Light From Heaven (Mitford) - Hardcover

Jan Karon, born Janice Meredith Wilson in the foothills of North Carolina, was named after the title of a popular novel, Janice Meredith.

Jan wrote her first novel at the age of ten. "The manuscript was written on Blue Horse notebook paper, and was, for good reason, kept hidden from my sister. When she found it, she discovered the one curse word I had, with pounding heart, included in someone's speech. For Pete's sake, hadn't Rhett Butler used that very same word and gotten away with it? After my grandmother's exceedingly focused reproof, I've written books without cussin' ever since."

Several years ago, Karon left a successful career in advertising to move to the mountain village of Blowing Rock, North Carolina, and write books. "I stepped out on faith to follow my lifelong dream of being an author," she says. "I made real sacrifices and took big risks. But living, it seems to me, is largely about risk."

Enthusiastic booksellers across the country have introduced readers of all ages to Karon's heartwarming books.At Home in Mitford, Karon's first book in the Mitford series, was nominated for an ABBY by the American Booksellers Association in 1996 and again in 1997. Bookstore owner, Shirley Sprinkle, says, "The Mitford Books have been our all-time fiction bestsellers since we went in business twenty-five years ago. We've sold 10,000 of Jan's books and don't see any end to the Mitford phenomenon."

Close by the pond in the sheep paddock, a buck, a doe, and two fawns stood motionless as an owl pushed off from the upper branches of a pine tree and sailed, silent and intent, to the ridge of the barn roof.

The owl hooted once, then twice.

As if summoned by its velveteen cry, the platinum moon broke suddenly from the clouds above the pond, transforming the waterÆs surface into a gleaming lake of molten pearl. Then, clouds sailed again over the face of the moon, and in the bitter darkness, snowflakes fell thick and fast, swirling as in a shaken globe.

It was twelve minutes after six oÆclock when a gray light rose above the brow of Hogback Mountain, exposing an imprint of tractor tires that linked MeadowgateÆs hay barn to the cow pasture and sheep paddock. The imprints of work boots and dog paws were also traceable along the driveway to the barn, and back to the door of the farmhouse, where smoke puffed from the chimney and lamplight shone behind the kitchen windows.

From a tulip poplar at the northeast corner to the steel stake at the southwest, all hundred and thirty acres of Meadowgate Farm lay under a powdery blanket of March snow.

Cynthia Kavanagh stood in the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen in a chenille robe, and gazed out on the hushed landscape.

ôIt makes everything innocent again,ö she said. ôA winter Eden.ö

At the pine table, Father Timothy Kavanagh leafed through his quote journal until he found the record heÆd jotted down. ôUnbelievable! WeÆve had snow one, two, three, four . . . this is the fifth time since Christmas Eve.ö

ôSnow, snow, and more snow!ö

ôNot to mention dogs, dogs, and more dogs! It looks like somebody backed up to the door and dumped a truckload of canines in here.ö

Following his customary daylight romp, Barnabas, a Bouvier-wolfhound mix and his boon companion of ten years, was drowned in slumber on the hearth rug; Buckwheat, an English foxhound grown long in the tooth, had draped herself over the arm of the sofa; the Welsh corgi, aptly named Bodacious, snored in a wing chair she had long ago claimed as her own; and Luther, a recent, mixed-breed addition to the Meadowgate pack, had slung himself onto his bed in the corner, belly up. There was a collective odor of steam rising from sodden dog hair.

ôUgh!ö said his wife, who was accustomed to steam rising off only one wet dog.

