The Envelope: Texas Hearts, #1

By Emily Josephine

Two teachers, one running toward the will of God, the other running away from it…

…the girl who brings them together, despite the wall between them, a wall built of secret trauma...

…and a forgotten envelope, which is the key to breaking down those walls and bringing healing…

 

Sheila Carson is a Kindergarten teacher in Dallas, Texas, estranged from her family while struggling with feeling more and more dissatisfied with her job. For the same reason she's avoided her family like the plague these past few years, the last thing she wants to do is get into a relationship with a man. So she does what she can to avoid the new fifth-grade teacher, a handsome, fun-loving man named Hank Johnson who seems determined to make inroads with her.

 

Hank finally succeeds on the day that Sheila's favorite student, Diana, goes missing and he agrees to help Sheila look for her after school. Finding Diana means finding out that she's being taken care of by her aunt Rosa, whose career is less than family-friendly, to say the least. And that discovery leads to Sheila getting involved with Diana on a personal level that ultimately endangers her teaching career.

 

In the meantime, she and Hank deepen their connection, even as Sheila feels more and more certain that God is calling her to the foreign mission field. But, like Sheila, Hank is hiding his own past wounds, wounds that have created a fear that seems insurmountable.

 

Wounds that happened on the mission field. Wounds that have led Hank to the conviction that God doesn't care for him as he once believed.

 

His fear and hidden anger toward God tear him away from the woman he thought God had brought to him to be his partner in life. He is hanging to his faith by a thread, even while Sheila's faith strengthens to the point that she can forgive the vengeful actions that Diana's father has taken against her…leading to a miraculous work of God in the little girl's family.

 

This victory cannot erase the pain of Hank's abandoning their relationship, which she has to carry it with her as she prepares for her first trip overseas. If only he would find the envelope…

 

This forgotten envelope is the key to pushing Hank to overcome his fears…and ultimately, admitting his true feelings for Sheila. The message the envelope contains is the key to Sheila being able to forgive herself for the tragedy that has embittered her siblings toward her. It may even be the key for reconciliation with her family.

 

But time is short, and the envelope must be found, and be delivered at just the right time…

**********

This story is a full-length Christian romance novel at around 85,000 words. It also contains scenes which are – DISCLAIMER – on the "charismatic Christian" (think, "Full Gospel", Assembly of God, Pentecostal) end of the Christian spectrum. If you're okay with that, and enjoy clean, heartwarming/wrenching stories of romance and God's love, download this novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily Josephine
• Release date: Jul 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201943622

Book preview

CHAPTER 1 - May, 1993

NEXT STOP, THE SIERRA Madres.

I don’t even want to think about it.

Come on, Hank, you love this and you know it.

Hank Johnson gave a weary smile to his tormentor, Barbara Alvarado. She was right. He had been going on missions trips since high school, when he heard the call to go into all the world. He couldn’t imagine a more exciting, more fulfilling way to live.

Barbara, two years his senior at age twenty-five, had joined his church when she was twenty-two, and since had gone on several mission trips with him. Hank, with his garrulous, fun-loving manner, had many friends, but none as close to him as Barbara. In the past three years they had shared numerous triumphs and frustrations, from seeing people healed of AIDS to experiencing sweltering temperatures while trying to plant gardens in near-drought conditions, and their common experiences had created a bond between them as tight as any brother and sister.

If he’s as sore as I am, Kelly Williams declared, he’s got every right to complain.

Hank looked in surprise at Kelly, who had earned the nickname Gentle Ben because of his large muscles and quiet manner. You? Hurting? he teased.

Hey, don’t say it so loud. You might ruin my reputation. This was the third mission trip for the thirty-four-year-old contractor, who had volunteered to oversee construction whenever the church sent a crew to a developing nation to raise up a church building.

Ssh! Barbara interrupted, pointing at the eldest member of their missionary team, forty-one-year-old Martin Lopez.

Overcome by exhaustion, he had fallen asleep within minutes of boarding the small aircraft. His head lolled to one side, and a line of saliva dripped out of one corner of his mouth.

Silence fell in the tiny cabin. Sleep was a tempting idea, since they had spent the last three days helping a small congregation outside of Santa Ana, Honduras, to erect a church. But the plane was small, and they were in for a bumpy couple of hours. At least they would have a good meal and a few army cots waiting for them in Guatemala.

Everybody ready? The pilot, a somber man in his thirties, appeared before them.

