Two people, scarred by the past, meet at church on Easter Sunday. Viewing the butterfly banners, symbols of Jesus’ death and resurrection, they do not see the connection between the symbol and their own lives until God heals their wounds and love touches their hearts.

Excerpt Chapter One

Emily Casale’s wheelchair jolted forward and jarred into the table. A splash of orange juice sprayed over her shoulder and showered her hand.

"Oops. Sorry," a masculine voice said behind her.

Emily shifted in her chair and focused on the man with a sheepish expression, holding a plate of pancakes and sausage while orange juice dripped from his fingers.

"It’s not you. It’s this cumbersome chair," she said.

"Not at all. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I had my mind focused on my empty stomach and these pancakes." His gaze lowered to her dampened hand. "I didn’t mean to douse you with juice."

He flashed her a smile. "Is this seat taken?" A lighthearted laugh followed his question. "That is if you trust me not to do any more damage."

She couldn’t help but return his chuckle. "No. The seat’s empty, and I’d advise you to set that stuff down before you baptize someone else." She lifted her napkin from her lap and wiped the sticky liquid from her fingers.

She liked his smile—-full with elongated dimples that brightened his face, but his eyes are what really caught her attention. Eyes as pale blue as a winter sky.

He set down his dishes and sat in the chair adjacent to Emily’s spot at the end of the table.

"Beautiful Easter morning," he said, unfolding the paper napkin and lowering it to his lap.

"Yes. It is." Emily avoided eye contact and grasped her fork. She sliced off a section of pancake, overwhelmed by the rush of anxiety that raced through her. So much time had passed since she spoke to an attractive man—-a man who caused her pulse to skip.

She’d started out in a bad mood, coerced into coming to church. Though she loved worship, especially the Easter service, going anywhere in her wheelchair seemed too much of a rigamarole. Nothing felt the same anymore. And strangers. She hated their looks of curiosity and pity...and their questions. But this man’s eyes only smiled.

"Could you pass the coffee, please?" he asked.

Emily grasped the carafe and handed it to him, evading his gaze.

"I’m sorry," he said, holding the container posed in the air. "I didn’t introduce myself." He extended his free hand. "Greg Zimmerman."

Clutching his fingers, Emily squirmed, distressed by her jogging pulse. "Emily Casale," she said, releasing his firm gripe and gesturing beside her. "This is my sister, Martha Burton."

"Marti, please." Emily’s sister said. "Are you a newcomer to Unity Church?"

Greg poured coffee from the pot and returned the carafe to the table. "I moved here a couple of months ago." He glanced over his shoulder with the look of a man hoping to avoid detection, then lowered his voice. "But I’ve only been to two services...though I can come up with some mighty good excuses." He lifted his fork and took a bite of sausage.

Emily liked his cheerfulness. She’d thought often enough her sense of humor is what saved her sanity. "What brought you here today? Easter or the smell of sausage?"

Greg lifted a napkin and wiped his mouth. "The sausage for sure, and doesn’t everyone go to church on Easter?" His dimples gave a wink. "But to be honest, Pastor Ben made a visit and...you know. Here I am." He fingered his cup handle, then lifted it to his lips.

Emily understood. Pastor Ben had visited with her so many times since the accident and her husband’s death—- praying with her, encouraging her, reminding her that God walks beside her every day.

But that was the trouble. God walked. She couldn’t.

"We’re glad you joined us," Marti said. "Do you live nearby?"

Greg lowered the coffee cup. "Pretty close. I bought a colonial over on Sunset in Lathrup Village."

"Sunset." Emily had spoken before she could monitor her surprise.

"You know the street?" Greg asked.

"Marti and I live on Sunset." A wave of heat rolled up her collar.

"Really. We must be neighbors."

Neighbors. Emily prayed he wasn’t one of those friendly people who wanted to stop by to give her a helping hand. She wanted no one’s sympathy. "So what’s your new job," she asked, anxious to change the subject to something more distant.

"I’m a physical therapist at Beaumont Hospital."

Emily’s stomach plummeted. Physical therapist. She’d had her fill of them five years ago after the car accident. She didn’t care about walking after her husband’s death, but Marti...and the therapists pushed her until she walked again. But now things had changed. She could no longer walk any distance without pain.

"Beaumont," Marti said. "That’s close. I work in Southfield over on Telegraph. That’s not bad either."

Emily found herself pulling away from the conversation. Memories took her back to the work she loved. She’d been a horticulturist at Bordine’s, a popular greenhouse. All day she would wallow in flowers and the rich scent of soil. Following Ted’s death, her inability to garden had proven her second worst loss.

Adding a sentence or two to their conversation, Emily finished her breakfast and felt relieved when Greg excused himself. She found him to appealing for her own good. Marti returned their dishes to the kitchen. Then Emily and she headed toward the sanctuary.

When she settled in a front transept that allowed room for the wheelchair, Emily breathed in the rich scent of lilies. A huge wooden cross on the cancel had been filled with pots of the lovely flowers while others adorned the window sills. The stained glass scenes spread their pastel hues over the lilies creating a spectrum of color.

