Beneath Autumn Skies

By Teresa Davis Doherty

Set in the late 1960s a young girl journeys through personal as well as family heartbreak. At six years old, Kate Lynn Swedin encounters the foster care system for the first time. With a mentally unstable mother and an alcoholic Father, Kate is taken away from all she has ever known and plunged into a darkness that threatens to break her.

Just when Kate feels she has reached her darkest point a hand reaches out with a glimmer of hope her heart has longed for. Sophia, a short Italian woman in her mid thirties along with her husband Paul take on the challenge of raising Kate and her three siblings. Now Kate meets a future that is full of opportunity for discovering what love and compassion is from strangers who hold her future happiness in their hands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781512701210

Teresa Davis Doherty

Teresa Doherty resides in Running Springs, California and is a devoted mother of six grown children. Teresa has been in children’s ministry for over twenty years. As a former foster child, she has a unique insight into the foster-care system. The story of Kate is based on Teresa’s childhood and gives an intimate look at life through the eyes of a foster child.

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Copyright © 2015 Teresa Davis Doherty.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5127-0120-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-0124-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-0121-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015911310

WestBow Press rev. date: 7/30/2015

Contents

On The Other Side Of Sorrow

Prologue

A Tattered World

In The Darkest Part of Night

Shifting Sands

Down Inspiration Road

A New Kind of Hope

The Heavens Moved Mountains

Red Sky in the Morning

The Mourning Dove

The Winds of Change

The Other Side of Sorrow

Epilogue

This book is dedicated to my children, Joe, Alex, Allan, Sara, Emily and Mikey. I never fully understood God’s unconditional love until I had you.

A special thank you to Sara for relentlessly pushing me to finish this story, and to Emily for your input through the whole process, as well as my mother, Lois for taking the steps to be a foster parent and allowing God to use her to touch my life.

On The Other Side Of Sorrow

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Beyond the darkest night, there is joy unspeakable.

As the morning lark sings without restraint,

before the morning light begins to break.

Its song is the strongest just before the dawn,

So my soul also sings, as weeping fades with the morning light,

The other side of Sorrow is where hope lies

On the other side of sorrow, I can see tomorrow.

I have looked deep within her eyes and know sorrow oh too well.

But hope will not let me gaze too long.

For a broken heart on the morrow,

Will surely mend.

And on this journey’s end

My morning song will forever lend

A note so sweet,

For I will be on the other side of sorrow.

The other side of Sorrow is where hope lies,

On the other side of sorrow, I can see tomorrow.

Prologue

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T he stairs leading to the attic were dark and narrow. Kate’s hand moved along the wall until she felt the light switch beneath her fingertips. She straightened her five-foot-seven frame as she took a deep cleansing breath, and flipped the switch; a dim light from the ceiling shone on the steps. Climbing the creaky stairs, Kate made her way to the room above. Each footstep felt heavy and cumbersome. Kate’s heart ached at the thought of the task ahead. This particular undertaking had been postponed and delayed for the past few months. The family had buried Daddy in early spring. Yet- to the grieving woman, it felt like yesterday, and fall was quietly settling in with shorter cooler days.

The main house sat vacant over the past few months; but she avoided the contents in the attic for far too long; it was there that the earliest and most endearing memories lie. Opening the door at the top of the stairs, she whispered a short, heartfelt prayer.

Lord, help me.

Streams of sunlight from two small windows lit the small attic. Dust danced in its spotlight, winding its way to the old wooden floor. The four walls slanted in odd places; the low ceiling sloped at the corners. Kate stood in the middle of the room, surveying the numerous boxes, large and small. The air hung thick, musty, and stale.

With a determined sigh, Kate made her way through the menagerie of odds and ends to the windows. As she opened each window, a fresh autumn breeze touched her face. Turning back to the task at hand, she silently murmured.

Focus…. Focus….

The young woman began to sift through the countless boxes. Sorting through the items, some of more value than others, as the hours passed, she slowly began to make progress. When the last box was sorted, Kate stood to stretch; her eye catching sight of a large black trunk sitting in the attic’s darkest corner.

