Through Love's Eyes

By Mary V. Young

You think you know their stories: you've read them since childhood. Read them again – it will feel like the first time. Mary Young takes you inside their heads and hearts, and shows you their encounters with the Christ through their own eyes.

Anyone who has ever doubted whether God would really help him or her will find encouragement in these pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary V. Young
• Release date: Feb 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465866257

Mary V. Young

A once-rolling stone now happily gathering moss, Mary V. Young is a military veteran who has lived in Ohio, Indiana, Idaho, Belgium and Texas before finally settling on her "little patch of paradise" in northern Georgia. She spends her days teaching computer software classes, and divides her free time between writing, photography, gardening, and spoiling her two dogs, Pippin & Sandy.

Book preview

Through Love's Eyes

Mary V. Young

Copyright 2012, 2014 by Mary V. Young

3rd Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Sample story from Through Hope's Eyes copyright 2014 Mary V. Young.

Cover designed by DigitalDonna.com

Acknowledgements:

If I tried to mention everyone who has played a part in the creation of this book, I would surely leave out some critical names. Even so, some people need to be specifically mentioned.

The AOL Christian Fiction/Christian Publishing Discussion Board members in the mid- to late-1990s. We were hobbyists and professionals working together in community, helping each other grow in the craft of writing and in the knowledge of our Lord. For the professionals who were part of that group, your encouragement is the reason this book exists today. Extra special thanks to Terri Blackstock, who never complained about the fax machine in her bedroom ringing in the middle of the night as I sent her a new story hot off the press.

My email prayer-posse – Barb, Rachel, Karen, Katie & Jen. You ladies make God’s love real to me on a daily basis, and have done so for more than half of my life. I treasure each of you. Thank you for being my God-sisters.

Sharon Brown – your pithy comments steered me in the right direction more times than I can count. I’m so glad God introduced us to each other.

Table of Contents

A Woman Who was Thirsty

A Man Who was Paralyzed

A Woman Who was Forgiven

A Man Who was Chained

A Woman Who was Desperate

A Boy Who was Hungry

A Woman Who was Spared

A Man Who was Sick

A Woman Who was Grieving

A Man Who was Sorry

A Man Who was Healed

An Author Who is Grateful

Preview of Through Hope's Eyes

A Woman Who was Thirsty

I wear my anger like a cloak, wrapping it around me to block the chill breeze of others’ scorn. It is my best weapon, and my only defense against those who judge me. I hold my head high, pretending not to notice the stares and whispers, but I do. And somewhere deep beneath the angry core that protects me, it hurts.

This is not the life I dreamt as a child. I had the same dreams as those other women – those same women who cross the road when they see me walking their way. But there is no changing it now. I wish I could, but to do so I would have to go back in time, back to a day when I still believed in hope, in possibilities, in love.

I know better now, and once illusions have been shattered, they are gone for good. I would have preferred to keep my illusions, as these other women so obviously had kept theirs, but life had other plans. Life without illusions is a cold, lonely existence. Is it any wonder that I found companions to share my misery?

No, I am not saying that was my intent, nor was it theirs, but the result was always the same. The initial joy of companionship, the disillusionment that followed each wedding, and then shared misery. I finally decided to bypass the disillusion, and the weddings ended, but the companionship did not. Neither did the misery.

Each day dragged, a torment to be endured, bringing me one day closer to the end of the whole dreary mess. I kept waiting for Yahweh to strike me, as the other women seemed so sure he would do, but he either delighted in my misery or could not be bothered to worry about me. Whichever reason was correct, he left me to my own ways, and I did my best to forget he even existed.

Until that day.

It was another dreary day just like the others in my life. I had recently attracted a new companion, so at least I did not wake up alone. Somehow it is easier to face these endless days if I am not alone. As usual, I went to the well to draw water. When I was a child, I used to watch the women walking to the well together, laughing and talking amongst themselves. I looked forward to the time when I would join that procession, but instead I go alone, after the others have finished. It is easier that way, not that I care about making it easy for them, with their sharp tongues and hostile looks. But I need no more challenges in my own days, so I wait.

I misjudged the timing that day, and some were still on their way back as I walked to the well. As always, they pointed and whispered, and as always, I held my head even higher, as if I didn't care. I have two minor consolations: they do not know how much it bothers me and more importantly, I am not like them. I do not look down on others because their lives did not turn out perfectly. I do, however, look down on those who look down on me, so maybe we are more alike than I want to admit. I walked past them on my way to the well, head held high, ignoring them while counting the paces until they would be behind me and I would have solitude to regain my fragile peace.

As I approached the well, my heart sank. It seemed I would have no peace this day. Although the women were gone, a man stood there watching me walk up. His clothing proclaimed him a Jew, so I gathered my anger cloak closer to me, knowing I was in for unpleasantness. Jews hate Samaritans, loathing us even more than the women of my village loathe me. Well, let him do his best, I thought. It had been a long time since a mere man could make me turn and run. When he looked at me, I did not drop my eyes as a proper woman should, but met his gaze defiantly. Let him think what he would, but no Jew would break through my defenses.

His face was weathered by the sun, with crinkled laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. And his eyes – I have known many men, but none have ever looked at me as he did. With an effort, I looked away, noticing the road-dust on his feet. He was traveling, then. I was glad, because I would not want to see him look at me like that every day. The village women were bad enough, but this man looked through me, past all the walls I had built to protect myself from pain. I do not think I could have hidden anything from him, even with a lifetime’s practice of hiding what I felt.

His voice was mellow, almost musical, when he asked me for a drink. I sparred with him some, teasing him about a Jew even talking to a Samaritan, never mind asking one for help.

His next words confused me - he spoke of things that cannot exist. Living water, he called it – who