Acknowledgments
NIGHT BIRD CALLING is a book that has long lived in my heart. It could not have been written without the generosity, help, and insights of others.
My deepest gratitude to
My brother, Dan Lounsbury, who introduced me to the names “No Creek” and “Saints Delight,” bestowed upon me North Carolina histories of Wilkes and Surry Counties—the early homes of our maternal grandparents—and supplied me with numerous histories, articles, and links to obscure details of North Carolina history from the mountains to the Outer Banks. Thank you for your early read and insights into this manuscript. I love that we share a love for all things quirky and Southern. Special thanks to Dan and his dear wife, Randi, who allowed me to spend long and lovely writing days on their porch and for keeping me supplied with sweet tea and good fellowship.
Those dear ones, some who’ve gone before and some who still walk with me, who helped me through a horrific time in my own life—a time that was not wasted, but that helped make me who I am and that I pray God uses through the pages of this book to bless others in need with the help He has given me.
Oswald and Biddy (born Gertrude Hobbs) Chambers. Biddy’s shorthand transcription and publication of her late husband’s talks and writings have impacted the world as one of the most widely read devotionals in the Christian world for over eighty years—long after his (and now her) death. Excerpts from daily devotions found in Chambers’s My Utmost for His Highest help make this story a compass to the heart of our Lord. Even now, all these years after they were written, Chambers’s words daily convict and inspire me.
Biographies of Oswald and Biddy were so helpful in better understanding their lives, their timelines, and their inspiring commitment to Christ. Special thanks to Michelle Ule, author of Mrs. Oswald Chambers, and to David McCasland, author of Oswald Chambers: Abandoned to God, for their detailed writings.
Natasha Kern, dear friend, sister in Christ, and agent extraordinaire, who always knows that there is more to the story than I can begin to explain, and for encouraging me on that writing journey of discovery.
Stephanie Broene and Sarah Rische, amazing Tyndale editors. I love that each of you sees so clearly the holes in my stories that I do not see and helps me find a way to bring to the page all that is in my heart. Yours is a gift—rare and sweet.
To all of my Tyndale team—Elizabeth Jackson (acquisitions editor), Andrea Garcia (marketing manager), Lindsey Bergsma (designer), Katie Dodillet—thank you for all you do to bring my stories to readers. You bless me each and every day.
Robert Whitlow, wonderful author and attorney-at-law, for generously helping me understand the legal ramifications of trusts and the importance of the recording of deeds, and for brainstorming possibilities to escape “deep legal waters” in this work of fiction. I’m so grateful. Any misunderstandings or mistakes are mine.
My dear mother, Bernice Lemons, who gave me insights and family stories from the South that spanned years before and during WWII. Some of those memories are fictionalized in this book.
Etta Idol, dear friend of my mother’s and of mine, who shared rich memories of growing up in Wilkes County, North Carolina. Parts of Garden’s Gate were inspired by your lovely childhood home.
Terri Gillespie, dear and wise friend, amazing author, and the one I always go to with questions of Jewish life and culture. We have walked many literary miles together, including the pages of this book. Thank you for your early read and thoughtful insights.
Carrie Turansky, wonderful author, whose precious friendship and encouragement never wavers. You’ve shown me so much of the love of Christ. I hope I’ve shared some of that in this book. Thank you for your early read and insights for this manuscript.
Stephanie Green, dear and brilliant friend, for your early read of this manuscript and for giving me your insights into the times and people of this story. I value your thoughts and sisterhood in Christ.
Vanessa Miller Pierce, generous and bestselling author, for your early read of this manuscript and wise insights. Thank you for opening my eyes to things I hadn’t seen.
My family—husband, son, daughter and son-in-law, grandchildren, sister, brothers, nieces and nephews, all the greats and all those we claim by marriage—life is more precious because of you. Thank you for praying for my writing and for all your encouragement.
In appreciation and memory of my maternal grandparents, whose lives, stories, and times pepper the pages of this book. You gave me so much, and though you no longer walk this earth, you continue to inspire me by your love and examples through precious memories.
I will always appreciate the words of my uncle Wilbur Goforth, who helped me see that service for the Lord and His people happens both inside and outside the church. When torn between two career paths for the second half of my life’s journey, he reminded me that a sure way to know I am working in the will of God is to ask, “Do I have joy? Is this yoke easy? Is this burden light?” The answer is yes—writing gives me great joy. This yoke fits securely but does not chafe. This burden is true but shines as light in my heart!
Beyond all measure I thank my heavenly Father and Lord Jesus Christ for gifts of hope, life, love, family, and unmerited salvation. Life is precious because of Your love and constant, tender care. Life is joyful in Your presence. May this book become an instrument of hope and healing that points only to You, for You are the hope we crave, and You are the healing and salvation we so desperately need.
Chapter One
PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA
MAY 1941
My mother was a beautiful woman, a magnificent and generous woman who loved music and poetry and literature and gardens. She loved to dance, though she only ever did so in the privacy of her room, with me. Her smile, though rare in her last months, brightened the sun. She was a devoted wife and loving mother, however ill-used by her husband. If anyone says differently, they’re a liar or misled by my father.
Mama loved lilacs and roses and the call of the whip-poor-will to keep her company in the dead of night—a memory she treasured from her childhood. She once told me that God in His heaven must think we mortals cannot sustain the wonder of such heady fragrance for long; that’s why lilacs bloom only in spring and for so short a time. It’s the reason roses must have two seasons to spread their blessed gifts. It’s why whip-poor-wills don’t sing all year long in the North Carolina mountain air.
The fragrance of those flowers filled her room as she squeezed my hand for the last time and closed her eyes.
I didn’t want her to go, and yet begging her to stay would have been selfish. At long last she had a chance to be free. Of course she should take it.
Mama left me with two directives: One, to take care of myself, no matter the cost to my reputation. Two, when I found myself brave enough, I was to hand deliver a ruby ring to her aunt Hyacinth in No Creek, North Carolina—a ruby ring that Mama said she’d taken when she ran off to marry my father. She didn’t explain why she’d taken the ring or what she meant by taking care of myself heedless of my reputation, but she made me swear to do both and to never tell my father or my husband. I swore, for she was dying, though I had no idea how I’d ever fulfill such vows.
Gerald no more let me out of his sight than my father had allowed my mother from his.