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Excerpt from THE SHEPHERD'S SONG:
From THE SHEPHERD'S SONG by Betsy Duffey and Laurie Myers
Kate McConnell
opened her eyes. Where was she? There were bright lights above her. Movement.
The sound of a siren wailing.
She closed her
eyes and opened them again, hoping somehow this all would go away. It didn’t.
An ambulance.
She was in an ambulance.
What had
happened?
A man’s voice
called out behind her. “Female, age about forty-five, multiple injuries. BP:
ninety over sixty. Pulse: one-forty. Respirations: twenty-five, short and shallow.”
Each bump and
jolt of the ambulance brought pain, crushing pain in her chest and stabs of
pain down her right leg. Kate tried to grab her chest, but her arms were strapped
down. She shivered uncontrollably. Her blue sweater and pants were covered in
something wet—gooey and wet. Blood. He was talking about her.
A brief memory
came—her car sliding on the slick road, the sound of breaking glass and
crunching metal. A car accident. Panic rose in her chest. She had been
in an accident.
The newspaper
would later say it was the worst traffic accident ever on that section of I-95
between Washington, D.C., and Baltimore—twenty-five cars, six semis, and one
bus. The temperature Thursday had been fifty-five degrees, a beautiful day.
Then, Friday, it fell to thirty-one, unusual for October. A sudden snowstorm dropped
more than two inches of snow in just ten minutes, creating whiteout conditions
that took everyone by surprise, including the drivers on I-95.
The voice
behind her continued its calm clinical assessment. “In and out of
consciousness. Possible head injuries.”
“Help,” she
whispered. Each breath was raw. There wasn’t enough air. Dizziness swept over
her. She tried again. “Help.”
“Hold on. Try
to stay awake.” A young man leaned over her, making eye contact. His voice was
calm, but she saw fear in his eyes.
She tried to
nod but couldn’t.
“Be still;
we’re on the way to the hospital.”
Everything in
her wanted to fight free of the straps and the stretcher, but she couldn’t even
move her head. Pain radiated from her chest and leg.
The voice began
again. “Bleeding profusely from a gash in right leg—looks like an open
fracture. Possible internal injuries.”
For a few
seconds there was silence, the only sound the hum of tires on the road.
“Will do. We’ll
be there in five to eight minutes, depending on traffic.”
What had
happened? Kate remembered her morning, speeding from one activity to the next,
pushing her old station wagon to the point where it shook. An early-morning run
to the grocery store, then back home, then a twenty-mile drive to deliver
dinner to a friend who was recuperating from surgery, then a stop to drop off
the dry cleaning, then five more things on her to-do list. Then the snow had
started.
The cleaner’s.
She had been trying to get back to the dry cleaner’s, but for what?
She felt a hand
on her forehead, and she opened her eyes. The young man’s face came into view
again. His nervous eyes studied her.
“What’s your
name?”
She tried to
focus. Her name?
“Kate . . .
McConnell.” She gasped out each word.
“Your birthday?”
She tried to
come up with the answer, but it was too confusing. Tears welled up.
“It’s all
right. Just stay with me.”
“What hap—?”
She wanted to finish the sentence but could not.
“You were in a
car accident on the interstate.” He held her arm, feeling for a pulse. “There
was a pile-up. It’s a mess out there.”
Her mouth
opened and closed with a question unasked. She wanted to say the words, but
nothing came out.
“Matt,” she
finally gasped out the name of her son. “John.” Her husband.
“No one was
with you in the car. Just rest and stay calm. We’ve got you.”
She could feel
the sway of the ambulance as it passed other cars. The voice faded in and out.
She closed her eyes.
A new thought
came. She might die. Would it be like this, the end? So fast? With so much
undone?
Kate’s mind
drifted back and forth, weaving in and out of the events of the past week.
“I don’t think
my life matters,” she had told a friend. “I’ve been a Christian for almost
twenty-five years, and I haven’t accomplished anything. I can’t point to one
single person that I’ve had an impact on, even in my own family.”
“Of course you
have. You serve on the church worship committee, you deliver meals every week
to people in need, and you’re always writing down scriptures for people.”
“But are those
the important things?” Kate had asked. “Do those things matter?”
John. He
mattered. And Matt.
“Oh, Mom,” she
could hear Matt say. “You don’t believe all that stuff.”
Matt, who had
drifted away from faith when he’d started college, now refused to go to church
at all.
She couldn’t
get through to him.
Was she really
dying?
Someone lifted
her eyelid. It was the young man. He looked closely into her eye, as if he was
examining her soul.
“Stay with me
now.”
She felt the
ambulance sway, then the jolt of a sharp turn.
“Help,” Kate
gasped again as pain stabbed through her side.
“Stay with me.”
A wave of
dizziness. Then nothing.
