The Year of Jubilee Read online

  PRAISE FOR CINDY MORGAN

  “Set in 1963, in the coal-mining town of Jubilee, Kentucky, author Cindy Morgan weaves the threads of the multilayered fabric of young Grace’s life through her interactions with family and their divided community. Against this backdrop of cultural change and uncertainty, Grace’s coming-of-age story is told. I’ve never experienced a more intimate and fascinating portrayal of these times in a story told with such empathy and compassion.”

  AMY GRANT, Grammy-winning singer-songwriter and author

  “Cindy Morgan is an award-winning singer and songwriter, and her prose is as lyrical as her music. This heartbreaking coming-of-age story eloquently portrays the hellish and heavenly nature of Kentucky life in the 1960s with great detail and sensitivity. Morgan’s story will make you grateful for the Word’s healing touch, the complicated bonds of family and friendship, and the power of air conditioning on a scorching summer day. What a delicious slice of Southern fiction!”

  ROBIN W. PEARSON, award-winning author of A Long Time Comin’ and Walking in Tall Weeds

  “The Year of Jubilee is such a compelling and powerful story that it is clear Cindy’s gift includes more than just music. I would now describe her as simply a brilliant and expressive writer.”

  MANDISA, Grammy-winning artist

  “Some stories are told; others, like The Year of Jubilee, are woven into the reader’s heart. With honesty and bravery, a compelling coming-of-age heroine confronts ignorance and racial prejudice in the deep South while wrestling with her own past demons—and learning the price of forgiveness. A beautiful story wondrously told!”

  TAMERA ALEXANDER, USA Today bestselling author of Colors of Truth

  “The Year of Jubilee is a poignant coming-of-age story set during a turbulent time in our country’s history in the 1960s. This one is sure to stir your heart.”

  T. I. LOWE, bestselling author of Under the Magnolias

  “Cindy Morgan takes us on a barefoot walk into the heart of Jubilee, Kentucky, as her authentic characters fumble toward love and justice in the divided South. Vivid with style and substance, Cindy Morgan’s debut novel is a down-to-earth masterpiece.”

  SANDRA MCCRACKEN, singer-songwriter and author

  “Cindy brings empathy, a poetic perspective and a resounding hope that calls from the depths to this story. It’s the story of her family, and the story of all of us who have loved and lost and grieved and tenaciously clung to hope. All of us who have experienced Jubilee.”

  SISSY GOFF, bestselling author of Raising Worry-Free Girls and cohost of the Raising Boys and Girls podcast

  “In this emotional, heart-gripping and soul-stirring novel . . . the reader gets to travel back in time on a journey of redemptive healing and forgiveness. The Year of Jubilee is a must read, especially for anyone struggling with seeing the world around them through the eyes of another!”

  LYNDA RANDLE, award-winning singer-songwriter and author

  “A brilliant story, woven with beautifully crafted characters and rich, colorful detail. Your heart will be stirred as you come to see through the eyes of the insightful narrator, and learning of her family, her life, and her struggle to understand God will inspire you to contemplate your own journey in new ways.”

  GINNY OWENS, musical artist and author of Singing in the Dark

  “Cindy Morgan’s debut novel The Year of Jubilee struck so many personal chords within me, transporting me back to a small-town life in the hills and hollers of Kentucky. . . . A story that will tantalize your heart and soul to the very end!”

  DONNA JORDON, Eagleville Bicentennial Public Library (Cindy Morgan’s local librarian)

  Visit Tyndale online at tyndale.com.

  Visit Cindy Morgan online at cindymorganmusic.com.

  Tyndale and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Ministries.

  The Year of Jubilee

  Copyright © 2023 by Cindy Morgan. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of house copyright © Erika Brothers/Arcangel. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of girl copyright © pixdeluxe/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of birds copyright © JC Shamrock/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of car bumper by Josh Rinard on Unsplash.com.

  Author photo taken by Julee Duinee, copyright © 2022. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Jennifer Phelps

  Edited by Sarah Mason Rische

  Published in association with the literary agency of Browne & Miller Literary Associates, LLC, 52 Village Place, Hinsdale, IL 60521.

  Unless otherwise noted, Scripture is taken from the New King James Version,® copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Proverbs 14:13 in the epilogue is taken from GOD’S WORD®, copyright © 1995 by God’s Word to the Nations. Used by permission of God’s Word Mission Society. All rights reserved.

  The Year of Jubilee is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Tyndale House Publishers at [email protected], or call 1-855-277-9400.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-1-4964-7597-8 (HC)

  ISBN 978-1-4964-7598-5 (SC)

  ISBN 978-1-4964-7600-5 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-7599-2 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-7601-2 (Apple)

  Build: 2023-03-30 13:57:55 EPUB 3.0

  FOR SAMUEL MORGAN

  NOVEMBER 7, 1966 – OCTOBER 31, 1971

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Constance

  Chapter 2: Virginia

  Chapter 3: Isaac

  Chapter 4: The Fox and the Deacon

  Chapter 5: Sunday Morning

  Chapter 6: Bangs

  Chapter 7: Water and Blood

  Chapter 8: Red Boots

  Chapter 9: Red Hood

  Chapter 10: The Hills

  Chapter 11: Tri-Way

  Chapter 12: Red Bird

  Chapter 13: Aunt June

  Chapter 14: Biscuit Eaters

  Chapter 15: Nickel Thrift

  Chapter 16: Ruby’s Roller Rink

  Chapter 17: Who Is My Neighbor?

