Limited Love

By Sarah Jane Belanger

Limited Love produces faith through the life of Sarah Jane Belanger as she first crossed paths with despair. Sarah Jane reflects on her past and present and the sovereign role that Jesus Christ played all along. Limited Love divulges discernment primarily in regards to spiritual warfare. Sarah Jane experienced suffering, both physical and emotional, during her entire life as a teenager. Satan attempted to feast on her early in life, as he knew she would always follow God. Sarah Jane longs for Limited Love to help people and encourage them to seek guidance. She firmly believes in holding on to nothing tighter than knowing she is in the presence of the Lord at all times. Sarah Jane could not love anyone more than Him!

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490881232

Sarah Jane Belanger

Sarah Jane Belanger is thrilled to release Limited Love as her first published book after receiving confirmation to write her story. She has earned her business degree and hopes to one day have the opportunity to open her own gymnastics-training facility, should it be God’s will. Belanger currently resides in Michigan with her husband and their two children.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Do not boast about tomorrow,

for you do not know what a day may bring.

Proverbs 27:1

My mother’s father and I were great companions. I was very much like Papa. He came from Kentucky and you would have thought I did too because of my deep adoration for the countryside. If there was an open field, a railroad track, a barn, or a grocery store that was far away, I was content. My grandparents moved to their cottage up north when I was small…perhaps seven or so. I would miss them being local, but I knew that we would go up north still; I loved it there more than I loved my own house.

There was absolutely nothing to do there - and just about everything at the same time. It was relaxing, of course, if that is what you came for, but a young girl likes some adventure. Barbie was never too keen on me nor I her, so while she stared blankly with that silly smile on her plastic face, I secured the Velcro straps on my corrective shoes and headed outside.

My grandparent’s pale yellow house was off of a lake in Ogema County. There was only one house that followed after it before hitting the dead end of the dirt road. Past it were woods that we kids were told numerous times not to go in. We never seemed to catch on to that rule. It was all too intriguing. We had to go in there. Then, as a result, we had to get griped at about it.

Across the street was my sweet spot: the pole barn. Oh yes, I loved that great big heap of a junk trunk that my grandfather kept. I am sure that I found something new, yet awfully old, every visit. Papa still had his printing presses in there from his career as a printer. My sister and I learned how to shoot a gun in the field behind the pole barn.

Eventually I assisted Papa and my dad in building a small loft. He really needed the extra room for all he had. Most of it was not worth a lot other than sentimentally. He had hung every license plate he ever owned along the exposed joists.

A few skips next to the pole barn was what we all referred to as the little house across the street. (Clever, I know.) Papa had taken a large camper and somehow made an addition extended off of it. Only a southerner could transform it into a full-functioning little home. It had its very own scent, as all homes up north do. I was specifically enchanted by the back-door mechanism on the thin, wooden storm door. You had to slide open a small piece of wood above the handle and reach inside to unlatch it from behind. I thought that was the cutest thing ever! (Okay, I still do!)

Every season had its sweetness up north. In the winter months we spent a lot of time ice skating on the lake with my dad. Sometimes he would also pull us around by the old wooden sled that was my mother’s as a child. There was a beauty that you could really embrace from the snow creating absolute silence. It muffled every sound. I had an obnoxious neon-pink snowmobile suit that I trudged around everywhere in.

My grandmother and mother would make a roast and I devoured it at snail speed. There was nothing better than walking in the house after being out in the brisk, cold air, only to smell dinner and know in advance how good it was going to taste. My dad would build a fire and we would all go to bed happy and cozy upstairs with our electric blankets.

The highlight of spring was when the pontoon boat made its way back in to the water. We were able to utilize the old metal swing set again. This was about when we would take the first attempt of the year to walk in the woods. I remember listening to Nina and Mom talk about everything and not absorbing a single word.

Ode to an up north Michigan summer! Why would we go anywhere else to vacation? We had many days fishing (my personal favorite), boat rides that never lasted long enough in the mind of a child, and day trips to Tawas Bay and West Branch. Mallory and I rode and fell off of her banana-seat bike together as if it were a tradition. Nothing was superior to that fresh air pushing off of the lake coming in through the windows as we lay in bed upstairs. The breeze from the oscillating fans sweeping across the room as we fell asleep put the cherry on top of that ever-so-sweet cake.

