Worth Fighting For

By Tabatha Noah

Why does God allow bad things to happen to good people? This is the very question Paisley, an ordinary girl, is seeking the answer to. Despite being raised in a Christian home, Paisley's faith is shaken the day her father is tragically taken from her. Years pass by, and his case goes cold which leaves her feeling as though the judicial system has failed her, but she is determined to see justice done. In time, Paisley learns that the things that have been used to hurt her, God can use to bless and guide her. She also learns that God can call ordinary people to do extraordinary things if they just have a little faith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781098004613

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Worth Fighting For

Tabatha Noah

Copyright © 2019 by Tabatha Noah

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 1

I grew up an only child in a small picturesque town in Pennsylvania. The house we lived in was brick with tall white columns, dark blue shutters, and a deep red front door. The front walkway was lined with tulips, the hedges were beautifully trimmed, and the grass was lush and healthy, despite the annoying anthill by the tree in the front yard that my father just couldn’t seem to get rid of. Downtown was also beautiful and welcoming. People strolled the brick-laid sidewalk lined with paper bark maple trees. The streetlamps had a magical, romantic glow after the sun had set. It was just like looking straight down a wonderfully decorated runway. In spring when everyone manicured their lawns and while the flowers bloomed, every breath inhaled was crisp and sweet, and the beautiful aroma would cling to your clothes.

What a picture perfect place, indeed, was my little town of West Chester. Not to mention, some of my favorite people lived there. Of course, I had some friends from school, but there was also Mr. Dayton from the convenience store. He would give me a free soda from time to time if I would sing a little tune for him and his customers. There was also Mrs. Whitten that went to church with us. She sat just one row in front of us, and she always had a piece of hard strawberry-flavored candy for me before service got started. It usually came with a bribe. I could have the candy if I promised to be good and listen during church. I always agreed but couldn’t always keep focused. Then there was Ms. Cora, our next door neighbor. She was about the same age as my grandmother. I would go next door on the weekends and pick up sticks in her yard or do other odd and end things. In turn, she would pay me with sodas, cookies, or cake. She didn’t eat any of that stuff because of her diabetes; she only bought it for me.

Finally, there were my parents. My father was an investigator for the county. I always loved seeing him dressed up and ready to go to work. What he saw as normal, everyday work clothes was like a superhero’s outfit in my eyes, without the cape, although he used to tie a sheet around his neck and a towel around mine, and we would pretend we were heroes in our back yard. Mom and I would take turns being the damsel in distress while dad fought all kinds of monsters trying to save us. There were dragons, giants, and pirates. Dad could easily get carried away. He was a very handsome man. He was tall, had dark brown hair, glowing green eyes, a strong face, and was very clever. There was no man alive like my father. He had a profound compassion for people, a never ending love for my mother, an endless supply of hugs for me, and vigor for life and all he could get out of it while he had breath in him.

My mother was a registered nurse in a neighboring town. I would sit at the end of her bed and watch her put on her makeup and carefully pin up her soft blonde hair as she got ready for work. She wouldn’t let me wear her makeup, but she would fix my hair kind of like hers occasionally. I couldn’t wait to grow up and be just like her. Beautiful, graceful, caring, patient, and hardworking. She was wonderful and everything I aspired to be. Sometimes she would have a day off during the week, and she would pick me up from school a little early to take me out for girl time and ice cream. I liked it because it gave us the chance to talk about anything and everything. We would sit at a small table and tell each other silly jokes or make up stories and use the salt and pepper shakers as puppets. We must have looked so ridiculous and people probably stared, but I never noticed and mother must not have cared. We are together and we were happy. That was all that mattered.

As a child, I would ride the bus from school to home where my sitter Audrey could be found waiting for me in the front door threshold. I would have a little snack while Audrey started pulling crumpled papers, homework, and textbooks from my back pack. I took my seat at the counter which was a special spot I had picked to sit each day. I could see when mom arrived home through the kitchen window, and if I leaned my head over just right, I could see around the corner to the living room and watch TV without Audrey noticing. Looking back now, I’m pretty sure she knew I was watching TV. Maybe she just didn’t care as long as I didn’t give her any problems about getting my homework done.