  Chapter 18: Hell’s Trailer Park

  Chapter 19: Mr. Farris

  Chapter 20: Treasure

  Chapter 21: Dry Ground

  Chapter 22: Homecoming

  Chapter 23: Lies and Cigarettes

  Chapter 24: Silver Bird

  Chapter 25: The Seed

  Chapter 26: The Healer

  Chapter 27: The Gardener

  Chapter 28: Hezekiah

  Chapter 29: The Miracle

  Chapter 30: Polaroid

  Chapter 31: Red

  Chapter 32: Willy

  Chapter 33: Birds

  Chapter 34: Josie

  Chapter 35: Twisting

  Chapter 36: The Window

  Chapter 37: The Flood

  Chapter 38: Angels

  Chapter 39: The Year of Jubilee

  Chapter 40: Gone

  Chapter 41: Missing Pieces

  Chapter 42: Rojo and Rewards

  Chapter 43: Ringing Bells

  Chapter 44: The Bake Sale

  Chapter 45: Orphans and Mothers

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  THE FEAR OF DEATH FOLLOWS FROM THE FEAR OF LIFE.

  A MAN WHO LIVES FULLY IS PREPARED TO DIE AT ANY TIME.

  MARK TWAIN

  PROLOGUE

  There are some moments in your life you don’t forget. Even when your eyes grow dim and your skin is thin like a moth’s wings, you can find them there, buried deep. You dust them off, and they shine like new again. Even now, in my middle years, I only have to crack open the cover of my red journal, and though the ink is fading, the words remain.

  I remember.

  I remember the feeling of my father’s rough shirt beneath my bare legs as he lifted me onto his shoulders and up to the window of Isaac’s hospital room. I remember the white walls and silver railings along his bed. I remember Rojo in my arms, still, with only the sound of his soft clucking as we peered in through the glass. The crest atop his head as red as blood against the windowpane. I remember thinking Isaac looked like a bird in a cloud, covered in a mound of sterile white sheets and blankets. I remember long clear tubes from a machine, feeding liquid life into his tiny bird arm.

  I remember his lips moving as he looked up at us, and I wondered what he was saying.

  I remember my mother in her pale-blue dress standing beside him, holding his hand with a river of sorrow in her eyes. I remember the sound of my heart beating like a drum in my chest and the smell of the rain as it held its breath before relenting.

  I remember how we stood there as it started to rain, afraid of breaking the spell we were in. I remember the rain becoming a flood and our lives getting swept away in it.

  I remember.

  1

  CONSTANCE

  The minute I saw Miss Adams, I was keenly aware of my lingering eighth-grade awkwardness, my nails bit down to the quick and my clothing meant for comfort instead of fashion. The o
ther girls in her class were also well turned out in their dresses, makeup, and padded bras. I was still in my training bra and trying to tame the frizz in my bush of curly hair. I had come to her midway through the year, skipping from eighth grade into the ninth at the recommendation of my teacher, who felt I was bored and needed to be challenged.

  Miss Adams was my new ninth-grade English teacher, fresh out of college and new to Jubilee. All anyone knew was that her daddy was a prominent doctor from down in Mississippi. She was exactly what any principal in a small Southern town would have prayed for, the quintessential Southern woman—real marriage material. Her nails were a soft shade of pink; and her hands, like her figure, were slight and ethereal. When she spoke, her drawl was like sugar rolling off her tongue—the way folks with money from the Deep South speak, nothing like the jagged edges Kentuckians spit out. Instead of saying mother and father with a strong er sound at the end, she said mutha and fahtha, and it made you want to crawl up in her lap and purr.

  I remember one day in class, just as the winter relented and the blossom of spring was in the air, she announced we would be taking a field trip and that all we would need was our imagination and a good pair of walking shoes. This was no problem for me or any of the boys in the class, but some of the girls, like one prissy girl named Emoline Bluin, had worn their good church shoes to school.

  “You will have to suffer through or go in your bare feet,” Miss Adams told them.

  Sitting on a large quilt under a magnolia tree behind the school, she read us poetry, asking us to listen with our eyes closed and our hearts open. No teacher in this small hick school had ever taken a class on a nature walk to read poetry. Whether boy or girl—didn’t matter—we were all a little in love with her.

  The world blossomed in color and detail when Miss Adams read literary fiction, poetry, and historical novels. I was never bored like I had been in my other class. She took us on expeditions through time. As she recounted important moments and people, the posters of historical figures on the walls came to life. I could hear their voices speaking through her.

  We all adored her. That was, until the last day of school.

  We were minutes away from the bell that would take us into summer.

  “Attention, please.”

