A Trip for Two

Several years ago my sister in-law, Philana, and I drove to her cousin's home for a girls weekend in beautiful Monterey, California. We'd known each other for three years, but prior to this weekend, we  hadn't spent any quality time together. This trip was designed to remedy that.

She picked me up in the morning, and our three hour jaunt took us through sections of California's  scenic Central Valley and into the breezy coast of Monterey.  We talked about our families and our jobs, and short snippets about Gilroy's Garlic Festival, and our infrequent visits to Anderson's Pea Soup. Other than that, we drove in virtual silence. The silence had nothing to do with us not wanting to converse. We wanted to talk, but it was strained. What should we talk about? I figured the only thing we had in common was our connection through Laurence. The small talk was enough to get us there, but I honestly wasn't looking forward to the long drive home.
I'm so thankful that the weekend didn't continue the way it began. During those two days, we discovered things about each other that we might not have learned for several years. We had similar tastes in foods and restaurants. We cherished "alone time" and shared a healthy appreciation of what looked and feels best on our feet... we loved shoes! With her cousin Cheryl, we laughed at memories that they shared of their childhood and young adult lives. They filled in some of the questions I had about their family history, and assured me that my husband's "imaginary cousin" (as I referred to him) was in fact a real live person.
Philana and I left Cheryl's house in the early afternoon, had lunch, then headed home. The drive back was in every way different from the first.  We shared stories about marriage and family similarities. We talked about our homes, our husbands and our hopes. This time our Gilroy comments could be more extensive because the slight shift in our comfort zones meant we could share why we were or were not planning to attend this year's Garlic Festival.  One of us even found out that although Anderson's Pea Soup has no bacon in it, a true vegetarian would do well to avoid their potato soup, being that it's really clam chowder!

There was only one thing wrong with the drive home: It went by too quickly.

That's the thing about life. It's a journey, a trip. A trip best traveled in groups of two or more. The journey can be made alone, but why? I like "Me time" but I have no desire to spend my life alone.  Too much ME time means not enough You time. Too much Me time means I don't get the privilege to discover who YOU are. Traveling alone makes the journey monotonous and long. Traveling with a friend brings us to our destination that much faster.
Here's how I see it: Life is about relationships. If we were meant to journey alone, God could have put us on our own little planets and left us there to figure it all out.  But that's NOT what He did. He gave us parents, children, grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles, neighbors, co-workers and in-laws so that we can cultivate meaningful relationships.
When I invite others to join my journey, or when I step on to the path of another person's journey I don't always know where the road is leading, or when it will end. That puts me in a vulnerable place, so I'm sometimes hesitant. It's okay though, because not knowing the ins and outs makes it the ultimate adventure! Relying on another human being is a part of the ride. It's vital that I experience the journey with someone! The discoveries I make are not just about me. I'm learning that in matters of life and death, I have an opportunity enhance a fellow traveler's experience, which means my journey is also being enhanced.
Looking back on the weekend with Philana makes me smile a lot, and weep a little. I smile because I remember how our friendship began. I weep because we didn't spend another girl's weekend together before she passed away. But I am reminded of Steven Curtis Chapman's song, Not Home Yet (!).  I'm thankful that part of my journey was shared with my friend Philana. And when the time comes and this leg of the journey ends,  I'll begin a new journey with Jesus.  That journey will also include Philana. We have a lot of laughing to catch up on!

I Wish...

Christine writes, "People who knew her would say, "Your mother loved you and she was proud of you." That made me smile.  My mom always wanted to live on a ranch with horses and chickens.  If I could have a do-over, I would take her to live her final days on a ranch.  I can see her smiling now."
With Her and Without Her p.107

Do you ever wish you could have done something specifically for or with your mother before she passed away?  I do.  I wish I could have played my cello for her. I wish I could have brought my big beautiful "oversized violin" into her bedroom, and played while she rested. Oh, wait a second.  I didn't play so well. I knew a few pieces, but the truth is, she might not have enjoyed what I was able to do at that time, but the fact still remains, I WISH.   I know I COULD have played for her, but I didn't.  I thought about it, but the approval-seeking child in me surfaced and convinced the level-headed adult that it would be wrong, even torturous to give her anything but THE BEST. Unfortunately, my mother only heard about my cello. She never heard me play it.