She never had to work for her new clothes, jewelry or phone. They even bought her a new car when she turned sixteen. However, when she turned eighteen, they told her to get a job since online courses afforded her the time and ability to do so. I was eight when she started watching me in the afternoons after school or when my parents wanted a date night. She was like a sister, and I loved her ever since. She would bring me little gifts sometimes. Other times, she was a bit bossy about making sure homework and chores were done before Mom and Dad got home.

At about four thirty in the afternoons, Mom would arrive home. She had the same daily routine. She would get the mail, check on Ms. Cora, come back, get groceries from the back seat of the car, and then come inside. As soon as she could get the groceries put down, she would immediately go kick off her socks and shoes by the front door. Mom always loved the feeling of the soft carpet beneath her tired feet. She would then relieve Audrey of her duties, although Audrey would sometimes stay for supper with us anyways. Next she would roam the house for dirty laundry. After the laundry was started, she would turn on some music and dance around the kitchen while she prepared supper. If I didn’t have my homework done by this time, there was no hope for enough focus to get it done while she was making a scene and singing out loud. While she twirled and sang, an intoxicating aroma would seep from the kitchen to make its way through the entire house. No room was excused from the scent of edible delight.

Just like clockwork, when supper was almost done cooking, it was time for Dad to be home. Mom and Dad seemed to have a sort of system that worked for them. When Dad got home, he would listen to Mom pour her heart out complaining about how careless people can be or how a parent’s negligence resulted in a child’s journey from the emergency room to short-term care. Dad patiently listened to her ramble out every ounce of her emotions while he helped her set the table. He was very prompt with a response or comment to let her know that he was still listening. In turn, Father got to tell Mom all about his day after supper was done. Mom watched on as he told his entire days story with his hands and exaggerated facial expressions. Meanwhile, I was sent upstairs to take my shower, brush my teeth, and get ready for bed.

Mom and Dad liked preserving an idealistic world for me, and so their conversations were whispered like secrets between schoolchildren when they thought I wasn’t around or had fallen asleep. Little did they know just how curious I could be. I would sneak out of my bedroom from time to time and sit at the top of the staircase to listen in on the nightly story. In my own right, in my mind, I was an outstanding investigator like my father. It was exhilarating sneaking through my creaky bedroom door; the adrenaline I got at the idea of being caught or the rush of blood flow all over my body as my heart jumped whenever a kitchen chair scratched across the floor. Obviously, I was a very gifted investigator since I had never been caught.

Yet behind the allure of the facade red velvet curtain where the stage was set for me by my parents in this quaint little town of beautiful houses with beautiful gardens were the deceptions they thought they hid so well. Some details were big, but some were small, miniscule, like a small nick in a windshield in some obscure location that you really wouldn’t give a second glance at. But nicks spread revealing their origin and blocking your view.

Over the years, I had begun keeping journals of the night whispers between my mother and father. I wouldn’t necessarily say I was obsessed, just very passionate about hearing and recording the things happening around my town sometimes involving people I knew. Some of the stories explained why a few of the people I knew acted the way they did. I watched the child of a single working mom study independently. I saw the kid of an abusive father picking on another child on the bus. I saw the janitor trying to make a new life for himself after he was wrongfully convicted of theft. Over the years, I had learned to see people with a different set of eyes. I recall hearing my mother say, Lord, help us to see through your eyes. In my childish mind, I didn’t understand how you could see through someone else’s eyes, but with every passing year and with each new enlightening story, I was learning. I viewed these people and my surroundings differently than my friends did. They were nearsighted, only consumed with themselves. While the other girls were writing in their diaries about fashion, best friends, or current crushes, I wrote about good guys and bad guys, crooks and heroes, struggles and victories.

Some of the best unkept secrets came from what I considered a most reliable source which was my father and his firsthand accounts from his shift. I scribbled as quickly as I could in my journal to record every detail he could manage to loose from his lips. One day he went to a call where a man had hit his wife. When Dad got there, the man was so angry at the woman for calling the police that he tried to hit her again, but Dad stepped in and absorbed a swift right hook to his eye. He had a shiner for two weeks. Of course my mother constantly doctored the cut telling him not to touch it. The brute didn’t get off so easily though. Before he was put in handcuffs, Dad tackled him to the ground and wound up breaking one of the man’s ribs when he landed on him. It wasn’t really done on purpose, I’m sure, but it definitely did not hurt my father’s feelings. He had told Mom