Joyous Easter music filled the sanctuary from the organ’s pipes in the balcony. Emily’s irritation with Marti for insisting she come soon faded. The music roused her spirit, and Greg-the-baptizer’s pale blue eyes warmed her thoughts.

From her vantage point, Emily looked into the congregation and spotted Greg near the front. His short, neat hair, brown with a few gray highlights, looked attractive. She guessed him to be in his late thirties.

To keep herself from ogling, she opened the church bulletin and read through the list of lily donors with her name among them. Emily Casale in loving memory of her husband, Ted.

With sadness, Emily realized that Ted had truly become a memory. Details of their life together had melded into categories of bright and difficult moments...like all marriage, she assumed. If she’d been the one to die in the accident, would Ted have remained unmarried all these years? She doubted it. He needed companionship and someone to handle the responsibilities. She’d been honored if he had mowed the lawn without her prodding. Still, she grinned at the memory.

The organ prelude melded into the opening hymn, and the congregation rose. Instinctively, Emily pushed her hands again the chair arms to rise, then let them slip to her lap in defeat.

Forcing herself away from self-pity, she opened the hymnal and joined in the rousing hymn. Maybe she couldn’t walk, but she could sing.

The service continued with the Easter message, and during the offering, to avoid staring at Greg, her gaze settled on the beautiful new Easter banners that hung on each side of the cancel—-glorious butterflies with colorful wings.

Emily pictured the butterflies flitting among her flowers and yearned for the past—-to enjoy her garden and to be free like those fragile creatures.

She focused again on the butterfly banners. Against a white background was written four words—-From Life to Death. Death. Many times she’d asked herself why she had lived and Ted had died. Sometimes her life seemed like death...only in a different form. Poor me, she yelled into her thoughts. She wanted no part of self-pity. Yet it continued to surface.

Her eyes shifted from the lovely banners to Greg, and she caught him looking back at her. A mixture of embarrassment and pleasure spiraled through her chest.

She looked away as the congregation rose for the final song while an intriguing thought entered her mind. Though they’d been at breakfast for nearly an hour, Greg had never asked her why she was in a wheelchair.

Clasping her hymnal as the organ swelled with the introduction, Emily lifted her song book and let her spirit ride on the surging melody. I Know That My Redeemer Lives. The song had always been her favorite. She rejoiced as voices soared into the vaulted ceiling. He lives. He lives who once was dead. Would she ever live again? The question burdened her mind.

When the song ended, parishioners closed the song books and made their way down the aisles.

"Wonderful service," Marti said, placing her song book in the pew rack.

"It was. Thanks for insisting I come," Emily said, niggled by remorse at her negative attitude that morning.

"You’re welcome." A tender look spread across her sister’s face. "I’ll run and pick up the lily."

Emily remained where she had been through the service, and in a moment, Marti returned carrying a potted lily, placed it in Emily’s arms, then guided the chair to the vestibule doorway.

A handicap ramp led outside, and Emily drew in a deep breath of the pungent spring air. As if the day were blessed, sunshine had turned the sky a gorgeous cerulean blue and heated the budding flower beds, sending the lush scent of warmed earth mingled with the lily nestled in her arms. New growth. New life. New hope. And wasn’t that the meaning of Easter. The thought made her smile.

"Wonderful service, wasn’t it?"

Emily turned and looked into Greg’s friendly face. The sunlight blooded his eyes and he squinted.

"Very nice," she said.

He raised his arm and shielded his eyes. In his free hand, he carried a lily. "The floral cross is unique. I’ve never seen anything like it."

He must have noticed her eyeing the flower because he answered her unspoken question.

In a casual gesture, he hiked up the plant. "The lily’s for my mother...in memory of my dad. I’m taking it over there later today."

"That’s nice," Emily said. "I’m sure she’ll like it."

"My mom’s a flower fanatic. As soon as the weather warms up, she spends all day in the garden."

Emily winced—-her own yearning fresh and aching.

"If you want to see a beautiful display," Marti said, "you need to stop by. Emily has an amazing garden."

Emily’s pulse pumped. She had to stop Marti. "I did have...once." She focused on her damaged legs. "My dahlias have all but died, and anyway, it’s too early. Not much is in bloom yet."

"I’d like to see it sometime," Greg said, still shielding his eyes.

"If you have time now, drop by for coffee...unless you’re in a hurry," Marti said. " Our house must be very close to yours."

Emily cringed at her sister’s blatant matchmaking. Marti certainly wasn’t inviting Greg for her own interest. She’d been engaged for the past year and, to Emily, her wedding loomed on the calendar like a prison sentence. Not that she wasn’t happy for her, but Emily had no idea how she could live alone without Marti.

"I’m in no hurry," Greg said. "I’d like to stop by."

If Emily could swing her leg around the chair, she would have kicked her sister in the shin.

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