  Miss Adams stood in the middle of the room, her voice breaking into our restless energy. I noticed that her voice warbled a bit in her throat and she reached for a small glass from her desk and took a dainty drink of water before proceeding.

  “Before the bell rings, I’d like to read you something to think about over the summer break. Something that seems fitting for the times we are living in.”

  She held up a book for us to see. “This is The Winter of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck.”

  She cleared her throat, pressing the book to her chest before holding it out in front of her to read. “‘I wonder how many people I’ve looked at all my life and never seen . . .’”

  She raised her head, eyes on us, as the book lay open in her hands. A small murmur of disinterest was rumbling from the boys on the back row.

  “Boys,” she said, zeroing in on them. Her icy stare froze their words in their open mouths as she waited for silence.

  She continued to read. “‘No man really knows about other human beings. The best he can do is to suppose that they are like himself.’”

  She let the book close and took a deep breath, her eyes bright and leveled with ours. “Most of you realize, there is much unrest in the South, fear of things changing. School integration is happening all across the country. We don’t know if next year, this school could possibly embrace the idea of integrating—”

  Eli Gunner shot to his feet. “You must be out of your m-m-m-mind if you think that’s g-g-gonna happen!”

  The boys erupted in laughter.

  Eli came to school most days smelling as though he had not showered and devoured the warm lunch as if it was his first meal of the day. The stutter he struggled with made me think that God must have had it out for him.

  “Eli!” Miss Adams stretched out her hand toward him. “I know it might seem unthinkable, but you might have to open your mind to something different than what you’ve always known.”

  I wondered if all the fantasies the boys had about Miss Adams were shattered in that single moment. In the South, there were two unforgivable sins: speaking poorly of the Holy Spirit and being a liberal. I knew Miss Adams was different, but it wasn’t until that moment that I understood how different. Word would get around.

  Miss Adams clapped her hands three times, and we fell quiet. She took a deep breath and pressed her palms together in front of her, as if poised to pray.

  Emoline Bluin raised her hand quickly.

  “Yes, Emoline!” she spit out, letting her irritation show.

  “My daddy says it’s because of the curse of Ham. You see, when Ham looked on his daddy Noah’s nakedness, God cursed him by turning his skin black. All the coloreds are descendants of Ham and are cursed just like he was and that is why they won’t ever be equals to the whites.”

  Miss Adams tipped her head sideways, drilling her gaze into Emoline’s. Starting to speak, her voice caught in her throat and she had a small coughing episode. She reached desperately for the glass again, holding her index finger in the air to ask for a moment, and this time guzzled all of the water before responding.

  “The proper term, Emoline, is Negroes, not coloreds. No offense to your daddy, but . . . that sounds like a justification to demean an entire race of people and ease his guilt over denying Negroes their constitutional and God-given rights.”

  The room let out a gasp.

  Emoline’s eyebrows scrunched together and her mouth gaped open; then she aimed her retaliation. “I don’t think you know who my daddy—”

  The bell rang.

  Even with the victory of the scathing last word, the message Miss Adams had hoped to convey had landed like a turd in a punch bowl. Most of the kids scrambled to their feet, leaving Miss Adams and her lofty ideas in the dust behind them.

  She stood at the classroom door calling out goodbye, hopeful, maybe, that someone would look back. No one did. I felt bad for her.

  I’d started to get up from my desk to go when Eli ran past me and tripped on his untied shoelaces. He fell to the ground and his shirt, which he looked to have outgrown in junior high, slipped halfway up his back and revealed a purple bruise the size of a man’s fist. He reached to shove the shirt back down as he got up, and I looked away so he wouldn’t think I’d seen the bruise.

  “Are you okay, Eli?” Miss Adams asked.

  “Y-y-y-y-yes.” And he rose quickly, running out of the room without tying his shoelaces.

  This left only me and Miss Adams in the room.

  “Grace, could I see you for a second?”

  I gathered my things and walked over to her, my hands sweaty from the humidity.

  She gazed out the door, deep in thought, and then asked me, “What did you think of what Emoline said?”

  “Oh, I’ve heard that before, but my father thinks it’s bad theology.”

  “Really? And your mother?”

  I stared at her, unsure of how to even begin to explain the complexities of Virginia’s theology.

  She shook her head from side to side. “It was a shame that our time together in class had to end like that.” Her gaze floated around the room, a look of disappointment piercing her eyes with a slash of gray. I longed to say something to make her feel better, but nothing came out.

  Distracted, she reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a package wrapped in brown paper with a red string tied around it. She presented it to me. I carefully untied the string, and underneath the brown paper was a red journal with the outline of a bird on the cover. I heard a faint crack as I turned to the front page, blank except for what was written there:

  Grace—

  Thank you for being such an engaged and curious student. I think life holds many possibilities for you.

  All the best,

  Constance Adams

  Constance. I rolled her first name around in my mouth like a butterscotch candy. I had never heard such a grand name, and I decided that it suited her perfectly. Then before I thought better, I wrapped my arms around her waist, smelling the faint whiff of gardenias. She laughed, startled by my affection, and put a gentle hand on my shoulder.