Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Neta Jackson's award-winning Yada books have sold more than 500,000 copies and are spawning prayer groups across the country. She and her husband, Dave, are also an award-winning writing team, best known for the Trailblazer Books-a 40-volume series of historical fiction about great Christian heroes with 1.5 million in sales-and Hero Tales: A Family Treasury of True Stories from the Lives of Christian Heroes (vols 1-4). They live in the Chicago area, where the Yada stories are set.

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who do i talk to?

Thomas Nelson

Chapter One

Semiconsciousness rose to the level of my eyelids, and they fluttered in the dim light. Uh-uh. Not a lawn mower. Snoring. Philip was snoring and popping like a car with no muffler. I reached out to roll him over onto his side-

My hand hit a wall. No Philip in the bed. Something was wrong. What was it? A heavy grief sat on my chest, like someone had died. Had someone died?

I struggled to come to full consciousness and half-opened my eyes. Above me, all I could make out in the dim light was a rough board. I stared, trying to make sense of it. Why was I lying underneath a wooden board? Was I the one who died? Was I inside a wooden coffin?

Coffin?! A surge of panic sent me bolt upright. "Ow!" I cracked my head on the board, and the snoring stopped. Rubbing the tender spot, I squinted into dimly lit space and made out three bunk beds, one against each wall of a small room.

Mine was the fourth.

No coffin.

Blowing out my relief, I swung my feet over the side of the lower bunk but was startled as a hairy face pushed its cold nose against my bare leg with a soft whine. I reached out and touched the familiar floppy ears. Dandy. My mother's dog ...

And suddenly all the cracked pieces of my life came into focus.

I'd just spent the night at Manna House, a homeless shelter for women, where, until yesterday, I'd been on staff as program director.

The small lump in the bunk across from me was my mother.

The bigger lump in the bunk next to her, producing the high-decibel racket, was Lucy, a veteran "bag lady," who for some odd reason had befriended my frail mother.

Mom and I were "homeless" because yesterday my husband had kicked both of us and the dog out of our penthouse condo along Chicago's Lake Shore Drive, changed the locks, and skipped town ... taking my two sons, P. J. and Paul, with him.

As reality flooded my brain, I fell back onto the bunk, bracing for the tears I knew should follow. But the well was dry. I'd cried every drop the evening before and long into the night. Now raw grief had settled behind my eyes and into every cavity of my spirit.

I must have dozed off again, because the next thing I heard was a ringing handbell and several raps on the door. "Wake up, ladies! Six o'clock! Morning devotions at six forty-five sharp, breakfast at seven. People with jobs get first dibs on the showers." The footsteps moved on to another door. "Wake up, ladies! ..."

I groaned and sat up, being careful not to hit my noggin again on the bottom of the top bunk. Should have gotten up when I first awoke and jumped in the shower then. No telling when they'd be free now.

My mother was stirring on the bunk next to mine, but Lucy's bunk was empty. "Mom, you okay? Do you need help getting to the bathroom?" I pulled on the same slacks I'd been wearing the night before.

"I'm all right." She gingerly got out of bed, attired in a pair of baggy, clean-but-used flannel pajamas the shelter had provided, then carefully spread out the sheets and blankets. "But I don't have my clothes. Where are my clothes? I have to take Dandy out."

Dandy! A quick glance confirmed that the dog was not in the room. But neither was Lucy. "Don't worry, Mom. I think Lucy took him out. Wasn't that nice? You can put on the slacks and top you wore yesterday. Mr. Bentley said he'd bring our things when he got off work last night." The doorman at Richmond Towers had kindly offered to load his own car with the piles of bags and suitcases my husband had unceremoniously dumped outside our penthouse door, but Mr. Bentley didn't get off until ten o'clock and still hadn't arrived when we'd gone to bed. Who knew how long it had taken him to get all that stuff down the elevator from the thirty-second floor!

But if there was one person in the world I could count on, it was Mr. Bentley. Our stuff would be downstairs ... if we ever got there.

Clutching the shelter-issued "Personal Pak"-toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, deodorant, comb-my mother managed to navigate the crowded bathroom with me hovering right behind her. She even smiled as several of the young residents called out, "'Mornin', Gramma Shep! How'd ya sleep?" and "Hey! Nice of Miz Gabby ta stay over with ya."

I wanted to die right there. If they only knew.

Good thing I had no time to linger in front of the mirror after brushing my teeth. I looked a fright. My hazel eyes were red rimmed and my frowsy, reddish-brown curls a snarly mess, and would probably stay that way until I got a chance to wash my hair and use some conditioner.

Back in the bunk room, I tried not to show my impatience as my mother slowly dressed. Is it too early to try calling the boys? I had to talk to them! It was already seven thirty in Virginia. I fumbled for my cell phone. Not in Service blinked at me.

I groaned. Right. I forgot. Philip had canceled my cell.

Okay, I'd use my office phone ... wait, I needed to get a phone card first. Shelter phones had local call service only. "Mom, come on. You ready?"

My mother looked at me reproachfully. "Always in a hurry. Hurry, hurry ..." But she put up her chin and headed out the door.

The night manager had told us last night we could use the service elevator-not available to most residents, but they made an exception for my seventy-two-year-old mother. But Mom had taken one look at the small cubicle and said she'd rather take the stairs, so this morning we went down, one step at a time, to the multipurpose room on the main floor, where the residents were gathering somewhat reluctantly for morning devotions. I realized that even though I'd been working at the shelter for two months, I had no clue what the morning routine was like before 9 or 10 a.m. when I had usually arrived. "Guess I'm going to find out," I murmured, pouring two ceramic cups of steaming coffee from the big carafes on a side table, added powdered cream, and settled down beside my mother in one of the overstuffed love seats.

"Buongiorno, signores! Who will read our psalm this morning?" The same booming voice that had woken us up with a thick Italian accent, packaged in a sturdy body about five foot four, black hair pulled back into a knot, waved her Bible and "volunteered" the first person who made eye contact.

I'd met the night manager briefly at our Fun Night several weeks ago and again last night, but for the life of me I couldn't remember her real name. Everybody just referred to her as "Sarge." I'd been told she was a God-fearing ex-marine sergeant, just the sort of tough love needed on night duty at a homeless shelter. She knew my mother had been put on the bed list, but Lucy's and my arrival last night with a muddy mutt in tow had thrown her into a conniption. She and Lucy had gone nose to nose for a few minutes, but with my mother crying tears of joy over the return of her lost dog, to the cheers of half the residents, Sarge had the presence of mind to call the Manna House director to ask what to do with the shelter's former program director who'd just turned up with a muddy dog, distraught and needing shelter.

I could only imagine what Mabel Turner thought. How many times had the director graciously made exceptions for me in the two months I'd been on staff? I'd lost count.

But somehow Dandy had gotten a temporary reprieve, and we both...