Barbara regarded his reddened face with a frown. Wow, Peter, you really got burned. Need some aloe vera?

I’m okay. Peter shrugged. Gotta get this delicate Minnesotan skin used to the climate.

It was the closest thing to humor he had expressed the entire eight days they had been together, and probably the most words he had spoken at one time. The other four came from the same church in Austin, Texas, and had known each other for several years. Peter Rossman, on the other hand, had answered a call over the Internet for missionary pilots from his Minnesotan home. He had seemed pleasant enough when they met him in Houston at the beginning of April, but if asked about his family or his past, he gave terse answers and changed the subject.

Two days into the mission, Barbara had whispered, Maybe he’s not really saved.

Nah, he’s just an introvert, Kelly replied in a rare moment of assertion. You know, it took me a while to warm up to you guys.

Hank wondered if Peter’s sudden and unsolicited comment indicated that he was coming out of his shell. He smiled to himself as a picture of the pilot’s head emerging from underneath a turtle shell popped into his mind.

Peter returned to the cockpit and started the engine, and the three missionary passengers that were still awake settled back in the hard-cushion seats as relaxed as they could get. Hank, amused at Martin’s childlike position, stole another glance at his friend. A yawn escaped his mouth as he let his gaze travel to the floor next to Martin’s seat, where an envelope lay.

Hank tapped the seat in front of him. Hey, Kelly, is that somebody’s letter lying on the floor next to Martin?

Kelly turned to his right, leaned over, and picked up the envelope. Looks like it. He glanced at both sides. But can’t tell whose it is. Barbara, you write this?

Barbara shook her head, and Kelly passed the envelope back to Hank. Only the addressee’s name appeared on the front. Determining to ask Martin and Peter about it later, Hank thrust the envelope into the front pocket of his khaki shorts, then leaned his head back as the nose of the plane tilted up, taking the missionary crew off the ground.

He watched the clearing below shrink into an increasingly smaller rectangle, then disappear as the plane flew over a forest that looked like an undulating mass of dark green for miles around. Turning his head back to face forward, he glanced over to where Barbara was sitting. Last night they had sat next to each other during their simple supper of rice and beans, and Hank had become acutely aware of her closeness. Twice their hands had brushed together, and both times he experienced a tingling sensation. Hank had never thought of Barbara as more than a friend, and although he’d never had a serious girlfriend, he realized that the feelings awakening within him indicated a deeper interest in Barbara than a friend. Much deeper.

Now, watching her as she sat with eyes closed, he couldn’t help wondering if she was beginning to feel the same way. It was something he would have to explore when they got back to Texas.

His mind began to wander, thinking about the task that lay before them in Guatemala, feeling more and more groggy as he prayed for the pastor and congregation they were about to meet. Shortly after that, he must have dozed off, because his eyelids suddenly flew open as a violent motion jolted him awake. When he was nearly thrown off his seat the next moment, he believed the plane had run into a bank of turbulence.

Jesus, help us, Barbara cried. She was gripping both sides of her seat with white knuckles.

The plane began to shake like a leaf in a tornado. Cold fingers of dread wrapped themselves around Hank. Choking, suffocating. He tried not to panic, but knew there was something more than turbulence at work. He looked around at the others. Barbara stared at him, eyes wide with terror. Kelly had begun praying loudly. Amazingly, Martin still slept, although his head was now hanging over his lap.

Peter! Hank yelled. Hey, Peter! What’s going on? He would have jumped up to go talk to the pilot, but walking on the plane’s floor would be like trying to walk on stormy seas whose waters raged with angry white waves.

The voice that answered was filled with uncertainty. I—I don’t know. I think—I think we’ve been hit.

Hit? What do you mean, hit? Hank was using every ounce of his energy to remain calm.

Peter started to answer, but Barbara finally found her voice and interrupted him.

Hank, I think something is wrong with Martin.

Hank looked at her. Wrong?

The first time the turbulence—or whatever it is—hit the plane, when you woke up, it— She cut herself off with loud, gasping breaths.

It’s okay, Barbara. Hank willed himself to be strong, vaguely aware that Kelly was now reciting Psalm 91. Go on.

Barbara took a deep, tremulous breath. Martin’s head was still turned to the side, but when the plane lurched, his head jerked in the opposite direction. Her voice broke. Oh, Hank, I know I heard something snap.

