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When I was twelve, I made a naïve, yet desperate pact with God to keep my ailing mother alive. It was the first time I'd ventured something so brazen--making a contract with the Almighty...So begins the story of Becky Owens, a talented and passionate young pianist on the verge of adolescence when she learns the devastating news of her mother's critical illness. As the daughter of a country preacher in Lancaster County, Becky knows well the significance of sacrifice, and in her bargain with God, she vows to exchange her most cherished possession for her mother's life.Hospital rules only add to Becky's sorrow--twelve-year-olds aren't allowed to visit, so Becky and her mother must share tearful smiles through Lancaster General's sunroom window. But a realization of the power of music and a lesson in unconditional love compel Becky to rethink her "deal" with God, and the sunroom becomes a place where miracles happen...

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Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 octobre 2005
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781585586882
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0374€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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By Beverly Lewis
Amish Prayers
The Beverly Lewis Amish Heritage Cookbook

The Rose Trilogy
The Thorn • The Judgment • The Mercy

Abram’s Daughters
The Covenant • The Betrayal • The Sacrifice
The Prodigal • The Revelation

The Heritage of Lancaster County
The Shunning • The Confession • The Reckoning

Annie’s People
The Preacher’s Daughter • The Englisher • The Brethren

The Courtship of Nellie Fisher
The Parting • The Forbidden • The Longing

Seasons of Grace
The Secret • The Missing • The Telling

The Postcard • The Crossroad

The Redemption of Sarah Cain
October Song • Sanctuary (with David Lewis) • The Sunroom
www.beverlylewis.com
THE SUNROOM
Beverly Lewis
The Sunroom Copyright © 1998 Beverly Lewis
Ebook edition created 2010
Ebook corrections 1.5.2012
ISBN 978-1-5855-8688-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Scripture quotations identified NIV are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION. Copyright © 1973, 1974, 1984 by International Bible Society. All rights reserved. The “NIV” and “New International Version” trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International Bible Society. www.zondervan.com
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 Minneapolis, Minnesota 55438 www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Cover and inside illustrations by Pamela Querin Inside designed by Sherry Paavola
This book is dedicated to the glory of God.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die. . . .
A time to weep, and a time to laugh.
Ecclesiastes 3:1, 2, 4 (kjv)
About the Author
BEVERLY LEWIS, born in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, is The New York Times bestselling author of more than eighty books. Her stories have been published in nine languages worldwide. A keen interest in her mother’s Plain heritage has inspired Beverly to write many Amish-related novels, beginning with The Shunning , which has sold more than one million copies. The Brethren was honored with a 2007 Christy Award. Beverly lives with her husband, David, in Colorado.
Reflections
I’ve spent a lot of time perusing old scrapbooks and childhood diaries of late. The notion that I am coming into my contemplative years is entirely settling, really. Like a warm hug from someone who loves me.
Perhaps this is why I find myself asking directions of a pediatric nurse on the third floor of the Lancaster General Hospital. “It’s the sunroom I’m after,” I tell her, noting the quizzical look on her young face. “I’ve come two thousand miles to see it again.”
“The sunroom is being renovated . . . painted and whatnot,” she says, pointing toward the southeast corridor. “Down there, beyond the roped-off area.”
The nostalgic side of me feels the need to explain. “I’m writing a family history . . . including a section on my mother’s illness. She spent many days in this hospital back in the early fifties.”
I hesitate, wondering. Dare I share the whole story? I’ve heard it said that if a writer speaks the intended words shares them verbally prior to the actual writing it upsets the creative process. Assuming that to be true, I suppress my thoughts.
“Good luck,” says the nurse, offering a smile. “And watch for wet paint.”
I thank her and head down the hallway, accompanied by Aunt Audrey, Mother’s youngest sister. We stand outside for a moment, peering in. “Is this how you remember it?” she asks.
It is. And I make a mental note to reread, as soon as possible, the numerous entries in my old diary describing my first visit here.
Casting a furtive glance down the hall, I proceed to lift the rope and step inside. “Mother used to call me from this room,” I hear myself saying. “Sometimes I would play the piano for her over the phone.
The music cheered her made a difference, she told me.”
I sigh, remembering the bleak, worry-filled days.
My aunt nods, her own memories filling up the silence.
