want everyone to know how powerful her story is and how many lives it can help change, and is currently changing. Ever since reading Fran Grubb's story I have used it to help numerous clients that are victims of childhood violence. Every woman has commented on her faith and how her book has given them hope! We are putting the book in our library for all the ladies to read.”

—Vicki Mason, Primary Crisis Interventionist, Women's Crisis Services of LeFlore County, Poteau, Oklahoma

“This was a wonderful book. We could feel the faith of the child throughout every page. We highly recommend
Cruel Harvest
.”

—DeWayne and Rebecca Hicks, founders of Courage to Change Ministries, Greenville, Arkansas


Cruel Harvest
will touch your heart clear through to your soul! I guarantee that you won't be disappointed and you won't be able to put it down.”

—Pastor Ray Witherington, Midnight Cry Ministries / Restoration Revival Center Church, Townville, South Carolina

Cruel
Harvest
A MEMOIR

FRAN ELIZABETH GRUBB

© 2012 by Frances Elizabeth Grubb, aka Fran Grubb

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.

Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected]

Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from THE HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION
®
. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

Scriptures marked
KJV
are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Grubb, Fran E.

  Cruel harvest : a memoir / Fran Grubb.

      p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59555-505-2

1. Grubb, Fran E. 2. Grubb, Fran E.—Family. 3. Sexually abused children—United States—Biography. 4. Kidnapping victims—United States—Biography. 5. Migrant labor—United States—Biography. 6. Abusive men—United States—Biography. 7. Fathers—United States—Biography. 8. Escaped prisoners—United States—Biography. 9. Dysfunctional families—United States—Case studies. I. Title.

  CT275.G787A3 2012

  973.92092—dc23

  [B]

2012004553

Printed in the United States of America

12 13 14 15 16 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1

To the Creator and giver of all good gifts: I love you and I know that I owe this book to you. I give you all the glory, honor, and praise for every sentence printed in this story.
This book is yours, not mine.

To Wayne, whose love, support, and encouragement has kept me going year after year, through the churches, tent revivals, nursing homes, and prisons, and who keeps me laughing.

For all the times I may have forgotten to say thank you for carrying equipment, singing harmony, reading the Bible, navigating before the GPS, your wonderful sense of humor even after three meetings a day, and for never losing hope. Thank you!

Thank you for throwing out all the rules about love, listening to your heart and proving there are no rules or limits to unconditional love.

To Wayne, who has the heart of a child and the courage of a lion. Can I ever show you how much you mean to me? I hope this dedication is a start.

Cruel Harvest
was written for all the adults and children who find themselves asking, “Why?” I pray you find the answer in these pages. God knows your name and has written your name on his hand!

(Isaiah 49:16; John 10:3)

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1:
Family

Chapter 2:
The Train

Chapter 3:
Murder

Chapter 4:
A Child's Innocence

Chapter 5:
Baby Girl

Chapter 6:
On the Run

Chapter 7:
Arrest

Chapter 8:
One More Piece

Chapter 9:
A New Life

Chapter 10:
Not What It Appears to Be

Chapter 11:
First Day of School

Chapter 12:
The Orphanage

Chapter 13:
A Safe Harbor in the Storm

Chapter 14:
A Changed Man

Chapter 15:
Taken

Chapter 16:
Attempted Murder

Chapter 17:
In the Arms of Angels

Chapter 18:
On the Run Again

Chapter 19:
Choices

Chapter 20:
Another Child Lost

Chapter 21:
A Trap Set

Chapter 22:
Bobby Willoughby

Chapter 23:
Spiders

Chapter 24:
Mr. Spencer

Chapter 25:
Alone

Chapter 26:
Courage to Run

Chapter 27:
Freedom!

Chapter 28:
One Last Battle

Chapter 29:
Forgiveness

Chapter 30:
The Reunion

Acknowlegments

Author's Note

About the Author

Prologue

His fist shattered
the glass panel of the back door the instant I turned the lock to keep him out.

His fiery, red face, twisted with unbridled rage, glared at me from outside the glass top half of the kitchen door. The only thing separating us was the jagged windowpane.

I stood still for just a second, frozen in shock as I looked into his evil, angry eyes. Shards of glass exploded inward toward me, some cutting into my forearm and head, the rest falling to the kitchen floor. He reached his calloused hand through the broken window to unlock the door. My shock was quickly replaced by fear, and I ran through the house to get to the front door as though the devil himself were chasing me. He was!

It was 1963 in Benton Harbor, Michigan. I was fourteen, and this little house was one of the best I'd lived in during my childhood. It had three rooms set in a line like train cars: the kitchen in the back, a bedroom in the middle, and a small living room at the front. I tore through that dark house as fast as I could, slamming into the front door. I had locked it only minutes earlier to keep him out. Now he was in the house with me and I could hear his footsteps and feel the rasp of his enraged breathing. I had only seconds to slide the bolt back, throw the door open, and leap from the house as if it were burning down behind me.

The front door opened to an old wooden porch with a sagging tin roof. Snow blanketed the front yard, rising up to cover the bottom two steps leading off the rotted decking. I jumped, my legs sinking a foot and a half into the drift. The cold air cut through the ragged clothes I wore. I remembered my coat was inside, but so was he. There was no going back in.

Millie and her young daughter, Mary Anne, were standing by our old car in the snow-covered front yard. A tattered cardboard box of blackened pots and pans lay beside it. I had dropped them before running back into the empty house, hoping the sound of clattering pans, lids, and pots would be an alarm in the still night and somebody would come to save me.

I heard him crashing through the house behind me just as I sailed off the porch. Little Mary Anne came chasing after me into the yard. The moon shone so brightly off of the snow that I could see her big, dark eyes pleading with me to take her along. She screamed my name as I dashed past her. She did have her jacket on, but at five years old, the snow was up to her waist in some areas and I worried she would get lost.

“Millie, grab your daughter!” I yelled.

I never slowed down as I turned away from the dirt road that ran in front of the house and plowed through the deep drifts to reach the covering of the woods at the side of the house. Clumps of snow fell from the pine branches in the yard; ice rolled down the back of my dress and burned my cheeks like fire. I knew that if I stopped, the pain would be much worse when he got his hands on me. I had no doubt that he would kill me just as he had killed my baby sister eight years earlier.

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