John McConnell hovered over the
documents on his desk, every ounce of attention focused on the case before him.
Behind him shelves and shelves of legal books reached to the ceiling.
“Mr. McConnell.
A phone call, line three.” His secretary spoke from the doorway.
“I said to hold
all calls.” He continued scanning the document.
“I know, but .
. .”
“I am well
aware that we all need to get out of here.”
From his
twelfth-floor office he had been watching the snow fall. Two inches piled up on
his windowsill, and reports of accidents had begun popping up on the Internet.
“Did you finish
those edits on the Johnson case?” he asked.
He tried to refocus
his attention on the work before him. It was complicated, and now his
concentration was broken.
“It’s the
hospital.”
He looked up.
Her pale face and wide eyes shattered his calm. A ripple of fear grabbed his
stomach. Something terrible had happened. He knew it. He fumbled for a moment
with the receiver, then got it to his mouth with shaking hands.
“This is John
McConnell.”
“This is
Metropolitan Medical Center. We have an emergency vehicle on the way.”
“Is he all
right?” John’s voice went up in pitch. His mind was filled with thoughts of
Matt. His son was an inexperienced driver, and in this snow . . .
“Mr. McConnell,
it’s your wife.”
“My wife?”
“Yes, Kate
McConnell. She’s been in an accident. She’s being transported here.”
“How is she?
What happened?” A million questions flooded his mind. He could see Kate as he’d
left her that morning, loading the old station wagon with the dry cleaning,
recycling, and meals for friends.
“Hey, you’re
not taking all of those, are you?” he had said when he saw her carry out
the chocolate cupcakes.
Kate had
smiled, dimples showing. “I saved a few for you.”
He touched the
note that he had found this morning in his briefcase. Do not be anxious
about anything. Her neat handwriting stood out from the crisp white of the paper.
Kate was a
bundle of energy and a bundle of life. How could she be hurt?
“Mr. McConnell?
Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“We don’t have
the details, but please come as soon as you can.”
“I’m on my
way.”
Leaving the
file on his desk unfinished, John McConnell ran for the elevator.
Matt was in class when he felt
his phone vibrate. He considered ignoring it. He was really engrossed in this
lecture. The only other thing that could possibly interest him would be the
weekend’s plans. It was Friday, and he was not yet sure what the next few days
looked like. Maybe Joe had gotten tickets for the Rusty Bucket concert. Matt slipped
the phone out of his pocket.
Emergency.
Call me.
A
text from his dad. That was unusual. His dad hardly ever called him, much less
texted. Something must have happened. Matt was glad he’d sat in the back. He
left his books open on the desk and slipped out into the hall. Did they find
the empty beer bottles under the deck? He pressed call. Was he going to have to
listen to his father’s lecture about drinking and all the legal ramifications?
“Dad?”
Matt steeled
himself for the lecture.
“It’s your
mother, Matt. She’s been in an accident. She’s on her way to Metropolitan in an
ambulance.”
Suddenly
everything dissolved away: the hall, the classroom, the lecture that he’d been
so into. They were gone, and the words coming from his phone were everything.
“Not Mom.”
He couldn’t
take it in.
“Son, it’s
true. I don’t know her condition. Come to the hospital as soon as you can. I’m
on my way there now.”
Matt couldn’t
speak.
“Matt? Are you
there?” He heard the concern in his father’s voice.
“Yeah.”
“You okay to
drive?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
The phone went
dead.
Matt stood
frozen in place. It couldn’t be his mother. She was the strongest person he
knew. He had seen her handle difficult situations with ease, and handle several
at once. “Mega-Mom,” that’s what his friends called her. One tiny blond woman,
totally in control. He couldn’t imagine Mega-Mom in an ambulance. It must be
someone else. Someone borrowed her car. Something like that.
He waited for
his phone to buzz again, for his dad to call him back and say that it was all a
big mistake. What if it wasn’t a mistake? No, he couldn’t think that. He had to
keep it together. He had to get to the hospital.
A blast of cold air hit Kate’s
face as the ambulance doors opened, jarring her awake. She could hear voices. It
came back to her in a rush. The accident. She’d been in an accident. She opened
her eyes to movement. People were reaching into the small space around her, all
talking at once.
“Kate
McConnell, trauma patient.”
“Got it. Ready.
Lift.”
She felt a jar
as the stretcher was pulled forward, then lights and swirls of snow. The wheels
hit the ground, and they were inside within seconds. Masked faces in white and
green hovered over her. Gloved hands touched her.
Two
blue eyes looked down at her over a white hospital mask.
“I’m
Dr. Belding,” a calm voice said. “I’m taking care of you.”
The
white lab coat was comforting. His white hair spoke of experience. He was in
control. No fear in his eyes.
“We
are going to fight together,” he said. “Stay with me.”
The
face turned, and the voice changed to business.