Jesus, no. Oh, God, please, no, Lord. Martin sat in the seat just ahead of Barbara, and Hank determined to make the shaky walk across the aisle. He managed to make the few steps without falling, and grabbed the back of Martin’s seat as soon as he reached it. Kneeling down, he gently picked up Martin’s wrist and felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

But then, the entire plane was racked with such convulsions that Hank might not have been able to get a pulse if his friend’s heart were throbbing. Hank swallowed, then dared to get a glimpse of Martin’s neck.

Up until that moment, terror had been a meaningless word to him, a concept out of the reality of his experience. He had had to suffer hunger and thirst, face illness and hostile foreigners, and brave all sorts of weather during his time out on the mission field. But he’d never felt that things were out of control. Never felt fear. Exasperation, yes; anger, occasionally, but not fear. Now, it struck his heart like a poisoned arrow. On both sides of Martin’s neck, the skin jutted out, as though someone had placed sharp, triangular objects just under the skin.

His neck was broken.

Hank felt his head begin to spin, and struggled against a rising wave of nausea.

From the cockpit, Peter’s voice shouted, I’ve lost control! We’re going down! Kelly’s recitation began booming at full volume while Barbara wailed hysterically. For a split second, Hank’s mind and body were paralyzed. We’re going to die. Lord Jesus, please, we’re going to die. Then, his survival instinct kicked in.

Get into fetal positions! he bellowed, turning toward Kelly and Barbara. They continued their respective litanies as if they were deaf.

There was no time to repeat the words. Hank, raised in the tradition of Southern chivalry, aimed for Barbara first. I said get down! He pulled her from her seat with ease, and she did not fight him as he arranged her limbs in a self-protective posture, squatting with her face to the floor and her arms crossed over the back of her head.

Then he went for Kelly. He might as well have tried to move a stone wall.

Kelly, get down, he urged, frantically and uselessly pulling on his thick arm.

God will deliver us He has not given us a spirit of fear no weapon formed against me shall prosper—

Kelly, for heaven’s sake, get— A strange noise made Hank look out the window, and he saw that the left wing was on fire. The next instant, the plane was skimming the jungle trees. Hank had no time to lose.

He threw himself on the floor next to Barbara, kneeling with his legs tucked under him and his arms over his head. He heard the sickening crush of metal as his body was thrown against the back of Martin’s seat. Barbara screamed. Then the world fell silent.

HANK AWAKENED FLAT on his back, surrounded by silence except for a soft humming somewhere in the background. For a moment, he thought he was back in the small shack he had stayed in while working in Honduras, and couldn’t figure out why his entire body was sore, though he lay perfectly still.

Then he remembered. The turbulence. Martin’s neck. The wing on fire.

If it weren’t for the pain, Hank would have thought he was in heaven. But spiritual bodies can’t feel pain, he reasoned, so he realized he had survived the horrible ordeal. Lord, what about the others? He only knew that Martin had died before the crash, and a desperate need to find out what had happened to his other friends overtook him. Wherever he was—he decided it must be some kind of hospital, though he had no idea where—somebody around must know the outcome of the crash.

He tried to lift himself up on one elbow to call for help, but as he did, an excruciating pain shot through his chest and back like someone had thrust him with a red-hot sword. He groaned in agony, easing himself back down on the bed.

"Señor, you are awake, yes?" The heavily accented female voice sounded relieved.

Hank focused his groggy eyes, and saw a dark-complexioned, overweight woman dressed in white approach his bed. You should no move, she continued. You break two ribs and crack others. You be in lot of pain for a few days. As she replaced the sheets back over him, he was suddenly aware that the right side of his face was covered with gauze. He reached up to touch it, his eyes questioning the nurse. You get big gash, but will be okay. You still be a handsome man, yes?

By then, Hank realized he was in some hospital in Central America, and addressed the nurse in Spanish. Where am I? Does my family know I’m here? What about my other friends in the plane? Did they make it?

The nurse switched to her native tongue as she replied, This is Peter of Betancourt’s National Hospital near Antigua, Guatemala. Your parents have been contacted, yes. They will be here tomorrow. She stopped short and turned to leave after checking the I.V. in his arm.

Wait. What about my friends? What happened to my friends?

The nurse did not stop, did not look at him as she walked out of the room saying, I’ll go get the doctor.

Hank closed his eyes in despair. If Kelly, Barbara, and Peter had survived, the nurse wouldn’t have ignored his question. Oh, God, please, no. He’d known the risks of becoming a missionary when he started six years ago at the age of sixteen. He’d heard all the horror stories about native uprisings against foreign missionaries, about beheadings and burnings and shootings, as well as deaths from Third World diseases.