I move closer to the windows, staring out at the altered skyline.So much has changed since my growing-up years here in this historic city.
My eyes roam across familiar sights brick row houses, their front stoops and cement steps paving the way to cobblestone sidewalks just a few feet from busy, narrow streets. And stately trees what abundant varieties creating a canopy over residential side streets that eventually lead to Penn Square, complete with its white granite 1870s monument to sailors and soldiers, the ornate Watt & Shand building, and Central Market a gathering place for farmers and merchants since the early 1700s.
In full view is the hospital parking lot, three stories below. “The nurses used to help Mother stand up at these windows so she could wave to my sister and me,” I remark to my aunt. “Emily and I simply had to see with our own eyes if Mother was still alive.”
How fresh, how terribly raw the girlhood recollection. Weeks on end, missing Mommy; wondering if she’d ever be well enough to come home.
Standing here in this place, gazing through the same sun-filled windows as Mother had, I recall the old feelings, the panic-stricken awareness that my mother had only six months to live, yet not knowing how to make the minutes stop ticking. How to keep her alive.
The actual sequence of events is somewhat vague, like a vast watercolor painting of a distant panorama. My life is filled up with my own family now my husband, our children, and the activities of our lives. Yet the past beckons me; my mind wanders, and I long to walk the streets of my childhood, talk to the people who remember how things used to be. This is the reason I have come to celebrate a milestone birthday in Pennsylvania Amish country, to research the bygone days, to recapture more than mere details.
With the aid of my juvenile diary, I wish to sort through tender emotions and get it all down in writing for posterity. And for myself.
Whatever the truth about those long-ago days, it is a young girl’s path to the heart of the Father my soul’s search for hope that I will treasure most.
CONTENTS
About the Author
Reflections
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Reflections
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Lancaster, Pennsylvania 1952
When I was twelve, I made a naïve, yet desperate pact with God to keep my ailing mother alive. It was the first time I’d ventured something so brazen making a contract with the Almighty.
Not a soul knew of it, not even my best friend, Lee Anne Harris, and certainly not my mother. Had either one of them known, my face would’ve stained red with embarrassment, because as bold as I had been with God, the opposite was true of my personality.
I, Rebekah Mary Owens, was born shy but determined, the first child of a pioneer minister and his wife, on an Easter Sunday morning in the southern end of the Susquehanna Valley, commonly known as Lancaster County.
Early on, I displayed a keen interest in the piano, creating my first melody at age four, followed by piano lessons under the tutelage of my musical mother. Prior to these events came my earnest prayer for a baby sister, and nine months later, Emily Christine arrived.
The first indication that I was to be a tenacious child was discovered by my mother as I practiced for a kindergarten recital. Again and again, my tiny hands performed the melody. Spellbound, I was lost in the simple beginner’s song.
Then to my surprise, the stove timer began to ding repeatedly. “Time’s up,” Mommy called from the kitchen. “You’ve practiced long enough.”
I slid off the bench and voiced my complaint. “Do I have to stop already?
”
“It’s suppertime, Becky.” Mommy dried her hands on her ruffled apron, blue eyes smiling. “You do love the piano, don’t you, dear?”
“Can we make the timer go longer tomorrow?” I asked, marching off to wash my hands.

Along with my passion for music came an equally strong affection for classic children’s literature, followed by an emerging love for letter-writing. Soon after fourth grade, I linked up with a Canadian pen pal, and she and I attempted to outdo each other in the penning of epistle-size letters.
Next came short story fever, beginning in sixth grade when the teacher taught us to use quotation marks correctly.Delighted at the ability to make story characters “speak,” my nar-ratives became longer, novellalength works, assessed for literary quality by my dear cousin and friend Joanna. I made Joanna my my captive once, reading her a seventy-seven-page story entitled She Shall Have Music.
It is not clear to me, however, when the fears first began. Perhaps they started when a school friend excluded me from her birthday party. No brightly colored invitation ever arrived in our mailbox, though I waited and hoped.

Might’ve been a simple oversight; maybe not. Still, I worried too much about it, despising the left-out feeling.
Shortly after that, I began writing in a secret diary. The diary lay nestled safely inside a lovely wooden case with a gold lock and key.
There I recorded the disappointments of my young life some more critical than others, including the entire year I had to exist without piano lessons. After we moved to the country, Daddy could no longer afford