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  Praise for Cruel Harvest

  “A story that seizes the reader’s attention . . . the reader can’t look away.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Fran Grubb’s childhood odyssey is a shatteringly dark tale of despair. But that’s not the end of her captivating life story. Each page of Cruel Harvest reveals a remarkable journey of rescue and redemption. Your heart will be moved as you witness Jesus’ power to deliver, forgive, reconcile, rebuild, and love.”

  —Denalyn and Max Lucado

  “A deeply harrowing story, told with compassion and simplicity, by an extraordinarily brave writer.”

  —Anjelica Huston

  “Cruel Harvest is an incredible story of survival and forgiveness. Fran’s ability to survive brokenness as a child and even into adulthood and then to overcome those experiences through faith and forgiveness is a true testament to the power of God’s love for each of us. Everyone can be inspired by her story.”

  —Sheila Walsh, author of God Loves Broken People and Women of Faith speaker

  “Against all odds, Fran survived her trip through the ‘valley of the shadow of death.’ I loved reading this story of deliverance. Thank you for the reminder that God can turn our mourning into dancing!”

  —Gracia Burnham, former hostage and author of In the Presence of My Enemies

  “It is hard endorsing Cruel Harvest with just a few words. I want everyone to know how powerful her story is and how many lives it can help change, and is currently changing. Ever since reading Fran Grubb’s story I have used it to help numerous clients that are victims of childhood violence. Every woman has commented on her faith and how her book has given them hope! We are putting the book in our library for all the ladies to read.”

  —Vicki Mason, Primary Crisis Interventionist, Women’s Crisis Services of LeFlore County, Poteau, Oklahoma

  “This was a wonderful book. We could feel the faith of the child throughout every page. We highly recommend Cruel Harvest.”

  —DeWayne and Rebecca Hicks, founders of Courage to Change Ministries, Greenville, Arkansas

  “Cruel Harvest will touch your heart clear through to your soul! I guarantee that you won’t be disappointed and you won’t be able to put it down.”

  —Pastor Ray Witherington, Midnight Cry Ministries / Restoration Revival Center Church, Townville, South Carolina

  Cruel

  Harvest

  A MEMOIR

  FRAN ELIZABETH GRUBB

  © 2012 by Frances Elizabeth Grubb, aka Fran Grubb

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Unless otherwise noted, Scripture quotations are taken from THE HOLY BIBLE: NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  Scriptures marked KJV are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Grubb, Fran E.

  Cruel harvest : a memoir / Fran Grubb.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59555-505-2

  1. Grubb, Fran E. 2. Grubb, Fran E.—Family. 3. Sexually abused children—United States—Biography. 4. Kidnapping victims—United States—Biography. 5. Migrant labor—United States—Biography. 6. Abusive men—United States—Biography. 7. Fathers—United States—Biography. 8. Escaped prisoners—United States—Biography. 9. Dysfunctional families—United States—Case studies. I. Title.

  CT275.G787A3 2012

  973.92092—dc23

  [B]

  2012004553

  Printed in the United States of America

  12 13 14 15 16 QG 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To the Creator and giver of all good gifts: I love you and I know that I owe this book to you. I give you all the glory, honor, and praise for every sentence printed in this story.

  This book is yours, not mine.

  To Wayne, whose love, support, and encouragement has kept me going year after year, through the churches, tent revivals, nursing homes, and prisons, and who keeps me laughing.

  For all the times I may have forgotten to say thank you for carrying equipment, singing harmony, reading the Bible, navigating before the GPS, your wonderful sense of humor even after three meetings a day, and for never losing hope. Thank you!

  Thank you for throwing out all the rules about love, listening to your heart and proving there are no rules or limits to unconditional love.

  To Wayne, who has the heart of a child and the courage of a lion. Can I ever show you how much you mean to me? I hope this dedication is a start.

  Cruel Harvest was written for all the adults and children who find themselves asking, “Why?” I pray you find the answer in these pages. God knows your name and has written your name on his hand!

  (Isaiah 49:16; John 10:3)

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Family

  Chapter 2: The Train

  Chapter 3: Murder

  Chapter 4: A Child’s Innocence

  Chapter 5: Baby Girl

  Chapter 6: On the Run

  Chapter 7: Arrest

  Chapter 8: One More Piece

  Chapter 9: A New Life

  Chapter 10: Not What It Appears to Be

  Chapter 11: First Day of School

  Chapter 12: The Orphanage

  Chapter 13: A Safe Harbor in the Storm

  Chapter 14: A Changed Man

  Chapter 15: Taken

  Chapter 16: Attempted Murder

  Chapter 17: In the Arms of Angels

  Chapter 18: On the Run Again

  Chapter 19: Choices

  Chapter 20: Another Child Lost

  Chapter 21: A Trap Set

  Chapter 22: Bobby Willoughby

  Chapter 23: Spiders

  Chapter 24: Mr. Spencer

  Chapter 25: Alone

  Chapter 26: Courage to Run

  Chapter 27: Freedom!

