Stepping Into Sunlight
P
RAISE FOR
STEPPING INTO SUNLIGHT
“With emotional and spiritual honesty,
Stepping Into Sunlight
chronicles the rebirth of faith and courage in a young woman traumatized by the unthinkable. Sharon Hinck’s authentic and endearing heroine is so convincing that I found myself praying for her! I laughed. I cried. I asked God a lot of questions. Hinck’s concise yet poetic language ushered me into a worshipful place.”
—Patti Hill, author of
The Queen of Sleepy Eye
“Told with humor and lump-in-the-throat insight,
Stepping Into
Sunlight
is a compelling story of learning to live again after trauma. This was my first Sharon Hinck novel, but it gathered her a permanent spot on my favorite authors list.”
—Deborah Raney, author of
A Vow to Cherish
and T
HE
C
LAYBURN
N
OVELS
series
“For everyone who has ever been afraid of what life may hold (and who hasn’t?), Sharon’s novel is a beacon of hope and healing. Kudos!”
—Roxanne Henke, author of
After Anne
and
Learning to Fly
“With a deft hand Hinck ushers the reader into the frustrating, inward world of the victim, challenging us to gauge the level of our compassion for those who walk a journey we can’t adequately imagine and daring us to wonder if we, too, could flatten our fears and replace them with modest, indiscriminate kindness.”
—Susan Meissner, author of
Blue Heart Blessed
“A beautifully woven story of one woman’s desperation, determination . . . and hope. A cast of oddball, but thoroughly charming, characters make this book a delightful read from start to finish. Highly recommended.”
—Kathyrn Cushman, author of
A Promise to Remember
and
Waiting for Daybreak
Books by
Sharon Hinck
The Secret Life of Becky Miller
Renovating Becky Miller
Symphony of Secrets
S
HARON
H
INCK
Stepping
into
Sunlight
Stepping Into Sunlight
Copyright © 2008
Sharon Hinck
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION
®
. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations identified KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.
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—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hinck, Sharon.
Stepping into sunlight / Sharon Hinck.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-7642-0283-4 (pbk.)
1. Conduct of life—Fiction. 2. Kindness—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.I53S74 2008
813'.6—dc22
2008028096
To Flossie Marxen,
who has cared for so many of the hidden wounded
“The King will reply,
‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did
for one of the least of these brothers of mine,
you did for me.’ ”
Matthew 25:40
NIV
SHARON HINCK writes “stories for the hero in all of us,” comtemporary novels praised for their strong spiritual themes, emotional resonance, and unique blend of genres. She was named 2007 Writer of the Year at Mount Hermon Christian Writers Conference and has been a Christy Award finalist and an ACFW Book of the Year finalist. When she’s not wrestling with words, she enjoys speaking at churches and conferences. Sharon earned a M.A. at Regent University, located in the Tidewater area of Virginia, the setting for
Stepping Into Sunlight
. A wife and mom of four, she now makes her home in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Visit her website at
www.sharonhinck.com
and check out the special Penny’s Project blog at
http://pennysproject.blogspot.com
.
Contents
T
ERROR IN THE SUPERMARKET
. It sounded like a ridiculous headline from one of the tabloids on the rack near the checkout lane. Yet the only name for the pounding in my chest was that melodramatic word.
Terror.
Gaudy detergent boxes leaned out from the shelves. Beneath fluorescent lights, the corridor stretched into eternity—as if the bakery counter were shrinking into the distance while the grocery store shelves rose up into towering cliffs that threatened to crash down on my head. I gripped my half-f shopping cart for support as its wheels squeaked and wobbled. Three cautious steps edged me closer to my goal. Blood pulsed a quickening tide across my eardrums.
Don’t panic. You can do this.
Last week I’d managed a quick run for milk, eggs, and bread. This week I had set a more ambitious goal. But the surreal menace hit me with even more force today. Breathing hard, I scanned my surroundings. A woman at the end of the aisle gave me a curious glance.
I hunched deeper into my zip-front sweatshirt and turned my back on her. What did she see? I was just another thirty-something woman dressed for the gym. If she detected the haggard lines of my face, maybe she’d write that off as the exhausted look of a normal mom.
And I
was
normal. I had to be. This errand would prove I was ready to cope with everyday life again.
Farther down the aisle, a loud crack cut through the piped-in Muzak. I jumped and lifted a hand to my temple. A vein pulsed against the skin with enough pressure to burst. A pudgy boy leaned down to retrieve his yo-yo.
You’re being ridiculous. Scared by a dropped yo-yo? What’s next?
Fear of Hula-Hoops?
I pushed my shopping cart past the boy and his mother and forced my feet to keep a steady pace. Six more steps. Five. Four. My target stretched in front of me. The bakery counter.
Now all I had to do was order the cake.
“Can I help you?” The counter woman’s voice creaked with age. I stared at the bear claws on the bottom shelf of the display case.
Come on, Penny. Tell her. You need a small cake. Chocolate.
“Ma’am? Can I help you?” Now she sounded concerned.
Why was this so hard? This store didn’t look at all like—
No! Don’t go there.
My fingertips tingled, and waves of nausea rose up to catch in my throat. Pastries and muffins filled my vision, but the space around them turned gray. Gray with little red sprinkles. Or maybe that was the decoration on the sugar cookies.
I bent forward to draw a deep breath, fighting off the sensation of falling. Who really needed a cake anyway? Too many carbs. This had been a bad idea. I released my grip on the shopping cart and ran.
Back up the aisle.
Past the mother who pulled her son close as I brushed by.
Past a mountain of paper towel rolls.
Past the pyramid of tangerines. My stomach lurched at their scent.
The automatic doors opened outward too slowly. I pressed my shoulder against one side and forced it to let me escape. A short sprint brought me to my car. The passenger side was closest, so I dove in that side, pulled the door closed behind me, and hit the lock. Curled up half on the floor and half on the seat, my body shuddered.
Block it out.
I squeezed my fists to my forehead.
Get over it.
But I was getting worse, not better.
September sun baked the air inside the car with another reminder that I was in a strange place. Back home in Wisconsin, the leaves were turning orange and the temperature had a bite. Today’s heat made Chesapeake, Virginia, feel as foreign as Bangkok.
Someone tapped on the glass of my wagon’s door. “Honey chile, you need help?”