Stepping over a small box, she knelt beside the trunk; her hand gently touching the dusty lid. The latches were rusty and broken. Inside the chest lay all of Kate’s most precious childhood remembrances, as well as a myriad of long forgotten emotions. After a moment of hesitation, she lifted the top. A pile of memories came spilling over the sides. The items in the chest were an array of old letters, pictures, and childhood artwork. A small black box nestled in amongst a handful of grade school report cards caught the woman’s attention; she opened it with care. Inside was a tarnished gold pin baring Kate’s name, bent, broken, and of no real earthly value. Yet to Kate, it was a priceless connection to the past. Slipping the box into her pocket for safe keeping, she continued. To the left of the trunk rested an old shoe box full of old dolls and doll clothes. Nestled against the box lay a purple and pink elephant pillow she had sewn with Aunt Cetti’s assistances in the summer of 1970. Kate smiled, as she examined it.

The poor thing’s ears are coming loose, she thought. I was all thumbs then and all thumbs now. No matter the patience of Aunt Cetti, a seamstress I will never be. Teaching Kate the basics of sewing had gone for naught.

The sun began to fade, its rays catching the gold highlights in her hair as it fell from a loosely tied ribbon. She turned to place the pillow back in the trunk; and her eyes fixed on a small child’s purse wedged between a large gold folder and Kate’s favorite childhood books. The plain clutch was brown, tan, and black. It was not a thing of beauty or style, yet the young woman touched it with tenderness, as the memories that it held came flooding back, like a river dam breaking open. Her fingertips traced the simple seams, such a modest, plain purse, representing a moment in time, a life-changing day long ago. Tears began to stream down Kate’s cheeks. The weeping became sobs as she mourned a childhood nearly lost, and later miraculously redeemed.

A Tattered World

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I t was late fall in 1967. President Nixon had taken office in the middle of growing protests against the Vietnam War. Youths protested in rallies across the country, culminating in a 250,000 person march on Washington DC. Thousands of young, long-haired people wearing peace signs on everything from thrift store army jackets to tie-dyed T-shirts and headbands. Unrest grew with each passing day, many fighting against a war they did not understand.

Her first years of life were spent in Riverside, a small town in Southern California. Kate Lynn Swedin was the second of four children, born to Marlin and Connie Swedin. Her everyday existence was a series of parental mishaps, ill-advised decisions, and rampant addictions. The young girl learned very early that she had no control over where she was headed. Feeling like a runaway train, barreling down the track. A disaster of epic proportion, the only thing Kate could do was hold on for dear life and hope she was breathing when they found her in the rubble.

Kate was small for her six years, a wisp of a thing. Her hair was dirty blond, unevenly cut, and tangled more days than not. Her eyes were green, framed by long dark lashes. A spattering of freckles covered the young girl’s tiny pug nose and round cheeks. A dark birthmark on her right leg forever branded her as different. Her unkempt clothes declared the young girl’s poverty and proved her parents’ thoughtless neglect.

Kate’s father had a difficult time holding down a job for any length of time. For this reason, the family frequently moved, never settling in one place for very long, Kate and Garry, her older brother, changed schools often.

Astute beyond her years, Kate understood the harsh reality of her everyday life. Of course, it did not take a genius of any sort to notice the difference in her plight and other children her age. It was not a matter of offense, just a large dose of truth.

Disparities ranged from the tattered clothing she wore, to her disheveled, unkempt hair. To say nothing of her day-to-day sack lunches of a peanut butter and butter sandwich. The bread was stale and the butter rancid, tasting both sour and bitter, making it difficult to eat. There also a hard-boiled egg, which on most days was dry and stuck in her throat. And on occasion, to Kate’s delight, she found an apple in her lunch. Food was scarce at home, so every day she ate each bite without complaint, all too aware the contents of her lunch bag might be her only meal of the day.

A new school year had begun a month prior, and promotion to first grade gave her a new sense of enthusiasm. She loved school; the fondness for learning drew her in like a fire on a frosty winter’s night draws in a cold, hungry stranger. She found great joy in books. She discovered reading a book could transport the possessor of the book anywhere. Even the simple stories of Dick and Jane were far superior to the life she lived.

That afternoon, the autumn sun filtered through dark, ominous clouds as the Santa Ana winds whipped through the open fields, blowing dust and tumbleweeds across the road and into the young girl’s path. With her head down, she pressed against the gusts that seemed to want to pick her up and carry her along with the tumbleweeds. For a moment, Kate’s six-year-old imagination took flight at the thought of where the wind might take her if she gave into its strength.

What world might lie beyond the open fields, and the endless rows of gray stucco houses?

Kate’s walk home from school was her time to lose herself in thought; they were not always in imaginings. It became an instant, a moment, to observe the world around her.

On the near side of the corner lot, was a billboard with