Woman Named Damaris (Women of the West Book #4) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Janette Oke

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90 pages

English

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Damaris escapes her father's drunken abuse, but she can't seem to escape her profound loneliness. Does the Bible hold the answer to both that and the question of why she is A Woman Named Damaris?

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 août 2007
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781585587285
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0259€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 1991 by Janette Oke
Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438 www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
Ebook corrections 12.14.2016
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.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
ISBN 978-1-5855-8728-5
Cover design by Lookout Design, Inc.
Contents
Cover
Title
Copyright Page
Dedication
1. Damaris
2. A Daring Idea
3. Travel
4. Town
5. An Opportunity
6. On the Trail
7. Disappointment
8. In Camp
9. Traveling On
10. A New Life Begins
11. Miss Dover
12. The Book
13. Confusion
14. Time
15. A Dinner Guest
16. Christmas Day
17. The Name
18. The Truth
19. Scars
20. Fires of Rage
21. Changes
22. The Children
23. Home
24. Family
About the Author
Other Books by Janette Oke
Back Cover
To Josue and Judith, my Compassion kids. May God bless your lives and help you to be all He wants you to be.
———
I began supporting Josue when he was quite young. He is now sixteen and a fine-looking young man. He lives in Mexico with his family and enjoys sports—especially soccer. He writes me short notes and draws me pictures. It has been interesting to share his growing up.
I met Judith when I traveled with Compassion to Haiti in January 1989. We visited some of the schools where Compassion children were scattered among the students.
The Haitian children were so open and loving, running to us to say hello, shake our hand, or to get a hug. I wondered how they could smile when they showed how hungry they were, lifting their simple shirts and showing us gaunt tummies. It was so sad. In that extremely needy country it was wonderful to see Compassion-sponsored children receiving schooling, health care, a daily meal, and most of all, the opportunity to hear about our Lord Jesus.
But there are not enough funds to meet all the needs. Many children are still without sponsorship.
Judith was one of the needy children. She lived with her widowed grandmother, her mother having gone to Port au Prince in hope of finding some kind of work. Compassion decided to take on the care of Judith, and I was given the opportunity to provide her support.
Judith was shy—but sweet. We could not communicate with words, but I will never forget the little arm that wrapped around me. I fell in love with her then and hope that one day I will have the privilege of visiting her again.
Helping children through Compassion is a wonderful opportunity to share love. It amazes me that the organization is able to do so much with so little. Having seen the many other children in Haiti who have no such support, no proper meal to fill hungry tummies, no medical care when they are ill, no education to help them through life, no chance to hear the Gospel that will free them from the terrible fear of voodoo worship, I thank God that there are Compassion people who really care and give their lives to reaching out.
I am also thankful to be a small part of such a rewarding program. A few dollars makes it possible to turn a life around. I also have the privilege of remembering my children in prayer and communicating through letters. Compassion sends pictures and keeps me well informed of their welfare and growth.
God bless your work, Compassion!
Should you have an interest in being a part of the wonderful family of Compassion, you may write to them for information at one of the following addresses:
Compassion International 3955 Cragwood Dr., Dept. A PO Box 7000 Colorado Springs, CO 80933-0001
Compassion of Canada Box 5591 London, Ontario N6A 9Z9
I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.
Chapter One
Damaris
“Damaris! Damaris!”
Damaris Withers shrank back against the hard boards of the attic wall that supported her back. Pa was home, and she knew by his voice that he had been drinking. She wondered where he had found the money. She wished there was no such thing as money. It brought nothing but woe to the household.
“Damaris!” the man hollered again. “Where is thet girl?” he demanded, a nasty string of profanity following his second outburst.
Damaris shivered. She knew her pa would never find her in her attic retreat, but she never considered staying there. If she didn’t go when called, things would not go well for her mother. Her pa would become angry and abusive. If she hurried, he might do no more than lash out with words, but if he became angry. . . The thought made Damaris shiver again.
