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Redeeming-Love-By-Francine-Rivers

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R E D E E M I N G L O V E

back. “It’s beautiful, Amanda,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.

Angel smiled. “I kept thinking of you running down the hill through all

those wildflowers. It seemed appropriate.”

Miriam took her hair down quickly and shook it out so that it flowed

thick and curling about her face and shoulders and down her back. She

placed the garland on her head. “How does it look?”

“Wild and beautiful,” Michael said.

Paul got up and went outside.

Miriam’s smile dimmed slightly. “He’s such a dolt,” she said under her breath.

“Miriam!” Elizabeth said in surprise, the baby against her shoulder.

“What a thing to say.”

Miriam didn’t look the least bit repentant as she glared out the door at

Paul. She took the garland off and laid it in her lap. “I love it, and I’m going

to wear it instead of a veil on my wedding day.”

When darkness fell, the family gathered around the fire and sang carols.

John handed Michael the Bible without saying what he wanted read.

Michael went straight to the Christmas story. Angel listened, her arms

clasped around her raised knees. Ruth sleepily nudged her. Smiling, Angel

welcomed her to her lap. Ruth wiggled until she was comfortable, her head

resting against Angel’s breast. Angel stroked her hair. If I love a child not my

own this much, how much more would I have loved my own?

Michael’s voice was rich and deep. Everyone was silent watching him.

Angel remembered her mother telling her the story of the baby Jesus being

born in a manger and the shepherds and three kings coming to worship him,

but from Michael’s lips it was full of beauty and mystery. For all that, she

couldn’t find joy in it. Not as these others did. What kind of father would let

his own son be born for the single purpose of being nailed to a cross?

The dark voice came unexpectedly: You know what kind of father,

Angel. You had one just like him.

She shivered. Looking away from Michael, she saw John standing in the

shadows beside Elizabeth. His hand was on her shoulder. All fathers weren’t

like Alex Stafford. Some were like John Altman. She looked at Michael

again. He would be a wonderful father, too. Strong, loving, forgiving if it

came to that. He had read her the story of the prodigal son once not long

364

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