Father Tim looked up from the journal in which he was transcribing notes collected hither and yon. ôSo what are you doing today, Kavanagh?ö

Cynthia mashed the plunger of the French coffee press. ôIÆm doing the sketch of Violet looking out the kitchen window to the barn, and IÆm calling Puny to find out about the twinsùtheyÆre days late, you know.ö

ôGood idea. Expected around March fourth or fifth, and here it is the fourteenth. TheyÆll be ready for kindergarten.ö

ôAnd you must run to Mitford with the shopping list for DooleyÆs homecoming dinner tomorrow.ö

ôConsider it done.ö

His heart beat faster at the thought of having their boy home for spring break, but the further thought of having nothing more to accomplish than a run to The Local was definitely discouraging. Heaven knows, there was hardly anything to do on the farm but rest, read, and walk four dogs; heÆd scarcely struck a lick at a snake since arriving in mid- January. Willie Mullis, a full-timer whoÆd replaced the part-time Bo Davis, lived on the place and did all the odd jobs, feeding up and looking after livestock; Joyce Havner did the laundry and cleaning, as sheÆd done at Meadowgate for years; Blake Eddistoe ran the vet clinic, only a few yards from the farmhouse door, with consummate efficiency; there was even someone to bush hog and cut hay when the season rolled around.

In truth, it seemed his main occupation since coming to farm-sit for the Owens was waiting to hear from his bishop, Stuart Cullen, who had e-mailed him before Christmas.

He had scratched his head throughout the month of January, trying to reckon what the challenge might be. In February, heÆd called Stuart, attempting to gouge it out of him, but Stuart had asked for another couple of weeks to get the plan together before he spilled the beans.

Now, here they were in the middle of March, and not a word.

ôYouÆre sighing, Timothy.ö

ôWondering when Stuart will get off the pot.ö

ôHeÆs retiring in June and consecrating the cathedralùaltogether, a great deal to say grace over. YouÆll hear soon, dearest.ö

She handed him a mug of black coffee, which he took with gratitude.

So here he sat, retired from nearly four decades of active ministry as a priest, toasting himself by an open fire with his good-humored and companionable wife of seven years, and situated in what he believed to be the most breathtakingly beautiful countryside in America.

Why bother, after all, about some ôchallengeö that may or may not be coming. HadnÆt he had challenges enough to last him a lifetime?

His wife, on the other hand, was ever drumming up a challenge. During their year at the farm, conveniently located twenty min-utes from Mitford, sheÆd decided to accomplish three lifetime goals: learn needlepoint, make perfect oven fries, and read War and Peace.

ôSo howÆs it coming with War and Peace?ö

ôI despise telling you this, but I havenÆt opened it once. IÆm reading a charming old book called Mrs. Miniver.ö

ôAnd the fries?ö

ôSince Dooley comes tomorrow, IÆll be conducting my next experimentùto see whether soaking the potatoes in ice water will make them crispier. And IÆm definitely using peanut oil this time.ö

ôIÆll peel and cut,ö he said. He hadnÆt seen any activity around the needlepoint plan, so he declined to mention it.

ôPathetic,ö she said, reading his mind. ôIÆm all thumbs. Learning from a book is not the way to do it. IÆve decided to let Olivia tutor me, if she has a free day now and then. Besides, having lunch with someone who also wears eye shadow might be fun.ö

ôIÆm definitely a dud in the eye shadow department.ö

She thumped into the wing chair opposite him and took a sip from her coffee mug. ôAnd what about you, dearest? Have you accomplished all your lifetime goals?ö

Oddly, the question stung him. ôI suppose I havenÆt thought about it.ö Maybe he hadnÆt wanted to think about having any further goals.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the wing chair. ôI believe if I were charged with having a goal, it would be to live without frettingùto live more fully in the moment, not always huffing about as IÆve done in recent years . . . to live humblyùand appreciativelyùwith whatever God furnishes.ö

He reflected for a moment and raised his head and looked at her. ôYes. That would be my goal.ö

ôBut arenÆt you doing that?ö

ôNo. I feel obligated to get out there, to open myself to some new and worthwhile service. IÆve been a bump on a log these last weeks.ö

ôItÆs OK to be a bump on a log once in a while. æBe still,Æ He tells us, æand know that I...