  Chapter 28: One Last Battle

  Chapter 29: Forgiveness

  Chapter 30: The Reunion

  Acknowlegments

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Prologue

  His fist shattered the glass panel of the back door the instant I turned the lock to keep him out.

  His fiery, red face, twisted with unbridled rage, glared at me from outside the glass top half of the kitchen door. The only thing separating us was the jagged windowpane.

  I stood still for just a second, frozen in shock as I looked into his evil, angry eyes. Shards of glass exploded inward toward me, some cutting into my forearm and head, the rest falling to the kitchen floor. He reached his calloused hand through the broken window to unlock the door. My shock was quickly replaced by fear, and I ran through the house to get to the front door as though the devil himself were chasing me. He was!

  It was 1963 in Benton Harbor, Michigan. I was fourteen, and this little house was one of the best I’d lived in during my childhood. It had three rooms set in a line like train cars: the kitchen in the back, a bedroom in the middle, and a small living room at the front. I tore through that dark house as fast as I could, slamming into the front door. I had locked it on
ly minutes earlier to keep him out. Now he was in the house with me and I could hear his footsteps and feel the rasp of his enraged breathing. I had only seconds to slide the bolt back, throw the door open, and leap from the house as if it were burning down behind me.

  The front door opened to an old wooden porch with a sagging tin roof. Snow blanketed the front yard, rising up to cover the bottom two steps leading off the rotted decking. I jumped, my legs sinking a foot and a half into the drift. The cold air cut through the ragged clothes I wore. I remembered my coat was inside, but so was he. There was no going back in.

  Millie and her young daughter, Mary Anne, were standing by our old car in the snow-covered front yard. A tattered cardboard box of blackened pots and pans lay beside it. I had dropped them before running back into the empty house, hoping the sound of clattering pans, lids, and pots would be an alarm in the still night and somebody would come to save me.

  I heard him crashing through the house behind me just as I sailed off the porch. Little Mary Anne came chasing after me into the yard. The moon shone so brightly off of the snow that I could see her big, dark eyes pleading with me to take her along. She screamed my name as I dashed past her. She did have her jacket on, but at five years old, the snow was up to her waist in some areas and I worried she would get lost.

  “Millie, grab your daughter!” I yelled.

  I never slowed down as I turned away from the dirt road that ran in front of the house and plowed through the deep drifts to reach the covering of the woods at the side of the house. Clumps of snow fell from the pine branches in the yard; ice rolled down the back of my dress and burned my cheeks like fire. I knew that if I stopped, the pain would be much worse when he got his hands on me. I had no doubt that he would kill me just as he had killed my baby sister eight years earlier.

  Mary Anne screamed again, louder this time. Her little voice echoed harshly through the night. It tore at my heart. A part of me regretted running off because I knew I was leaving that little girl behind. I could only hope that her mother would take care of her. For me, it was too late. I had to do it now. The decision had been made, and there was no turning back.

  As her mother dragged Mary Anne back to the car where she had left the baby, I heard Daddy running behind me. I did not dare turn around but I was sure he was way too close. If he got his hands on me, I was finished. He was not a big man, but he was strong, especially when he was in a rage.

  I was young enough to stay just ahead of him, jumping through the high snow. The muscles in my legs were burning like fire. As I finally reached the tree line and dove into the woods, the pine branches raked against my already cut forehead and arms. My blood left a faint red trail behind. I could only hope he couldn’t see it.

  Once in the shadows of the pine trees, I slowed down to catch my breath. My chest heaved, and I doubled over, trying to listen above the sound of my own breathing. My heart pounded in my ears. I couldn’t hear him, but when I straightened up and looked through the canopy, I could see him. He stalked back and forth through the heavy drifts. When he got near the tree line, though, he hesitated. For some reason he did not plunge into the woods behind me. I don’t know what made him stop, even to this day.

  Standing still, staring out at him as he paced like a hungry lion, the cold seeped into my bones. I had to start moving, or I’d be in trouble. As quietly and as carefully as I could, I inched along the edge of the woods in what I hoped was the direction of the main road.

  I stumbled. My foot hit something big buried in the snow, and I fell across a huge, old, hollowed tree lying on its side. The front of my dress ripped, and the splintered wood tore holes in my knees. To my ears, my fall sounded like an avalanche crashing down the side of a mountain. I was so sure he’d heard; I froze in my tracks. My exposed skin was pressed against the ice and the bark of the fallen tree. I listened, and what I heard froze me far deeper than any snow could.

  “Get out here, now, or I’m gonna kill you,” he hollered.

  He continued to pace. “Frances! I’m coming in there, and I’ll find you! You hear me?”

  I held my hand over my mouth, trying to hide the sound of my breathing. My entire body was shaking. I knew he was telling the truth.