But he’d always reasoned that somewhere, the faith of those missionaries had failed. They hadn’t prayed for God’s protection often enough; they hadn’t dispatched angels; they didn’t believe the whole Bible.

But no one could accuse Hank of falling into those pitfalls. Every morning and evening, he prayed all the right prayers and read the Bible. He believed that God would bless him because he endeavored to obey Him with all his heart.

His friends couldn’t be dead. They couldn’t. God wouldn’t allow it. Maybe the nurse hadn’t answered because she had misunderstood him. After all, his Spanish wasn’t the best. Or maybe she didn’t know the answer.

Now that the searing pain in his chest was beginning to subside, he felt a dull throbbing in his head. Stop worrying, he admonished himself. Focus on the positive.

Hank heard footsteps enter the room, and he managed to pull his heavy eyelids open just enough to see a man wearing a stethoscope come toward him. The doctor. He must know something. But he could no longer hold his eyes open, and slipped into a deep slumber.

When he awoke again, the headache was gone, and he opened his eyes with ease. The room was semi-dark, an eerie glow emanating from the vital signs monitor and the soft humming of machines continuing around him. He turned his head to the left, expecting to see the bare side table and empty chair as he had during his last brief waking episode.

But this time, there were two glasses of water on the table, and two chairs, occupied by two shadowy figures, one of whom had its head leaning on the shoulder of the other. Both pairs of eyes were closed, and one of the figures was snoring.

It was a sound Hank had heard his whole life, every time his father would doze in front of the T.V.

Mom? Dad? His voice was weak and hoarse from disuse and thirst, not nearly strong enough to penetrate the ears of any sleeper.

With utmost caution, he stretched out his left arm. He felt a slight stabbing pain near his heart, but it was not enough to keep him from reaching out to jab his finger in his mother’s side.

Brenda Johnson stirred, lifting her head off her husband’s shoulder, as Hank withdrew his hand back to his side, feeling winded by the minute gesture. Blinking, Brenda shifted in her chair and yawned.

Mom, Hank managed to croak out. The last thing he wanted was for her to fall asleep again.

Brenda’s eyelids flew open, and she stared at Hank with a relieved smile. She got off the chair, leaned over, and kissed his forehead. My dear son. Thank You, Jesus. She pulled back to shake her husband’s arm. Randall, Hank’s awake. Randall.

Hank’s father snorted as he straightened up with a jerk. What? Praise the Lord, son. You had your mother worried sick. He picked up Hank’s hand in both of his while his mother shot him a look.

Excuse me? Don’t listen to your father, Hank. He was the one who flew into a panic as soon as we got word, and didn’t stop praying until we got to the hospital.

Hank tried to smile, tried to reply, but could do neither. Water, he managed, and in a flash his mother was holding his head up with one of the glasses of water to his lips. It was tepid, but soothed his mouth and throat as he greedily gulped it down. Then he said to his mother, And you were the picture of calm, weren’t you?

Of course she was, Randall rejoined, releasing Hank’s hand. In between the buckets of tears she was crying. He put his arm around Brenda and hugged her to him, and she jabbed him with an elbow.

I didn’t cry that much, she said. I am the pastor’s wife, after all. I wasn’t about to let the devil steal my peace.

Hank frowned and turned his head as far to the right as the thick bandages on his face would allow. Peace. Would he ever feel that again?

Son, Randall said, placing his hand on Hank’s arm. Talk to us. We know you’ve been through hell. We’re here for you.

Slowly, Hank turned back to his parents, regarding them in the dim light. Brenda sported a short, layered haircut, and between that and the fact that she diligently covered her gray, people often mistook her for Hank’s older sister rather than his mother. Though she’d put on a few pounds since Hank was a boy, she still looked shapely. She was a petite five-foot-two, in contrast to Randall’s towering six-three height, which Hank had inherited. As well, he had his father’s square jaw, but his small nose, blond hair, and blue eyes came from his mother’s German side of the family.

Gazing at his mother, who was known as a pillar of strength in their community, gave him the courage to ask, What happened? He cleared his throat. To the plane?

Brenda frowned. They think it was guerilla soldiers.

So that’s what Peter had meant when he said, We’ve been hit. Hank sighed, grateful to hear that the crash had not been the pilot’s fault. No matter what the Bible said, he did not know if he would ever be able to forgive Peter if the accident had been due to some gross neglect on his part.

