Introduction

Kirsten has spent her life trying to forget. But mercy begs her to remember.

 

Guilt-ridden after a family tragedy at age 16, Kirsten attempted to bury her pain in her flesh and called it coping. But at 23, on the night she expects her long-time boyfriend to propose, Kirsten discovers a devastating secret about him. In the emotional chaos that follows, an accident by her own hand lands her in a hospital psych ward, unable to find release in injuring herself.

 

The only viable treatment option is a stint on a Montana sheep ranch, working with the quirky but insightful “Sister Frankie.” Feeling as inept as the sheep themselves, Kirsten slowly joins the unlikely crew of people who are also searching for healing. Gradually she opens herself to embrace mothering an orphaned lamb and hearing God’s voice and . . . possibly . . . finding love again.

 

Through it all, mercy begs her to remember the past, showing her there is nothing—nothing—that can’t be redeemed.

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Excerpt

It was the only real fight Wes and I had ever had. Actually it was the only fight I’d ever had with anyone. That’s probably why I wasn’t very good at it.
Now discussions . . . we’d had those, and that’s how it started out that night. Another conversation about Wes moving in with me.
I should have known that was where we were headed when he tugged at the back of my shirt and pulled me against his lean self and said, “You know what I love about your couch?”
“That you never have to get off of it from the minute you walk in the door?” I said.
He let his blue eyes droop at the corners until they teased at his cheekbones. That was Wes pretending to be hurt. “Are you saying I’m a couch potato?”
“I’m saying I wait on you like you’re the couch prince.” I leaned forward and picked up the all-but-licked-clean plate from my IKEA coffee table. “More quesadillas, your highness?”
Wes scooped me into him, plate and all. “It wouldn’t be that way if I wasn’t a guest, Kirsty.”
Yeah, there it was. Again.
“First of all,” I said, “you know I hate it when you call me that. It makes me feel like I’m on a Jenny Craig commercial.”
“Huh?” “Kirstie Alley. She was their poster girl before Valerie Bertinelli—” “You’re getting off topic.” “What topic?” Wes scooted himself sideways so he could face me without letting go. He knew as well as I did that I was about to wriggle away and go do . . . something. Anything to not have this discussion for the ninety- sixth time. ... view entire excerpt...

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