The Writer

Before my mom died, she gave me a book by Mitch Albon. I haven’t read it. I don’t spend much time reading books for pleasure. I am much too busy to do so. I have planned my life around spending free time with my kids and have been a martyr to the notion of free time for myself. When I do indulge in self satisfying activities, I scrapbook or make things for gifts or garden or redecorate my house. When I do read, it is usually the Bible or a book that has to do with my faith.


When my mom first ended up in the hospital, in June of 2011, my heart sunk. I had so many things I wanted to say to her and so many ends that were left untied. My step dad said the doctors did not want visitors and I was getting text messages from my youngest brother about her status. I live in the Central Valley, where the temperatures rise above 100 on a very consistent basis. It was Saturday and we were celebrated my son Noah’s half birthday. He was born in January and hated to have his parties then. As I was running around the house to get his party underway, it started to rain. It was an eerie feeling. The temperature was cool and it did not feel like it was supposed to. That is when I got the text from my youngest brother that my mom was in the hospital. It was as if everything in my world stopped and things were going in slow motion. I walked upstairs to my room, went into the bathroom and locked the door. I wept uncontrollably. When I was able to compose myself somewhat, I called my younger sister. She too began to sob. The eerie feeling swept over me again and I had a flashback of when my father left. I felt responsible for her then, and now with death looming over my mother, I felt responsible for her again.

My son’s party started and my husband came looking for me. I told him what had happened and he graciously walked back downstairs to be the host. I was told that my mom had one week to live. I told my sister she had to come before it was too late. She lived in Portland, Oregon and driving 14 hours to Fresno was no easy feat with 3 kids under the age of 10. She got off the phone with me and began to pack for the unknown journey that lied ahead. I walked downstairs to engage in the party, but my heart was not in it. I felt angry and sad and confused and happy all at the same time. I wanted to scream and cry and run and hide all at the same time. It was that day that I started to blog about my journey of self discovery that was inspired by my mom’s sickness. I am still writing today.

My sister left early the next day and arrived at my front door, promptly at 7pm. We stayed up late talking about things daughters talk about when their young mom is given a week to live. We talked about our wounds and hurts and unmet expectations of our mother. We talked about the divorce of our parents and how it affected us as children and into adulthood. We talked about our own motherhood and being a wife. It was sweet and tender and real.

The next day we headed to the hospital to see mom. The few days that followed were intense. Sitting in the room with her was overwhelming. She looked worn and tired. She asked my sister and I to forgive her for things she had done, knowing and unknowing. She talked to each of us separately and shared her own hurts that we had afflicted her with. My mother told me that I was a talented writer. She told me that many of the things I had written had great power and influence, but was filled with hate and anger. She told me I should write in a way that encourages and inspires, which coupled with power and influence would change people and touch their lives. That night, I blogged for the first time, in a very long time, and have continued to do so.

My mother recovered, temporarily. She was sent home to do hospice care. I was asked to be a care taker during her process of death and agreed without any idea of the path I was about to walk down. During the process, I helped her clean out closets and organize files and create grandchildren books for her 4 kids, kids. I helped her separate the things she wanted to give to certain people and things she wanted to trash and things that were to go to a thrift store. In this process, my mother gave me a book. The book I referred to earlier, by Mitch Albom, was that book. She proceeded to tell me that this author reminded her of me, and how I wrote. She encouraged me to write a book and to continue to blog. She challenged me to finish a series I had started when I was 18 years old about Crailford Court. It all seemed untimely and overwhelming. I really did not care about writing a book and finishing a series. Yet it hangs over my head, this request, to write.

So tonight, I watched a Hallmark movie called, “Have a Little Faith.” It was based on a book written by Mitch Albom. It is a true story about his own personal journey of faith, after he was touched by 2 men, a rabbi and a pastor. Inspiring does not adequately described the message of this movie/book, as it stuck many chords in my soul that hummed a beautiful harmony. But who I am to think that my story can or will do the same? Who am I to think that my journey could inspire any? It surrounds me with a debilitating fury that causes me to sit at an empty computer screen, or worse the beginning of many could be books, that only have a beginning. I feel inadequate and become stricken with fear. Fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of the unknown. Perhaps I should read one of the books my mother gave me.

So I sit on my couch in my room, ready to write, but overcome with fear. So I blog instead, which is writing, ironically. How can I manage to write pages and pages for a blog, but only one page for a book? I want to jump off this cliff of adventure. I am standing on the edge, wanting to jump, but back up for fear of death. I need to just do it. Not look down, not look up, just run and jump! So here I go… ready, set……