I have been asked why I have not written anything since 2017.

It is not that I have failed to create. It is that I have not made public any new fiction. There are three basic reasons:

1)When I write, my characters become a part of me. I do not tell their story. Rather, I am merely the conduit through which they tell their own story. I become so invested in them that when the story ends, I go through a season similar to mourning. It is like saying goodbye after a breakup or losing a close friend. I cannot simply move on. It usually takes 2-4 years before I am inspired to write another story . . . and . . . I cannot merely make them up out of thin air. They have to come to me and the feeling to tell their story has to be so powerful that the only way they will stop invading my night dreams and daydreams is to write it down.

2)I completed Life Before Me in 2006. By the time I felt comfortable letting go of Teddy and Abbigail, in the words of the Fresh Prince, “my life got flipped, turned upside down” . . . a tumultuous divorce in 2010, cancer diagnosis in 2012, and although challenge usually makes wonderful fodder for creativity, I needed emotional distance from the story swirling in my head. Loosely based on my divorce and cancer journey, I refer to it as the book of what should have been and what could have been.

The first draft is complete, but I have not had time to thoroughly edit and revise it. The style is similar to the way I wrote Child Eyes in that I utilize the journal I kept while going through the said ordeal.

3)I went back to school in in 2018 for a Master of Divinity so that I can eventually work full-time as a hospital chaplain. As anyone who has ever been to college knows, school, especially graduate level work, is all-consuming.

I am contemplating going on to get a Ph.D. after I graduate next year, but Aaron and Ellen are starting to whisper again. They are vying for my attention, and I do not know how much longer I can ignore them. So, if my spring course load is as light as I expect, my attention can soon shift to the voices in my head.

For now, here is a sneak peek at He Calls Me Daughter:

Prologue: Cheryl

She lay quiet and serene, as if spending a day at the spa with a masseuse who resembled her beloved Jon Bon Jovi instead of lying in a hospital bed while a nurse drew blood for the umpteenth time. The doctor exited the room just moments before the nurse arrived.  

Her husband left to fetch us breakfast and coffee, his attempt at staying busy and distracted by seeing to the needs of others. Not that anyone cared or could eat.  

Our mother and father huddled in a corner. Every time someone came into the room to attend to her, they got up from their seats and stood out of the way. This time, they looked out the window, staring at the stark, grey wall of the building adjacent to the Sara Cannon Cancer Center where my sister now rested. They divorced more than twenty years ago, yet they clung to each other as if keeping one another from sliding to the ground. 

“The least they could do is give her a room with a better view,” my dad mumbled under his breath. “You know how she likes the outdoors. A little greenery would be nice.” 

“He said this was the best place for her,” my mom whispered to my dad. “He said…” She could not go on. She fought for control. They both struggled to keep up a façade of strength for the sake of their baby girl.  

I sat in a chair beside her bed, my fingertips lightly touching the blanket covering the arm now being used as a pin cushion.  

Unlike my parents or my sister, I could not hold back the tears. I felt helpless and angry, and I took my frustrations out on the medical staff. “Why do you need to be here?” I demanded from the nurse. “You come in here every hour or so and for what? Do you think her blood is going to get worse or her temperature is going to change that drastically from hour to hour? You either give her blood or take her blood. What good is it doing anyway? Why don’t you let her rest? She needs her rest!” 

The nurse smiled and sighed with empathy as she soundlessly continued with her duties.  

“It’s okay,” my sister said. She stared at me with a look of peace and contentment. “I’m not sleepy.” 

After the nurse withdrew and we were once again alone, I tried to bite my tongue, I really did, but my emotions got the better of me. I turned to face my parents, “How can you be so calm?” I turned back around and grabbed my sister’s hand. My eyes were swollen, and tears dripped from my chin. “How can you lay there like that? Why aren’t you mad? Why didn’t you give that doctor a piece of your mind?” 

My tirade failed to ignite any kind of reaction from her. I wanted my parents to cry with me. I wanted Ellen to get mad, to fight. Instead, she lifted her face and stared at a corner of the room. Then, she turned her head and took turns looking directly at the three of us. Pity sparkled in her eyes. She communicated so much about how she loved us and longed for us to be at peace without saying a word.   

Ellen signaled for our mom and dad to pull up a chair close to her. She raised her bed so that she could see us all as she spoke. I still held one hand. With the other, she reached for theirs.  

Eight hands rested in her lap. My mom could no longer hold back her pain. Even my dad, the strong, stoic soldier of a man lost his fight to maintain control. Ellen, sweet Ellen, joined us. Her tears were not filled with pain for herself, but instead, they were filled with the purest of love for us and sorrow that she was the cause of our grief.  

“We knew this was a strong possibility when the cancer returned. It’s not Dr. Chelum’s fault. He did all he could do, but as good as he is, even he can’t fix everything.” 

Ellen looked back at that corner of the ceiling. Part of me wanted to throw something at that corner and demand she bring her focus back to us, back to this moment. The other part of me longed to share just a fraction of her calm.  

As if sensing my angst, she turned her head to face me. “I don’t belong here,” she told me. “This isn’t my home. This has never been my home. I was willing to stay as long as God needed me here, but as much as I love you all, there’s nothing that pleases me more than the thought of finally getting to go home.” 

“But what about Aaron? Why are you in such a hurry to leave him, to leave us . . . me?” I pleaded. 

Ellen held her head in such a way that it seemed as if she looked at the three of us at once, personal, one-on-one, one-on-one, one-on-one. “I have no regrets. I may not have accomplished all the dreams I once had, but I have a new dream now,” she said. “I’m not giving up. We fought the good fight. It’s just my time. He’s calling me home. I’m confident that I’ve fulfilled whatever purpose I had here. I know you all love me, and I know this is hard for you, but try not to be sad. I’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. I get to go home!” She made the last statement with such glee, like a child telling a friend that she gets to go to Disney World.  

I pressed my face into her body. Her covers absorbed my tears.  “How can you be so calm?” My words were muted between my lips and the sheets, but somehow, as if hearing the pleas of my heart, she heard me and answered.   

“Because He calls me daughter.”