“What
IV access do we have?”
The
paramedic was writing on a clipboard. He answered without looking up. “Eighteen
gauge in the right and left arms, both running well.”
Dr.
Belding grabbed the end of the stretcher and started pushing. “Let’s get her to
the trauma room and get her intubated.”
They
moved quickly down a long green hall. They rounded a corner, and the motion stopped
for a second like a turning of the tide, then all ahead again, into a spotless
room with gleaming metal machines and bins of white sterile packages.
Mechanical noises came from all directions, beeping and whirring. The gloved
hands moved over her, loosening the straps and cutting away her sweater and
pants.
“What’s
the blood pressure?”
“Seventy
over fifty. And decreased breath sounds on the left.”
“Open
up those IVs.”
Kate
could not seem to grasp what was happening to her.
“Can
you hear me?” Dr. Belding’s voice reached into her confusion.
“Can
you hear me?” Louder this time. “Give me a thumbs-up.”
Kate
wanted to lift her thumb, but the slightest movement seemed impossible. She
concentrated. She fought with all the determination she could muster. Her thumb
went up slightly.
“Good.
Let’s get some antibiotics on board, and some morphine, too.”
Kate’s
body was not her own. She felt someone open her mouth and put a tube down her
throat. No. No. I’m here, she wanted to say. I’m still in here.
She was helpless as chaos swirled around her. In the midst of it all, one
kernel of peace came to her. The Lord is my shepherd.
Of
course. The twenty-third psalm. That’s why she had been going back to the dry
cleaner’s. The psalm had been left in Matt’s coat pocket.
A
memory came—a vivid picture of herself sitting at the kitchen table, carefully
copying Psalm 23 onto a clean white piece of paper. She was writing as neatly
and clearly as she could, praying over each phrase. Then she was folding the
paper into a square and putting it in the pocket of Matt’s wool peacoat. She
had imagined him finding it and reading it. How could he not be moved by the
promises it held and the clear picture of God as his shepherd?
Instead,
anger.
How
long would she have to fight with him? And why didn’t John help her with the
fight?
Now
this.
Dr.
Belding’s blue eyes came into view.
“You
can rest now,” he said. “We’ll take care of everything.”
Wait.
Who was telling her to rest? She was confused. Did God want her to rest? No. No
rest. She had so much to do. She had to get up and get out of here. Her work was
not done.
Not
yet, God, she prayed. Please, not yet.
Sharing
Your Story by Betsy Duffey and Laurie Myers
We
love the name of Elaine’s blog, Everyone’s Story. It reminded us of the
Frederick Buechner quote "The story of any one of us is in some measure
the story of us all."
That’s
our favorite thing about writing – telling stories that inspire people to
understand their own story and their place in the bigger story of God’s love
for us. We wrote The Shepherd’s Song about the 23rd Psalm. It’s an
overarching story of one woman’s struggle for significance but also contains
twelve stories of individuals touched and changed by Psalm 23.
The
best part of writing the book – better than the amazing way we found our agent
and publisher – better than writing together as sisters - has been hearing
stories from our readers. It seems that the 23rd Psalm written so
long ago by David is still relevant and still connecting people to their
Shepherd. Now that’s good writing!
After
the book was released we waited. Would anyone read it? Then emails began to
come in. We heard from an atheist in India who discovered that God was real and
could be trusted. We heard from women in a prison in South Carolina who found
hope in the stories of second chances. We heard stories from women overcoming
cancer, struggling with marriages, wondering if their lives mattered. We were
blessed by our readers and their stories.
What
a great privilege it is to write.
Stories connect us and are universal. In the spring The Shepherd’s Song
was published in Bulgarian. Next month it will be published in German. In the
beginning of the book is a verse from Isaiah 55:11 “so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not
return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose
for which I sent it.”
What
an amazing promise from God to writers.
Thanks,
Elaine for having us on the blog today. We would love to hear stories from your
readers. Does anyone have a story to share?
Betsy and Laurie's Ah-hahs To Tweet:
Everyone’s Story hosts
@WritingSisters, Betsy
Duffey & Laurie Myers. #BookGiveaway (Tweet
This)
What’s the best part about writing? It’s not what you think! See
what @WritingSisters say. (Tweet This)
Authors: Do you hope & expect to
hear from readers? @WritingSisters want to hear from you! (Tweet This)
Authors' Bio:
The Writing Sisters, Betsy Duffey and
Laurie Myers were born into a writing family, and began critiquing manuscripts
at an early age for their mother, Newbery winner Betsy Byars. They went on to
become authors of more than thirty-five children’s novels. Their first book for
adults, THE SHEPHERD’S SONG, was being released in paperback April 2015.
You can connect with Laurie and Betsy on their monthly newsletter where they send out
updates and their popular free devotional books.
Places to connect with Betsy and Laurie:
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