Where Hope Begins
by Catherine West
Paperback: 368 pages
Publisher: Thomas Nelson (May 22, 2018)
Sometimes we’re allowed to glimpse the beauty within the brokenness . . .
Savannah Barrington has always found solace at her parents’ lake house in the Berkshires, and it’s the place that she runs to when her husband of over twenty years leaves her. Though her world is shaken, and the future uncertain, she finds hope through an old woman’s wisdom, a little girl’s laughter, and a man who’s willing to risk his own heart to prove to Savannah that she is worthy of love.
But soon Savannah is given a challenge she can’t run away from: Forgiving the unforgivable. Amidst the ancient gardens and musty bookstores of the small town she’s sought refuge in, she must reconcile with the grief that haunts her, the God pursuing her, and the wounds of the past that might be healed after all.
Where Hope Begins is the story of grace in the midst of brokenness, pointing us to the miracles that await when we look beyond our own expectations.
This miserable moment… it feels freeze-framed. Forever cemented in memory—this one defining moment in my life when I realize all I’ve done, everything I’ve poured myself into, has been for naught.
I don’t want to hate Kevin. And I don’t, always. Just most of the time.
We’ve been in and out of counseling for the past ten years. Christian counseling. Psychiatric counseling. Family and couples counseling. I can quote books verbatim on how to put a family back together after loss, how to grieve, how to pray for your husband. I must have missed the one on how to keep him at home.
Brock Chandler is all straight white teeth and sparkling eyes and smiles like a movie star. And his voice sounds like Matthew McConaughey’s. Suddenly I can’t find mine.
He knew that kind of pain. That searing forest-fire heat that eventually fizzles to dormant embers but remains a threat, a slow burn, never fully extinguished and easily flammable.
Her idea of gardening is buying a flower arrangement from Whole Foods, putting it on the table, and waiting for it to die.
…we walk toward the house in step. It’s a practiced rhythm we’ve forgotten somehow, but it has not forgotten us.
About Catherine West
Connect with Catherine