Coming Home, Chapter 3
Hey subscribers, for the past several years, many of you have known me as a nonfiction author and Bible teacher. I know many of your names. I’ve prayed for you and I’ve been prayed for by you. Transitioning to fiction may have felt jarring for some of you, but can I tell you something?
My heart’s message has always been that we live free because of faith in Jesus.
As I step into this new season, writing the novels that have been burning inside for decades, that message remains the same. It’s just shared in a new way.
In this third novel that we are unfolding together, Coming Home, we are exploring the theme of “home.” Not a place. Not a building. But what it means to find freedom that allows us to feel at home inside.
If you are still with me as I continue to take this new path, I want you to know how much that means to me. I treasure that support, and I pray you love this unfolding story.
If you want to read book #1 in The Legacy Series, Generous Orchid, click on this link.
Book #2, Single Scarlet Thread, is in the editing process and will be ready and available on Amazon soon. (For paid subscribers, you’ll receive notice so you can download it for free!)
If you need to catch up on this 3rd book in the series, Coming Home, you’ll find that here:
Let’s get to Chapter Three today! Grab a cup of coffee, pull up a chair, and let’s spend some time together.
(Book Club questions at the end. I can’t wait to hear what you have to share!)
Chapter Three, Coming Home
The ageless trees sashayed in the wind, as if dancing to welcome him home. Thomas threw his satchel over his shoulder and strolled to the long wraparound porch, his heart lightening with each footstep. He sidestepped a mama cat with three kittens pushing their paws into their mother’s side as they contentedly nursed. Jack, his father’s ancient Border Collie, stood to greet him, his tail wagging, his arthritic joints obvious as he lumbered toward him.
“Hey boy,” Thomas said, kneeling. He pulled the dog close as Jack rested his head on his knee.
The door flew open. “Son!”
Suddenly he was in the arms of his mother. In the sunlight, strands of silver sparkled through her once auburn hair. “I didn’t know you were coming. I would have prepared your room. Did you take the ferry?”
Thomas tossed his satchel on the rocking chair. “A classmate was traveling this way and said I could hitch a ride.”
“In a motor car?” Thomas’ mother laughed richly. “You have a friend who has a car? Well, that’s something!”
It was Thomas’ first time to ride in one of the new Ford automobiles. When they crossed the river on the Roebling suspension bridge, Thomas held his breath. It was magnificent. Factories hulked in the distance. Water rolled below. His hair whipped in the wind.
“My classmate will pick me up at the end of the road Sunday noon.”
He stepped inside the generational family home. A light breeze fluttered the light blue kitchen curtains. Pictures of his grandparents and great-grandparents looked down from the living room walls as if in greeting. An intricate red enamel tea pot graced the center of the kitchen table. He ran his hand over the surface.
Nothing had changed since he had been home at Christmas—and it felt right.
“Where’s dad?”
His mother pulled out a kitchen chair and took a seat, waving at him to join her. “He’s at the neighbors. Another family just arrived and he’s helping them build a barn. We sold them a milk cow and a mule; it’s important the animals have shelter before summer.”
Thomas nodded, unsurprised. It was likely his parents made less on the cow and mule than they should, and his father’s labor would be free. “Where are they from?” he asked.
“They fled Poland,” she said simply.
Over the past year unrest had hit the world like an unleashed virus. Rumors of unrest swept headlines and newswire reports.
“Do you think war is inevitable?” Thomas asked. “One of my professors said that Europe is standing on the edge of catastrophe. There are military buildups and diplomatic disputes in all the headlines.”
“That’s why so many immigrants are flooding into the United States,” she said. “They come to Covington because of our industry. There’s always a job available, even if it’s sweeping floors.”
Thomas appreciated this conversation with his mother. Even as a child, they discussed weighty issues, always with the hope of faith weaving throughout.
It was something that he missed.
“I just wish I could change the way that a few in our community treats our new neighbors,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts. “They view immigrants through a lens of fear. They don’t like the unfamiliar ways, or the fact that they can’t speak English well, or at all. The other day I was at market, and I heard Mrs. Wilson talking about an immigrant family that came to church. She said they should form their own church rather than come to ours.”
Thomas chuckled. “I imagine you didn’t hold your tongue.”
“I simply reminded her that they have experienced events that sent them thousands of miles from home at great cost to themselves. They’ve left behind everything. Even though many are educated or were established in a profession, they are forced to start over. I gently reminded her that the church should be a soft place to land.”
“What did she say?”
Annabelle shook her head. “She walked away.” She hesitated. “Mrs. Wilson is not a bad person. She is just afraid of what she doesn’t understand.”
It was no surprise to Thomas that his parents stepped in with a welcoming hand. His father, Joseph, in his early 70s, was a bear of a man, strong and open-hearted. Though he bore the scars of injuries obtained years earlier in China, he poured his energy into the farm and into the lives of others. His mother, Annabelle, was in her late 50s, and used her nursing skills to serve the immigrant population, bringing them to health once they arrived, delivering babies, and creating community among the womenfolk.