Autumn consisted of collecting acorns to toss in the lake, sitting on the pontoon boat in the rain trying to see if a fish had my bobber or if the rain was just pelting it that hard, and watching all of the adults play pinochle for hours. That is how I learned to play. My cousins and I would play rummy 500 with Nina all the time. Nina sure loved her card games. That love trickled down to her children and grandchildren.

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Papa became ill with something, but, since I was twelve at the time, I did not know exactly what was going on. I think I remember hearing that he could not breathe on his own. A few days passed and he was improving and was meant to go home the upcoming Thursday I believe it was. On Tuesday, September 28, 1999, I distinctly remember leaving sixth-hour office assistant. (I was in the seventh grade.) As usual, the secretary called after me, I will see you tomorrow. My intuition swarmed my thoughts and I stopped at the door and thought to myself, Well, you never know. Then I dismissed the thought and headed off to my last class of the day. While sitting in math, I could not seem to shake the feeling that I may have just had my first mini-premonition of future trouble to be had.

My friend Wendy and I were the last bus stop. There was a song on the radio that we both agreed we would have to run to our houses as fast as we could in order to hear the rest of the song before it ended. So we ran in our opposite directions and waved from across the road. When I headed up my driveway, I saw something most peculiar. My dad’s van was in the driveway and my mom’s car was gone. My dad had never come home in the middle of the day in my entire life to my recollection.

I continued to run. Right inside the doorway I could see my sister staring at me through her tears with my father close behind her. Mallory went straight to her room following through with her sobs. My dad did not budge. I ran into my room, flipped on my radio, and finished listening to the song to keep my promise to Wendy.

I assumed my sister getting in trouble had been the cause of this scene. I semi-chuckled walking into the living room and over to my frozen father and asked, What’s the matter with her? What did she do now? My dad hesitated and ignored my question. Papa didn’t wake up this morning.

My eyes began to drown. I refused to blink weakness in front of my dad. I slowly turned away from him as stiff as a board and walked into my bedroom. I placed my face in my pillow and screamed. Suddenly I was unaware of anything but sorrow. My sister knew the pain that I felt. I managed to lift myself just long enough to round the corner to her room, which hugged mine.

On the floor she had scattered every picture she could find. Papa’s smile beamed at me from so many different angles as I sat there holding my older sister, trying to be strong for her. I chanted his name in the form of a whisper over and over and over again. Papa… Sob. Papa… More sobs. Then something even harder was coming that I felt so selfish for. My mother had lost her father. My grandmother had lost her husband of fifty-five years. How could we possibly help each other? Each one of us was helpless with grief.

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It came time for the funeral, and I was not sure what to expect. I had never experienced a loss of a loved one before. My sister and I drove with my dad to the funeral home. It bothered me that it was referred to as a home. I walked in and regretfully saw him lying in a dreadful, cold box.

For the first time in my life, I did not know what to do with myself. I kept walking around aimlessly and plopping down on a chair, then getting up again to go look at a different picture. I finally settled on a sofa for a minute, and my father came and sat down across from me. I think he was trying to find something to say to comfort me, but knew he could not. I began to cry harder, got up, and walked away. (I do not like to cry in front of others.)

I remember being angry at the strangers that were there. They did not know and love my Papa. What are they doing here? This should be for family and close friends only, I thought to myself. I was bitter when I was introduced to two of my cousins whom I had never known. I did not understand what business they had being there. My true cousins, sister, and I were his grandchildren. Who are these people that never bothered having a relationship with him? my pre-teen thoughts further wondered.

When it came time for words to be spoken, I felt compelled to go up and speak, but I knew I would never get anything to come out of my mouth with strength. Nobody moved and I grew sadder than before. Papa was worth talking about in remembrance.

Finally, my youngest cousin, Olivia, put on a brave front and went up there. I think she was only seven at the time. She, very seriously, began to explain how my grandfather used to make her pancakes for breakfast and one time he flipped one so high it hit the ceiling. So Olivia gave him the nickname, Pancake maker. Her small story helped break the strict