“Griffith’s debut is engaging, and Dana’s relationship with God follows a refreshing course.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“With honesty and humor, Marilynn Griffith takes you on a poignant journey through the pages of life—yours or someone you know. Made of Honor is a spellbinding tale about the power of love between family and friends, with one’s romantic soul mate, and from the Lover of our souls.”

—Stacy Hawkins Adams, bestselling author of Speak to My Heart and Nothing but the Right Thing

“Marilynn Griffith digs deep inside to write a novel about everyday people who love the Lord.”

—LaShaunda C. Hoffman, editor, Shades of Romance magazine

“With a voice that begs you to relax, sit down and put your feet up, Marilynn Griffith writes of the complexities of love, family, friendship and what it means to be the bride of Christ, and does so with honesty, humor, and grace.”

—Lisa Samson, Christy^® Award-winning author of The Church Ladies, Songbird and Club Sandwich

For my husband, Fill.

You are a grace to me.

How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news!

—Romans 10:15

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Love, patience, prayer and a lot of good people’s time go into making a book a reality. This one is no different. For anyone that I neglect to name, please know that I do thank you and I thank God for bringing you into my life.

Special thanks to:

Christ, thank You for seeking me when I hide, for covering my bumpy life with Your shoes of peace. Thank You for loving me.

Fill, for your quiet strength and unwavering love. Without your support, I couldn’t do any of this. You’re the best.

Ashlie, Michelle, Fill, Jr., Ben, James, John and Isaiah, thanks for putting up with me working on this through the holidays and for praying for me. I love you all.

My mother, Donna McElrath, thank you for working so hard to take care of me, for sacrificing your own desires so I could make it. May God continue to bless you.

Kent and Debbie Nottingham and the women’s Bible study of Calvary Chapel Tallahassee, for always giving me a fresh understanding of God’s Word.

My editor, Diane Dietz, for loving my work enough to make it the best it can be; and the Steeple Hill team, for working so hard on my behalf.

Claudia Griffith, my mother-in-law, whose diligent faith inspires me.

Claudia Burney, for pushing me when I wanted to give up. Thanks for loving this book and for writing books that inspire me.

Jessica Ferguson, for being my best critic and my cheerleader in hard times. I never could have done this without you.

My friends, Joy, Melissa and Gail, thanks for tolerating my silences and disappearances. Each of you is a gift to me.

The ladies of The Threshing Floor: Amy, Jennifer and Staci, thanks for your great feedback and support.

To Heather, Angie, Lisa, Claudia, Bobbie, Paula and all my friends in the blogosphere. Thanks for the encouragement.

Chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Chapter thirteen

Chapter fourteen

Chapter fifteen

Questions for Discussion

I kicked him before I knew it.

Right on the chin.

“Lord have mercy, Rochelle done knocked the boy’s teeth out, ain’t she?” Deacon Rivers made the declaration in earnest, but he didn’t take his feet out of his own basin to get up and help the victim. Getting his feet washed seemed to suit the deacon just fine.

Mother Holloway, the head of the Seniors Bible Study and grandmother to my son’s pregnant girlfriend, tightened her grip around the deacon’s ankle, probably to get him to stop staring at my toes—the Rochelle Gardner secret feet I’d been pretty much hiding all these years. He ignored the old woman’s grip and made a sour face. “I see why you make shoes, honey. Them’s some tore-up feet. You earned those the hard way.”

If anyone else had said that to me, I would have been totally humiliated, but coming from Deacon Rivers, I knew it was a compliment. Hard work ranked high with him. (Right up there with beauty.)

Tad McGovern, my partner in this surprise foot washing, rubbed his face where I’d kicked him. He smiled at me, which made me feel even more embarrassed.

Mother Holloway pushed her plastic bowl away from us, jerking the deacon’s legs a little as she went.

“Hey! Don’t be all rough now, Mother. My feet ain’t that dirty. I soaked them in Epsom salts last night.” He looked at me hopefully. “You should try that, Chelle. It might help some of those corns. And Tad, I’m sorry she kicked you, but you should have warned the girl that a foot washing would be a part of the lesson this morning. Everybody knows how she is about them feet.” He grasped at his pants leg before it rolled down into the water.

Mother Holloway, probably the one who’d suggested this madness, winked at me. She’d do anything to get some Biblically justifiable physical contact with Deacon Rivers. (I’d spent the past two years trying to convince him that the seniors study would probably minister to him better. His response? “Isn’t that for old people?”

Anyway, like Deacon Rivers said, somebody could have warned me. Everybody at Broken Bread Fellowship knows how I am about my feet.

Everybody it seems…except Tad, who despite sitting next to me in church for ten years and co-leading the singles group with me for five, had somehow missed my foot phobia.

That roundhouse kick I’d laid on his chin would help him remember in the future. How awful. I’d actually kicked a man down in the Sunday school room. And I still wasn’t sure why. By the time my toes met his jaw, Tad had already seen my feet. It must have been reflex from so many years of trying to keep my feet under wraps. He’d pulled off my shoe and my foot had shot out like lightning. If only I could move that fast in my workouts.

From the way Tad was wiggling his jaw, he seemed okay but was definitely thinking about something. Probably having me committed. Everyone else in the room, all married couples who headed up various ministries, save Mother Holloway and the deacon, hadn’t given Tad’s exclamation of pain more than a glance. Those folks were having foot-washing church and couldn’t be bothered with us other than to glance over and check for blood.

I, on the other hand, was having a meltdown, something I’d grown used to since hearing the news that my handsome Christian son had a child on the way. First a grandmother before forty and now my crazy toes had been seen by Tad the Harvard Grad and the leaders of all the church ministries. And Tad seemed very happy about it, despite me almost decapitating him with my foot. If he knew how dangerous these feet really were, he wouldn’t be smiling.

Tad steepled his fingers under his chin. “Ready to try this again? Minus the kick, of course.”

My hand slipped from my mouth, allowing another apology to escape. “I am so sorry.”

Tad stood easily. The towel he’d borrowed from the baptismal font remained girded around his waist though a little crooked from his fall. That towel, the truth in his eyes and six days a week of Tae Bo had put my trigger foot on notice. There was too much Jesus in this foot-washing business, too much intimacy—one of Tad’s favorite subjects in the single’s group was finding intimacy with God, not a girl or guy.