If Ever We Met

Hi guys, while dodging and looping through the high terrain of life, I've been working in literary contraction, proof reading the final draft my Christian military romance story 'If Ever We Met'. And while I've been slinging teasers over social media, here's a preview of the prologue just for you guys.

Feel free to read and comment!

I NEED FEED BACK SO DON'T BE SHY!

Jesus is working hard in editorial, as standard🙏💪❤️

PROLOGUE- THE LETTER THAT BROKE THROUGH

(Angela Caimile: age 41, Cherry Tree Walk, South London, early winter, present day)

I’m sitting at my desk, blank page in front of me, pen ready but fingers hesitant. The kettle’s still hissing, herbal steam curling into the air like prayer- and I think, Lord, are You listening?

I’ve never written a letter like this before.

Not like this.

There are soldiers out there, men and women, real people, not just uniforms stamped into headlines. They carry lives on their backs, breathe through grit and fear, bleed quietly in places no camera follows.

So I write. Not to flatter. Not to woo.

To see.

To say: I see you.

Because what is a soldier, really, if no one sees the soul behind the sleeve?

Two years ago, I didn’t have this clarity.

I was flailing.

Diagnosed with MS at thirty-nine.

Cut from career. Shelved by my own body.

The world shifted and suddenly, I was fighting battles invisible to everyone, including myself.

And in that spiral, I did something desperate.

Joined an online pen pal club.

Wrote letters. Looked for connection.

And walked straight into the polished teeth of a military romance scammer.

Five weeks.

That’s how long it took for my heart to catch up to what my head ignored.

Thankfully, I escaped before money entered the equation.

But the betrayal? Oh, it burned. It changed things.

So I turned that sting into something useful.

Into letters with no agenda. No bait. Just truth.

Tonight, I bow my head again.

“God Almighty, please... just be near them. Every soldier. Every soul tucked inside boots and combat gear. Protect them, not just their bodies, but their minds, their memories, their humanity. Let them feel something through these pages... even if it's just air between wounds.”

I know.

This won’t change the war. Or the policies.

It won’t bring home the fallen or heal the broken.

But maybe- maybe- it’ll remind someone, somewhere, that they matter.

I’m not asking for romance.

I’m not playing saint.

I just want to send comfort forward.

Because each letter I write drags something out of me.

Something I didn’t even know was waiting.

A longing.

Not just to connect… but to be used.

Used by God. Used by grace. Used for good.

So I pick up the pen.

I write.

Plain, dark green paper. No lines. No fuss.

The organisation I’m writing through will package it in a cream envelope, their standard. I get it. Uniformity. Protocol. But the paper? That’s mine.

That’s the part I can choose.

That’s where I speak.

If anyone ever writes back… I’ll switch to bottle green envelopes. Deeper. Personal. Something unmistakable.

A bridge between the pages and the person.

And yes, I repeat myself in every letter.

But I mean every word.

If just one soldier feels less forgotten, then I’ve done something.

Small.

But real.

“Abba Father, in Jesus’ name... let this reach who it needs to reach. Let the weary find warmth in ink. Let the guarded remember they’re still human. Amen.”

I seal the letter. Place it in the stack to be shipped.

And breathe.

Because I don’t know who will read it.

But I know God does.

*

(Kris Hauser, age 25, Fort Horizon, Silver Prairie, Kansas, Six Years Ago)

The barracks were quiet except for the hum of a busted AC unit kicking on and off like it couldn't decide whether to live or die. Somewhere down the corridor, Stevens was yelling at Bronski over cards. Kris had tuned them out. His boots were on, his tag was cold against his chest, and the sky outside was the colour of bad bourbon; murky, restless, looking for trouble.

He sat alone on his bunk, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it owed him an answer. The letter from Kendra was crumpled beneath his knee. The one she sent last week. Bright pink ink. Stickers. Little hearts like she was still sixteen. Like they both still were.

But they weren’t.

They were burnt out versions of who they promised they'd become.

And tonight, he wasn't writing her back.

He was writing to God.

"Hey Big Guy upstairs," he muttered, head bowed but not all the way. "I know we don’t talk much. But… how you doing up there?"

Silence.

Dust drifted past his cheek.

"I’ve got a favour to ask. A prayer, I guess. If You’ve got one for me, I want a woman who’ll stand by me. No matter what."

He exhaled. Slow. Like the air in him didn’t want to be part of this.

"Kendra and me... that ride's done. The makeup, the breakup- it's just hype and fuss. I can't do it anymore."

He rubbed at the back of his neck.