  Through the pine branches, by the rays of moonlight striking the side yard, I saw him stop his pacing. His arms hung by his side, limp. I swore he was looking right at me. I clenched my teeth together so they wouldn’t chatter.

  When he called out again, his voice had changed.

  “Come on out now, Frances.” He spoke the way a man is supposed to speak to a child, maybe even a little too sweet. “Nothing is going to happen. Come on out now.”

  That tone of voice made me feel the pain. My body was dangerously near frostbite already. My calf was stuck to the frozen wood and my heart could not stop hammering in my chest.

  At the same time, that tone made me remember. He had made promises before. I thought about Mary Anne. She had changed so much since her mother had married him. When I first met her she was a funny, happy little girl, laughing and playful. Now, she barely spoke. I was leaving her behind, possibly to share in the terrors I had experienced in the past. I knew that, and I felt awful about it. But my choice had been made, no matter what voice he used. I knew it would only be worse if I turned back now.

  As I watched, my eyes wide and brimming with freezing tears, he lunged toward the woods. Something kept him back. Lurching like a crazed animal, he started his pacing again. I could see his body tensing up, his hands balled into hard, pain-dealing fists. The past crashed down on me like a tidal wave. My doubts shattered.

  Millie called out. “Come on, leave her out there. We gotta get going before somebody hears us.”

  Then, while he continued to holler at me, he unbuckled his belt. Pulling it free from the loops, he lashed at the frozen tree branches.

  “I’ll kill you! I’ll find you, just like I did last time. But this time I’ll kill you! So help me God, you won’t get away from me!”

  It wasn’t an idle threat. No matter how much I had hoped for help, it was not on the way. I was a migrant child, alone. I could disappear, and no one would know the difference. The rest of my family had escaped. I was the last one under Daddy’s power. And no matter what, I would break free or die trying.

  Chapter 1

  Family

  When I was nine years old, Daddy abducted me from an orphanage in South Carolina. It was 1958, and he had just escaped from a California prison where he had been serving a sentence for raping my oldest sister, Brenda, and attempting to murder my mother. For years he abused me in every way he could. At one point, my family consisted of two parents, three sisters, and two brothers. By the time I was fourteen years old, they had all escaped one way or another. Everyone but me.

  My decision to write down my story began with my husband’s encouragement. He felt I could help others as well as myself by public speaking. I started slowly, revealing intimate details at speaking engagements with the hope that my life would help others. I was amazed when hundreds of people, every place I went, wanted to hear more. After a few years of traveling, speaking at churches, prisons, women’s meetings, rehabilitation clinics, and orphanages, sharing my story with the audience and talking to men and women who had gone through similar experiences, I was certain he was right. Many men, women, and even children had never discussed their abuse before. I experienced how hearing what I went through helped people work out the troubles in their own lives. This is why I want to tell about these events in such detail—why I don’t want to hold back. It’s the beginning of healing for others.

  One day, my husband, Wayne, drove me to a doctor’s appointment. It was a nice spring day, so he decided to sit in the car and wait for me. When we left the house, he had grabbed my writings off the table and brought them with him to read. Why he chose to do that, I am not sure, but I found it touching that he cared enough to read my words again for at least the third time. He’s a quiet man, polite and gentle in
his ways, tall and handsome in my eyes. Meeting him is one of the many amazing blessings I have been awarded in my life.

  Wayne began to read when I got out of the car.

  “Wow, Honey. Are you going to read that again?” I asked, smiling down at him.

  “It’ll give me something to do while I wait,” he said, glancing through it and smiling as I shut the door.

  I left Wayne and attended to my appointment. I cannot even remember what I was there for. What I can remember is walking back out to our car and finding Wayne, still sitting in the same place I had left him, with tears rolling down his cheeks. He turned and looked at me when I got in the car and closed the door.

  “Are you crying because of what you read?” I asked.

  Wayne didn’t say anything. I slid into my seat and gave him a hug. We sat together in the parking lot as tears ran down his face.

  “Don’t worry about it, Honey,” I whispered softly. “That was a long time ago.”

  Wayne smiled, but there was determination behind his eyes. I could tell he had made a decision, and that he was up to something.

  I had lived my adult life without any family other than my two children and Wayne. I remember wishing I could be like everyone else and have brothers and sisters and parents. I would have settled for a great aunt. When Christmas or other holidays came around, I celebrated, but there was always something missing. It was almost as if my family had not existed; as if they had become just what I feared they would—a story.

  Wayne had siblings, aunts, uncles, and a mother and father, and they treated me with kindness. I was happy for him. Still it made me sad to see the family pictures he had hanging up all over our house. It was so different for me. I had forgotten what my sisters looked like.

  Wayne knew how I felt, and on his own he decided to do something to grant my wish. He decided to find my family. A few weeks after my doctor’s appointment, he came to me with a phone number for my sister Brenda. I had not seen her in almost forty years.