The Promise

My faith—my spirituality—is deeply personal. But it weaves its way into my fiction almost without me realizing it.

There’s a verse that threads through both of my novels, Sketches from the Heart of a Texas Artist and Safe Touch Down:

Cast all your anxiety on Him because He cares for you.

1 Peter 5:7

Yesterday tested me. I made a mistake months ago on the publishing side of my business, and it’s still haunting me. Yesterday, I had a reckoning. I had to get crystal clear about what I’m capable of and what I need to release. It was heavy. I was disappointed in myself. I had to look in the mirror and promise that I’d figure this out—get stronger, more organized, more aligned.

Better equipped to serve.

All of this is layered with the work I’ve been doing on my current novel, Safe Touch Down—a story about a woman, my heroine Mona Lamar, reclaiming her life after surviving a domestic assault. Her counterpart, Damien St. James, is a former running back for the Saints who fell from grace after a locker room escalation, and rebuilt himself as a personal trainer. He holds a mirror to Mona and asks her to look within—to remember who she truly is.

Writing Mona is second nature by now. I’ve been developing her for nearly a decade. But Damien… I get to know him more deeply with every line I write. And because I’m writing a Black American man with a complex past in pro football, I had to do my homework. So, I reconnected with someone from my past—someone who knew that world inside and out and who could serve as a cultural and character consultant.

The reconnection stirred old energy. Back when we were close, he played a significant role in my life.

So when I stumbled upon one of his Instagram reels—video of him training—I paused on a still image. He was on his knees, strong shoulders grounded, finger tips to a stability ball like he was deep in prayer. Something about it made me look closer. I noticed small lettering near the hem of his shirt. I zoomed in:

Psalm 71:21

I had to look it up.

You will increase my honor and comfort me once more.

I just sat with that.

Let it breathe.

Let it speak to the part of me that had been unraveling all day.

That verse found its way into my bones, fusing with my own silent prayer—

Cast your anxiety on Him, for He cares for you.

And that night, I dreamt of him.

There was a pool, and a message he came with.

He needed time to say goodbye because, he explained, he would have to drown himself so he could be reborn.

Watching it happen in the dream—watching someone so beautiful and strong surrender—was both haunting and holy. But I trusted he’d come back. I knew he would.

And he did.

Like baptism. Like resurrection.

I woke up and reread the Psalm.

You will increase my honor and comfort me once more.

And I thought about everything from the day before—the unraveling, the fear, the failure, the surrender.

The dream wasn’t about him.

He was a mirror.

A guide.

Showing me how to trust, how to let go, how to believe in what comes after the breaking.

Because things don’t crack open for no reason.

They have to—so that there’s space to receive what’s next.