I need to make absolutely certain that what I am writing is giving the best message possible, so I have decided to find a professional therapist or minister who is willing to help me with the book before I go any further. Thank you to the young ladies who volunteered to read some of it for me (if you've read three scenes, that's all I've got to show so far anyway!).
I know this is the wrong place to post this kind of thing, but I wanted to give a little gift in return. This is a short, humorous scene from the first novel, called Preacher's Son, and I'm posting it here just for fun, as a way of saying thank you.
God bless you all!
Diana
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(Setting it up... what you need to know for this scene is that the character, Randy, was at baseball training camp the day before this scene, so he's kinda tired. Randy's father is the pastor of a small, rural church. Martin is Randy's fraternal (not identical) twin brother.)
Randy’s throat hurt as he stifled his yawn until Mr. and Mrs. Parsons had passed through the church door. Martin stood on the other side of the entryway, grabbing every opportunity to rib him. Physical exhaustion and sore muscles, and standing there with only a lightweight sports coat to keep him warm, robbed Randy of his sense of humor.
One of Mrs. Winthrop’s pen and ink drawings graced the front of this week’s bulletin. If Randy didn’t know Dad was doing a series of sermons on the different names for Jesus, and this week was ‘Lamb of God,’ he would have thought he was looking at a sketch of a poodle. He turned the bulletin sideways to see if it looked any better.
“Pritchford!” Martin muttered.
Randy snapped his head up and saw the old woman making her way along the sidewalk. Dame Marcella Pritchford was of the original family Pritchford, who were among the first farmers in Stiles County and kin to Mr. Stiles himself. Her pappy, she claimed, was the constable of Sandy Fork, and she liked to remind Randy that Pappy Pritchford once put his great-granddaddy, Lester Fowler, in stocks for getting drunk and disorderly and shooting his pistol at Virgil Cooper’s milk cow, thinking it was a ten-point buck. He missed and hit the chicken coop. Cooper’s chickens didn’t lay for a month after that, Dame Pritchford insisted.
“Trade places with me!” Randy hissed to Martin.
“No way!”
“She always goes to the right. Come on, man. Trade places with me.”
“Forget it.”
Dame Pritchford’s nurse, Priscilla, took the old woman by the elbow to help her up the steps. When Dame Pritchford settled herself, she smiled at Randy from beneath her frilly hat. At least she remembered to put her teeth in this morning. Her cane thumped the bricks in advance of her tiny steps. Last week she had set that cane right on top of Randy’s foot. She’d put a permanent dent in his shoe.
“Good morning, Dame Pritchford,” Randy said, holding the bulletin at arm’s length to keep her from approaching him with that cane again.
“Ooh! Good morning, young man!” she said, ignoring the bulletin and coming closer. “Land’s sakes alive, Martin, but you’re getting so tall!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Randy said. It did no good to correct her.
Perfume smelling something like roses assaulted Randy’s senses. It wasn’t enough to cover the camphor liniment. Randy held his breath and kept smiling. His eyes began to water.
“Why, I remember when you were just a little boy playing with your toy soldiers underneath the pews.”
That had been Jimmy Shepherd, who had blond hair and blue eyes and had moved to Raleigh six years ago. But never mind.
“That was a long time ago.” Randy turned his gaze to the dent in his shoe.
“Oh, your preacher daddy was fit to be tied; you making your little gun noises during the Lord’s Prayer.” She followed this with her own animated rendition, almost poking him in the nose with her gun-finger. “Pshoo! Pshoo!”
Randy glanced at Martin, who was trying not to laugh.
“Did he give you your soldiers back, Marty?”
“Uhm…”
“Oh, he must have. Pastor Fowler is such a good man. You just don’t remember.”
“I’m sure you’re right, ma’am. Please, go right in. Enjoy the service.” He gestured toward the door and handed her the bulletin as she started to move. But she paused and reached up to pat his cheek; at least it was supposed to be a pat. Nurse Priscilla smiled sympathetically as she followed Dame Pritchford inside.
Martin could hardly speak for giggling. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you remember where you put your toys?”
“Dead meat, Marty!” Randy muttered, rubbing the side of his face.
I hope nothing I have said has offended you. If it has, I do apologise. 
