“What would you have
to write about?”
I wanted to excuse
Mother's comments to her short term memory loss, her dementia, but
the words stung. They returned to feed my doubts. What did I have to
write about?
But I knew. I knew I had
to write.
I came to writing later in life. I recall being a speaker earlier on, the one asked to give
bridal and baby shower talks in church. My first official speech had
been as a festival entry in the sixth grade, where my nerves twisted the lines. I said Eskimos eat when they are tired, and sleep when they are hungry. Obviously I had to write
my speeches, but the focus was always on the presentation, more than on
the writing. Many times I was told I had a way with words.
And then ten years ago the
clear directive came:
“Some day you will have
to share your story.”
That instruction came from
the higher voice. While Isaiah 66:2 says: But there is something
I'm looking for: a person simple and plain, reverently responsive to
what I say. (The Message) Initially I was not very responsive to the writing directive, I was busy in survival mode. And when I considered
how to respond to the call, I spent time bargaining with
God. He and I wrestled through issues of obedience following disappointment. Soft words of encouragement came through scripture, a poem, a
song or people's affirmation. Knowing that if I was going to do something, I wanted to do
it well, I began taking writing courses. The courses taught that writing was a craft that could be
learned, and improved with practice. As with most early writers, I
feared the vulnerability. My story was very personal, and I felt as though I was standing naked before a crowd, but I realized I had to be authentic. There was no point to plastic words. I felt
called to write what I wished had been there for me in my time, the
words of struggle I needed to hear as I traveled the grief journey. Brene Brown
taught me that vulnerability was a strength, not a weakness. 
*First and foremost I knew
I was writing to an audience of one.
My published sister recommended to have my work professionally edited. I felt I could not pay for the
second round of edits, and let that be known to the chief editor. But when I spoke to the woman working on my manuscript; she confirmed my writing with her words: “This
is a story that needs to be told, I would like to help you bring it
to completion, without further charge.” Her final comments were: "I
want you to know, I share the same faith background as you." I had
randomly selected an editing group in Calgary through a Google search and God
confirmed it with a believing editor. Small and large miracles spurred me along
the writing way. Unbiased and unsolicited words from editing mentors, course
instructors spurred me on.
I've included a small selection of
verses, from Isaiah (The Message) that continue to encourage me along the way:
Is 43 “But you are
my witnesses ... You're my hand-picked servant, So that you'll come to know and trust me, understand both that I am and
who I am.”
Is 48:(?7) You have all
this evidence confirmed by your own eyes and ears. Shouldn't you be
talking about it?
Is 49: (2) He gave me
speech that would cut and penetrate. He kept his hand on me to
protect me. ... “You're my dear servant, Israel, through whom I'll
shine.” (4)
(7&8) ... The Holy of
Israel, who has chosen you .... I form you and use you to help
reconnect the people with me. ...(13) He has tenderly nursed his
beaten-up, beaten-down people.
My mother has read my book, and in her better moments of clarity she approves.
Jocelyn is the author of Who is Talking Out of My Head, Grief as an Out of Body Experience.
She blogs about Hope in the Hard Places at: http://whoistalking.wordpress.com
My mother has read my book, and in her better moments of clarity she approves.
Jocelyn is the author of Who is Talking Out of My Head, Grief as an Out of Body Experience.
She blogs about Hope in the Hard Places at: http://whoistalking.wordpress.com