When he glanced to Brenda’s left, his father was studying him with coffee-colored eyes that could see into the soul. It was a gift that had served him well over his past twenty years as pastor of Life Christian Fellowship church in Austin, Texas, but now made Hank writhe in discomfort. He had to ask the question that was tearing him up inside—his parents surely knew the answer—but Hank was terrified to hear it.

A long silence passed. Finally, Hank swallowed and said, Martin’s dead. What about everybody else?

His parents exchanged a glance, and Brenda picked up his hand while Randall spoke.

Barbara is in another room two doors down, in much the same shape you are. She’ll be able to fly home in a few days. He paused. Peter and Kelly didn’t make it.

Hank was unsure how to react. The joy he felt at knowing Barbara would be all right was overwhelmed by a flood of grief over the loss of the other two men, especially Kelly Williams. If not for Barbara, Kelly would have been his best friend. The two men had grown close over the past three years, going on missionary trips together and co-leading one of the youth small groups at Life Christian.

Leave me alone, Hank said, refusing to cry in front of his father. I want to be alone.

Son, don’t push us—

Randall, come on. Brenda released Hank’s hand and stood, bringing her husband up with her. He needs some time. Some space. Sweetheart, she said, gazing at Hank with compassion-filled eyes, we’ll be right outside if you need anything.

His parents walked out, the door clicking shut behind them. Hank stared at the ceiling for a long time, scenes from the events leading up to the crash flashing through his mind. He saw himself laughing with the pastor of the small church in Honduras the missionaries had just helped build. He saw himself and his friends board the plane, exhausted. Had he had any sense of impending doom that might have been a warning to postpone the flight? Had any of them?

Lord, why didn’t you warn us? Maybe He had, but none of them had enough energy to listen. Or maybe He hadn’t. Maybe He’d allowed the crash in order to stretch his and Barbara’s faith.

No. God wouldn’t kill three of His children just to teach two of them a lesson.

Would He?

The idea was too much to bear, and he gave in to the fatigue slowly creeping up his legs, over his chest, and paralyzing his arms. The last thing he recalled before slipping back into the darkness was an envelope.

It was on the floor of the airplane. I picked it up. Do I still have it?

What did it matter? Whoever it belonged to, they were dead. Hank dropped the thought from his mind and let sleep conquer his grieving mind.

CHAPTER 2 - November, 1997

SHEILA CARSON DROVE into the parking lot of Theodore Roosevelt Elementary School at about five miles an hour, taking great care to look all around her to make sure there were no small bodies in her way. As always, she backed into a space while twisting her neck around to see behind her. She did not trust the mirrors; they had blind spots, and she would not risk not being able to see every square inch of ground that her car moved over.

She put the car in park and sat back, willing herself to have the enthusiasm she needed to face her Kindergartners. I haven’t been teaching long enough to be burned out. What is my problem?

She let out an exasperated breath, reaching over to grab her tote bag and her lunch. She had asked herself the same question several times since last spring. By the end of the long, quiet summer, she was ready to go back into the classroom, but a few weeks ago her zeal for teaching began to wane again. Now, a couple days before Thanksgiving break, Sheila wanted nothing more than a vacation in an exotic place away from her everyday routine.

No, she wanted more than that. As a child, she had held a secret admiration for Mother Teresa. Other little girls fantasized about being a Barbie with a beautiful house, and a Ken who brought home loads of money from his lucrative career. Sheila, on the other hand, saw herself surrounded by poor, hungry children, whom she loved and fed and talked to about Jesus. Not that she dared tell anyone about it.

As she grew older and learned about the hard work and zero pay involved in missionary work, her practical side told her she could make just as much difference—plus a regular salary—as a teacher. Since the spring of the last school year, however, her childhood dreams had begun to return to her, and since the beginning of this school year she found teaching increasingly more a strain than a joy. She’d begun wondering if God was trying to tell her something.

As she locked her car, she saw the new teacher on the campus out of the corner of her eye. Hank Johnson stood a little over six feet tall and sported a beard and short mustache that matched his blonde hair, and his long legs and dangling arms reminded Sheila of Gumby. Since his fourth grade classroom was on the top floor, and her Kindergarten room on ground level, she rarely saw him except for faculty meetings.

That was fine with her. Although she got along with everybody, she mostly kept to herself. Her one close friendship was with one of the two Pre-Kindergarten teachers, Margaret Kennebrew, and their relationship satisfied her need for human connection.

She had no plans to befriend any males. She’d already destroyed one man’s life, and didn’t want