"She wants the uniform. Likes how it looks. Like it's some party badge. But not me. Not really. And don’t even start on Scott Senior. He’d say marrying her would be the best thing I’ve ever done."

He snorted. Dry.

"Yeah. Since apparently, I’ve never done anything right."

The wall across from him blinked in orange light.

He lifted his eyes just enough to see the chain swing slightly.

"Look, I’m calling it with her. For real. It's not her fault. It's mine. There's just a hole of nothingness in me and no one can fill it. Not even her."

A pause. Then the kind that hurts.

"Why is it I come alive when I’m fighting? Blowing things up? When I’m... destroying stuff?"

He rolled his tag between two fingers.

"I say I love her. But what’s that even mean?"

His voice cracked, not loud, not weak. Just honest.

"Everything I’ve ever loved is dead. Mom. Scott Jr. So yeah… love? It’s a word people use when they want something. Not when they lose it."

Outside, a truck rattled past like thunder.

"That’s why the military feels like home. My guys- they’re my brothers, my family. They know the weight. They don’t ask stupid questions. They don’t send letters with glitter."

He rubbed his face hard. Cleared his throat.

"Okay. That’s my prayer thing. Thanks for listening, Big Guy."

He stood.

Threw the crumpled letter into the trash, followed by one pink heart sticker that had stuck to his boot.

Then he walked out to the corridor and hit the weight room. Didn’t say a word to Bronski on the way. Didn’t talk to anyone for hours.

But in the far back of his mind, behind the drills and the steel plates and the sweat-

A woman with no name, no face, no lipstick ink, stood quietly beside him.

Because deep down, he knew.

He’d just asked for her.

And she was somewhere; maybe lifting up the exact same prayer, pacing, thinking, with headphones on, waiting for permission to speak life into the crack he’d kept hidden.

*

(Angela: Cherry Tree Walk, London, early winter, present day)

The bedroom was dim. Afternoon shadows stretched like sighs across the duvet. Angela sat hunched at her desk, a pen poised above thick paper, her fingers slow but intentional. Her knees ached. The MS had crept in earlier that morning like fog in her bones. But this—writing—this she could still do.

The scam had left bruises, not just in her inbox but in her spirit. A faceless predator hiding behind a stolen photo. She’d prayed herself out of the heartbreak and into clarity.

And now?

She wrote letters.

Not emails. Not texts. Letters. Real paper. Real ink. Real prayers. She found the program through a site full of earnest reviews; an organization that connected civilians to soldiers across the globe. No cost. No agenda. Just kindness.

But Angela?

She wasn’t just kind. She was precise.

She laid the pen down briefly.

Folded her hands.

And whispered:

“Lord God Almighty, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob... Firstly, thank You. For creating me. For not discarding me for my flaws, sins, and wrongs. You've still got something for me. Even with this MS, this relentless thing, You chose me. You allowed me to be. I’m past the ‘why me.’ Or at least, I’m learning to be past it. I ask You for a connection. A man. One who carries a need only I can satisfy. And that he, too, would meet a need in me- You know what I mean. You know that capacity. I'm standing on Your word- Mark, Matthew- they both say the same thing; If you believe the thing you’re praying for, it shall be yours. You caught me on a good day, Lord. I’m full-blown believing and receiving. So all I’ve got to do now is wait. And work. Lead me, Father. Lead me to do something. Amen. And amen.”

She opened her eyes, picked up the pen, and began to draft another letter:

Dear Soldier,

I’ll keep this short. I’m told you’ve likely received plenty of letters just like this one, so here’s nothing new. But it’s something.

Let me say thank you.

I don’t know your name. I don’t know where you serve. But I know—based on what little civilians are allowed to know—that what you do is not a 9-to-5.

There’s no polished brass in this work, is there? It’s unglamorous, high-risk, invisible to the world unless it makes headlines. Many of you die. You're honoured for a moment, and then, sadly, forgotten. Except by your families. And the brothers and sisters who knew your boots and your voice.

So from me- just one ordinary civilian- I see the job. I see that you’re a protector. A fighter. A person besides the uniform. And I suspect you don’t get told that part nearly enough.

I know nothing about military life.

But I know people.

And I think sometimes, what matters most is someone saying, without frills: You’re seen. You matter.

So—thank you.

Wherever you are.

Stay strong.

God be with you.

Warm regards,

Angela Caimile

(London, UK)

P.S. I always send my letters on plain green paper—dark and lined only by spirit. Makes them easier to spot when the soul’s a bit cluttered. If you choose to reply, look out for dark green envelopes.