Wouldn't it be delightful if I could sit here and tell you that I've honed my skills, I can now play with the  ease of Yo-Yo Ma?! Ha! I wish! The truth is, I've seldom had (ahem... TAKEN) the opportunity to hone my skills on the cello.  I played for a while, but I progressively let other priorities take precedence over practice, and today my big beautiful cello sits untouched.

You may be wondering why I'm writing about my unfulfilled wish and my unplayed cello. So let me get to the point. I didn't play for my mother when the opportunity was there.  I didn't stop playing immediately after her death, it just became one more thing to do. So now in my craft room sits an unplayed instrument. I plan to remedy that, and here's how: I can no longer play to my mom, but I can still play and honor her at the same time.  My plan is to pick up where I left off.  I'll find a teacher, dust off my bow and start playing again. It won't be easy, but "inch by inch will be a cinch."  It'll be years before I can give Mr. Ma a run for his money, but it shouldn't take too long before I'm ready to play a little something on my own. That might mean playing for family members or friends, but I'm willing to do it. Furthermore, I'm going to do this in memory of my mom.

What about you? Is there something you'll consider doing to honor your mom's memory? Challenge yourself, and let us encourage you in your endeavor!

A Moving Message

"Who and what we are, are directly related to our life experiences. With some exceptions, our mothers shaped our lives and set the standard for who we are and what it means to be a woman. " With Her And Without Her p 90-1

I received a heart-wrenching email last week. It was written in response to my book, With Her & Without Her.  The sender began the email by saying that the book stirred a lot of emotions in her. She wrote a beautiful letter, however, it wasn't about the book, it was about her life. It was about a childhood filled with pain and heartache. It was a letter about a little girl who loved her mother so much that in spite of the emotional  and physical abuse, she did whatever a child could do to help and protect her mother. The letter described the child's anguish upon witnessing her mother being brutally beaten, and later the teenager who cleaned her alcoholic mother's vomit off the apartment stairwell.  The email takes a brief sigh of relief when she recalls riding the bus every weekend to visit her grandmother, where she found safety and love.
The question that rings in my head is, how do those children survive? What does it do to a child's heart, her self-worth, and her love for others when the person who is supposed to shelter and protect her is her abuser or else turning a blind eye to another abuser? I can't say that I understand the psychology of it all. I don't know how children survive, sometimes even thrive later on in life, but I know it happens. I also know that there is guilt associated with being abused. Children are often told "You asked for it", when "it" is the thing they most fear.  I know that it is often the case that the abused has to bury the memories of the past, so that they can see a future life. Often that burial means walking away from the parent who did not physically hurt them, but did nothing to rescue them. Sometimes life with her has to end in order for without her to begin.
The young lady who wrote the email is an example of an adult child who has to live without her mother although her mother is alive. That does not mean she no longer loves her mother. On the contrary, living without her could be the best way to express her love. While it may be controversial, it is important to understand that a toxic environment does not foster health and growth. If healing is to happen, it must happen in the heart of the abused.
In addition, there are often feelings of grief that must be worked through. The abused may grieve the loss of the mother they never had. There may be anger, guilt, depression, trust, and self-esteem issues that plague adult children of abusers. There are support groups like Al-Anon, Families Anonymous and Adult Children of Alcoholics who have trained counselors ready to assist adult children of alcoholic, drug addicts and other abusers.
I applaud the young lady who wrote the email. I believe reaching out is an enormous step to recovering and reclaiming her life. To her and to millions like her I quote the weeping prophet who said,

I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I will remember them, and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. I say to myself, "The Lord is my portion. Therefore I will wait for Him."