She laid aside her book, worn from reading, and crawled from her hiding place. Silently she lowered herself to the beat-up chest that stood against the wall in her room and quietly replaced the trapdoor leading up to her hiding place. Then she stepped carefully onto the sagging cot that was her bed and down to the rag rug that covered the broken floorboard beside it. She slipped her feet into worn shoes, brushed at her mended dress to get rid of any cobwebs, and hastened toward the creaking stairs.
“Here I am,” she said, trying hard to keep her voice from trembling.
Her father had settled himself in a chair by the table. One glance told Damaris that he had spent a good deal of his afternoon at the saloon. Fear gripped at her, but then a thought flashed through her mind. If he’s had plenty to drink, then maybe—maybe he will soon take to bed and leave Mama and me alone.
“Get in here, girl!” roared her father. “Give yer poor ma a hand. Don’t ya care a’tall thet she’s got all the work to do?”
The man shook his head and began to curse again. “No respect a’tall,” he ended his tirade.
“Yes, Pa,” Damaris whispered.
No point telling him that already she had drawn water from the deep well for the two cows. That she had hoed the garden in the hot morning sun. That she had walked into town with the eggs and traded them for salt and flour. That she had chopped the wood for the fire and hauled the water to replenish the kitchen buckets. Or that Mama herself had given her permission to rest a few moments. All Damaris said was “Yes, Pa,” as she moved forward to appease her irate father. To answer back or fail to show proper respect would get her the back of his hand at best or a thrashing if he felt so inclined.
He sat at the table mumbling his complaints and curses as Damaris and her mother scurried about the kitchen preparing him a hot meal. They did not dare speak. They did not even raise their eyes to each other. Nor did they look at the man slumped at the table. Damaris did not need to look. She had played this scene before—many times—whenever there was money from somewhere. She hated money. Hated what it did to her pa. Hated what it did to her mama. And she hated the fear coursing through her now, shriveling her body into a quaking, trembling mass.
“What’s takin’ ya so long?” her pa demanded, his words slurred and angry. “When a man gets home his supper oughta be waitin’ fer ’im.”
More angry words followed but Damaris tuned them out. She held the chipped plate for her mother to fill with pancakes and fried salted pork and hastened to the table to place it before her father.
“Where’s the coffee?” he bellowed. Damaris returned quickly to the stove, hoping there had been time for the coffee to boil. There hadn’t.
Her pa hated coffee that wasn’t steaming. He also hated to wait. Which offense would be the most annoying on this night? Damaris glanced at her pa, hoping to be able to guess. One hand held the fork that shoveled the food to his mouth, the other shifted restlessly on the table. Damaris decided to risk the coffee—now. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice that it was less than boiling. She poured a cup and hastened back to the table, then went for the sugar bowl. She held her breath as she entered the small cubicle that served as a pantry. Would he be angry? She glanced over her shoulder to see which objects from the table she might have to dodge if her father’s anger turned violent.
He hadn’t waited for the sugar. Lifting the cup to his lips, he took a drink. Immediately he turned, leaned from his chair, and spat the coffee onto the floor beside him.
“Tastes like slop,” he said, accusing eyes glaring at Damaris. He turned his cup upside down and emptied the remainder of its contents onto the floor. But he did not throw the cup. For that Damaris was thankful.
“Bring me another one—hot—an’ put some sugar in it!” he roared.
Damaris moved quickly to comply. The coffee was now boiling. Perhaps she had been lucky. The bit of stall had resulted in hot coffee, and her pa had remained reasonably controlled.
But her pa never drank the coffee. The hand that held the fork was slowly losing its grip, and a glaze started to cover the man’s eyes. Damaris dared to glance at her mama. The man at the table would soon pass out, and it would be up to the two of them to get his dead weight from the kitchen floor to his bed. They had struggled with the weight of the big man many times. Damaris hated this part of the ordeal.
Slowly, the man slumped over the table. Damaris didn’t know whether to step forward and risk holding him in his chair before he was totally unconscious, or to stand by and let him slide completely to the floor. It was always so much harder to lift him up after he had fallen. She raised her eyes to her mama and the woman nodded feebly. Damaris stepped forward and placed a hand on each of the man’s shoulders, holding him against the back of his seat.
“I’ll take his arms,” she said softly to her mama in a remarkably controlled voice.
The slight woman moved forward, tugged of