Four years ago. Western North Carolina.

“Clara* liked your books and wants to write to you.”

My writer friend Jenna* from Colorado tells me this with a smile on her face. We’ve met up again on our last day at a writing conference in North Carolina.

I’m touched. Humbled. A little pleased with myself. (Yes, I like when people consider my books as time well-spent.)

Then she adds, “Course you’re not her favorite author. That’s J.K. Rowling.”

Oh. Well.

That’s okay, I think. Rowling is high up on my list, too.

“She also likes C.S. Lewis and Gillian Flynn and Daphne du Maurier,” Jenna says, ticking the names off using her fingers.

She pauses, her gaze searching for more authors in the air.

Meanwhile, I think I’m still pretty special to be in Clara’s top five.

But, Jenna goes on.

“Oh, and Jane Austen. She loves Pride and Prejudice. And Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series. And of course, anything by J.R.R. Tolkein. Especially Tolkein.”

She sighs and tilts her head. “There’s just so many she talks about.”

At this point, I wonder if I’m in the top hundred.

But, that’s okay. Jenna says Clara wants to write to the author of The Crossings Series, and here I am.

Apparently, I’m the only writer on Clara’s list that Jenna knows in person and could talk about to the girl.

Given Clara’s circumstances, it’s no wonder Jenna let her talk as much as she wants.

She describes Clara as the daughter of her neighbor’s sister. Thirteen years old. Beautiful, but too thin. Arms as skinny as a six-year-old’s.

Clara also has curly blond hair. Big brown eyes. Pale skin, swollen in spots. “A ready smile that makes your heart melt,” Jenna frowns and it looks wistful, sad.

But that’s not all Clara has: She also has a rare heart disease.

She’s been in the hospital for two months by the time Jenna and I talk. Doctors say she’s going to die. A 5-10 percent chance of living, they say. Her organs are shutting down. Her heart grows weaker every day.

Still, Jenna continues. “She’d like to meet Suzanne Collins and Stephanie Myer, but I don’t know how to get in touch with them. Have you ever met Veronica Roth?”

“No,” I say firmly before I might learn I’m not even on Clara’s top 100 authors list. I change the subject. “Was there anything in particular Clara wants to know about me or my books? She must have a reason for wanting me to correspond with me.”

Jenna looks down as a sadness crosses her face. “Your books… the ones about ghosts… she wants to know if you think that’s for real? I mean, do you think people can stick around as ghosts or even come back later to visit after they die?”

I sit back, my mind racing. How will I answer this question for a girl who is dying? A girl with needles and tubes attached to her body? A beautiful girl on the cusp of womanhood who will never get the chance to experience it?

“Is that what she wants to do?” I ask, my tone as soothing as I can make it. “Become a ghost and stay?”

Jenna chuckles awkwardly. “I think so, maybe. At least, that’s what she said. If she’s not too busy.”

Confused, I ask. “What do you mean if she’s not too busy?”

Jenna sighs again. Her shoulders droop. “Well, there’s a reason she’s dying so young, isn’t there? Her daddy told her only the good die young. She figures she must be real good and that God needs her soon. You know, to do things.”

Jenna’s gaze bores into me. “It’s so sad. There’s so much she’s going to miss out on, here on Earth. But she figures God is going to make things even better for her in heaven since He’s calling her up earlier.”

I feel a lump large as a boulder clog my throat.  

I can tell the same is happening for Jenna. And obviously not for the first time.

She continues. “She said God knows she likes to write, so He’s going to keep her busy writing things. Stuff to entertain everyone else in heaven, you know? If not that, then she wants to help with the angels.”

“What does she want to do for the angels?” I ask, fighting the sob that threatens to break loose.

“I don’t know. Maybe write songs for them. Or write down their stories about helping people back here on earth. She says that’s their job.”

“Wow,” I mutter, keeping my voice as steady as possible.

Jenna nods knowingly. “Her mama told her she might become an angel herself.”

She continues. “Because then she could come back to Earth and help others. She could do both, heaven and earth.”

I ask, “And that’s why she wants to know about ghosts. She thinks they can do both? Heaven and earth?”

“Do you?” Jenna asks.

The truth is, I don’t know. I know angels exist. I know we live in a supernatural world. That God is real and that He loves us. That there are things and events and spirits and phenomenon all around that we can’t see or understand. What’s more, we’re not meant to. Our directive, per Biblical principle, is to have faith and trust.

But I can’t write that to Clara. She wants a concrete vision for her immediate future. Instead, I offer, “Anything’s possible.”

Jenna barely hears my response, before continuing with this: “Clara asked me, ‘What if I can’t be an angel? I’d like to know my spirit can still come back and check on my family from time to time.’”

Now that, I can’t let go by. “I’m rather sure God will have her checking on her family. Maybe even have her guide them along a little if she sees them heading down the wrong path.”

Jenna jerks her shoulders back, excited. She hands me Clara’s address. “Could you put that in writing to her?”

I look away and wipe a tear.

Afterward, in the car, I take a minute to dry my eyes and compose myself before tackling the long trek back to my little corner of the world. All the while marveling at Clara’s words that she wants to correspond with me.

I laugh and it feels good, because I am the one who’s honored, humbled, blessed, to correspond with her.

Fast forward to last year. Same annual writing conference.

Jenna says Clara got to meet God a few months after she (Jenna) and I talked.

She doesn’t know whether Clara ever got my letter, but I hope so.

I’m pretty certain Clara was writing verses for the angels as I penned this article about her.

 

*Names changed for privacy–

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Wondering what else I write? Find my fiction novels here: www.dlkoontz.com 

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