“Why don’t you go wash up and I’ll start lunch,” his mother said.
“I’m sorry I didn’t send word. When the opportunity came, I realized I wanted to be here.”
She crossed the room and reached for her son’s cheek. “You are always welcome, son. Always.”
Thomas ran up the stairs and unpacked his satchel. He placed the handful of hastily packed items in the tall dresser. He lay back on the bed to rest his eyes for a moment, and as he did, the image of red-haired Molly came to mind. He had thought about leaving her a note to say he was leaving, then wondered if she’d see that as presumptuous. After all, they had only had one conversation.
It might not have meant as much to her as it did for him.
What would she think of the farm?
What did she think of him?
Thomas’ father called out for his wife as he came through the door. He hung his hat on the peg by the door, grabbed her and pulled her in close, brushing a kiss across her forehead. When he turned and saw his son, he threw his hands in the air and rushed over, pulling him into a warm embrace. “I wish we’d known you were coming,” he said. “What a great surprise!”
Thomas’ mother brought a steaming pot of chicken and dumplings to the table. A skillet of cornbread rested on the stove. She placed a scoop of butter and a carafe of honey in the center of the table, along with lemonade.
Thomas’ stomach growled.
Over lunch, they continued the conversation from earlier as they caught up. They dove deep, talking about the farm, the community, and what was going on the world.
“Europe is like an old woman on busted legs right now,” his father said. “Some say war is coming.”
“I hope the alliances hold,” Thomas said. “When the topic comes up with my roommates, they say it has nothing to do with us.”
His father paused. “I believe it’s a privilege to be so unaware of others’ pain.”
“If I talk about it, they shut me down—though I’ve lived through a rebellion. I was only seven, but I will always remember fleeing on that ship. I know what it’s like to arrive on foreign soil and to feel a thousand miles from home.”
His mother handed him another piece of cornbread, butter oozing over the top. “I wish there was some way we could have made that easier for you,” she said. Guilt tiptoed into her words. “I was a mess.”
Thomas took the hot cornbread and set it on his plate. He placed one hand over his mother’s. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Neither of you did. I just always thought we’d go back one day, but I understand that events didn’t allow that to happen.”
“Your father wanted to go back,” she said, looking to him. He nodded in agreement.
“I wish we knew what happened to Sunsoo and Junhui,” Thomas said.
“Me too, son,” his father said.
And it was true.
Thomas grew up hearing his father praying for their old friends. He called out their names as he paced the floor late at night. It was as familiar a sound as the cicadas singing outside his window.
“We wanted to return. It was always the plan,” his father said. “But it took years to recover from the Boxer Revolution. Even now, the new Republic of China is trying to find its way.”
His mother pulled out a folded letter from her apron pocket. “This is from Dr. Wang. We received it yesterday. He still has no news of Sunsoo and Junhui, all these years later, but he caught us up on the community news. He said that he and Ting’s daughter is thriving. She’s twelve years old now. That’s hard to believe.”
As Thomas read the letter, his mother produced a lemon meringue pie with tall stiff peaks, edged in brown. She cut three slices, setting it in front of each. After they finished their pie, Joseph opened his Bible to a well-marked passage in Isaiah 32:18, reading it out loud:
And my people shall dwell in a peaceable habitation, and in sure dwellings, and in quiet resting places…
He bowed his head. Thomas followed suit, as his father’s words wound their way into his heart.
Lord, thank you for bringing Thomas home to us, even for this short time. On this day, we’ve talked about old friends. You know they continue to weigh heavy on our hearts. We pray this promise from Isaiah over them: May Sunsoo and Junhui dwell in peace. May their home be a place of safety. May they live in your rest and with a measure of your peace, wherever they may be. In your son’s holy and wonderful name, Amen.
Thomas would always be grateful for his parents. He counted this farm in Covington as a blessing. He even held tender hope for the beginnings of what might be a relationship with the striking red-headed girl, but what he longed for – more than anything – was to release the ties to the land to which he had never returned, so he could finally put down roots.
Lord, let it be so.
© Suzanne Eller, 2026 - do not reproduce or use in any format without permission.
Book Club Questions
Thomas says he has always wrestled with the meaning of “home.” What do you think truly makes a place feel like home: geography, people, memories, faith, or something else?
Joseph and Annabelle respond to immigrants with generosity when many in their community respond with fear. What influences the way people welcome or reject those who are different from themselves?
The Rhodes family continues to grieve the unknown fate of Sunsoo and Junhui years after leaving China. Why do you think unanswered questions can sometimes be more difficult than loss we fully understand?
Thomas carries memories of the Boxer Revolution while many of his classmates dismiss the possibility of war in Europe. How does living through hardship change the way a person views current events and the suffering of others?
The chapter closes with Thomas praying to let go of the past so he can “put down roots” where he is. Have you ever experienced a season when you needed to release something from your past in order to fully embrace your present? Explain what that was/is.
#5 I'm at the threshold of releasing my independence as my health declines. It's a distressing time. Even if I recover my health again this time, I'm aging and loss of independence is inevitable. Childless and with no close family makes it even more so.