A Moment of Weakness

M
Y NOVELS ARE NOT WRITTEN WITHOUT DRAWING ON THE
research and true-life events that happen around me. For that reason, I’d like to thank several people for the help they have sometimes unwittingly provided me during the writing of
A Moment of Weakness
.

First, I’d like to thank the American Center for Law and Justice (ACLJ) for their tireless work in fighting for religious freedom in the United States. One day while listening to an ACLJ broadcast, I heard a woman call in because she was being sued by her husband for complete custody of her child. The reason? The woman was a Christian. And in that moment the story line for
A Moment of Weakness
was born.

Also, I’d like to thank my friend, Sherri Reed, aka Evil Buster. In the small town where she lives, Sherri started a campaign against Channel One—a real U.S. Department of Education program, which offered free televisions to public school classrooms as long as the students watch a fifteen-minute program each day. The program—which did not require parental approval—included government-chosen documentaries on topics that are at best questionable. Five minutes of the programming is commercial spots geared directly to school children. Over the course of a year, Sherri led a parent group that convinced the local school board to cancel the programming and give the television sets back to the government. I drew heavily from Sherri’s experience in writing certain sections of
A Moment of Weakness
.

My medical scenes—no matter the book—are always written based on the expertise of my close friend and brother in Christ, Dr. Cleary. I am humbly indebted to him for allowing me, a would-be, self-appointed medical expert of the Verde
Valley, to pick his brain at all hours of the day and night.

A very heartfelt thanks goes to my amazing editor, Karen Ball, whose God-given talent is responsible for making my fiction what it is today. And also to the entire staff at Multnomah, from Don Jacobson and Ken Ruettgers to the sales and marketing and publicity teams, to cover design, and editing. I am amazed at what God is doing at Multnomah and humbly blessed to be part of it. Thank you for believing in my work.

As with each of my books, I could not have written this one without the help of those who care for my precious children during crunch time. For that reason I’d like to thank Christy and Jeff Blake (and Butter for making Austin’s naptime a bit cozier). And also my dear, sweet friend, Heidi, for making Tyler part of your family on so many occasions.

A special thanks to my parents who have believed in my writing since I was old enough to hold a pencil and to my extended family for their love and support.

Also thanks to my church family and friends, especially Christine Wessel, who knows my heart and has held me up in prayer on so many occasions; Michelle Stokes, who has a house with her name on it next door to mine; Lisa Alexander, who has been there from the beginning and always will be; and Heidi Cleary, who will take a piece of my heart with her when she moves away this summer. I love you all.

Oh, and thanks to the Skyview basketball team—you fiery, slam-dunking, hard-working, amazing guys who have given me so many reasons to cheer, even on deadline! Each of you and your families feel like a part of mine, and I cherish the fleeting moments we have together!

Finally, thanks to Grandma Polly Russell, who went to be with the Lord during the writing of this book. Thank you for teaching me what it truly is to love.

May 1977

T
HE OLD BIDDIES SAT IN A CIRCLE, THEIR TIGHTLY KNOTTED HEADS
turning this way and that like vultures eyeing a kill. Only this time the carcass was the Conner family, and no one was quite dead yet.

Hap Eastman watched from a corner of the Williamsburg Community Church fellowship hall. He’d done his part. Started the coffee, laid out the pastries, set up the chairs. It was something he did every Saturday morning for the Women’s Aid Society, and every time it was the same. The old girls started with a list of needs and prayer requests and ended with a fullblown gossip session.

Hap’s wife, Doris, was president, and at forty-five the youngest of the group. So Hap hung around tinkering with fix-it jobs in the kitchen or perched on a cold metal folding chair in the corner, a cup of fresh brewed French Roast in one hand and a Louis L’Amour novel in the other. Four days a week he was a jurist laden with a heavy workload and weighty decision making. Saturdays were his day to relax.