Lamentations 3:19-24

Sisters & Friends

Several years ago a friend and I were taking some much needed time to catch up on one another's life. In the course of conversation she casually mentioned that her mom had passed away. In fact, she stated it so nonchalantly that I responded in like manner.  My "I'm sorry to hear that" reply went out, and we continued on with the discussion of other events. I had no thought or clue that her casual tone was masking her inner pain.

Earlier this year she and I had the opportunity to revisit that conversation.

When we had that first conversation, my friend's family lived on the east coast while she lived 3000 miles away, on the west. She had flown home to assist her father in caring for her ailing mother, who was rapidly declining. She witnessed her mother's passing, and stayed there until her return to California was imperative. Returning meant jumping back into the swing of things, which included two children and a myriad of other responsibilities at home and work. In her mind, our time together was a way of escaping her world. It was not a time to invite me into the chaos of her misery. When she mentioned her mother's death, my response was what she expected it would be.  Knowing that my mother was still alive, she didn't expect me to understand what she was experiencing. She silenced her grief so as not to make me uncomfortable with the anguish she was feeling. When she briefly referred to her mother's passing as if it was a non-momentous occurrence, she thought she was doing both of us a favor.

There's a section in my book entitled "Assessing Reality". There, I asked the question, How are you? I also addressed the need we have to be Fine, Better, Back to Normal...etc after our mothers have passed.  "As women, we are traditionally the nurtures, caregivers, counselors, and planners.  We often find it difficult to give ourselves permission or opportunity to step away from our roles for an extended time, even when we hurt." With Her & Without Her pg. 88  It's as if we're searching for an end to grief by making it an insignificant part of life. In reality, we may feel unequipped to handle what life has thrown at us.  It is important to know that when our mothers passed away, we automatically became a part of a world wide sisterhood.  We belong to a chain of women who have lost the most significant key to who we are and who we will be.

Although I was not a part of that chain of sisters when my friend's mom died, I was all she had. 3000 miles separated her from her family, and she needed a sister. The problem was, she tried to mask her grief.  Leaving her everyday environment and taking time for herself was a wise choice, but it's important to remember that escaping doesn't make the pain go away. There are occasions during grief recovery that we need to be available to our own feelings. Being available to our own feelings means  letting go of our need to keep our emotions on lock down. It may mean letting someone else in on our pain. After all, a burden shared is a burden divided.

I believe it is important that we look for those teachable moments in life. As women who have experienced the loss of our mothers, we have the opportunity to touch the lives of those who are links in this chain of sisters as well as those who are not. Talking about our loss, our pain and the desire to regain normalcy could very well provide just the needed insight for a woman who is yet to experience that same kind of grief.

We do not all grieve the same way.  Nor do we all have the same desire or need to talk about our grief and the emotions that accompany it. It's therefore vital that we participate in healthy grief so that we can rediscover what normal feels like. Normal does not negate our loss, on the contrary, it will help us embrace it.

Old Friends Part 2

Last week I told you about "Betty." Here's the story about my friendship with "Amelia".

I don't know the difference between a Chrysler and a Ford, but whatever it was, I often saw it gliding down my street at about 15 miles an hour.   It looked like something out of a 1960s television show. You know, the kind of car you might have seen on Leave It to Beaver. The driver's head was visible from the side window, but could barely be seen over the steering wheel. She casually waved to me just before she  turned into her driveway across the street and three houses down from mine. The white house with red brick siding and large picture window was designed much like my 1940s house.  I watched her park that big ol' white "tank"  in her one car garage. I was sure she'd knock the side mirrors off or scrape the tale-end, but she manipulated that car with flawless precision. Moments later the garage door closed, and that was that. Some days she would go from the garage to her front yard, reposition her water hose, then disappear into the garage again. That was the extent of our contact... for about two years. Not meeting Amelia wasn't intentional. I hadn't given it a second thought. Actually, I hadn't given it a FIRST thought. I was fine watching her drive by, wave and park.
I was working in the yard one afternoon, when I spotted "the tank" approaching. I waved, but to my surprise, she slowed down, and stopped in the middle of the street.  I saw her glasses first, then I saw her face. She looked to be around 80 years old. Her hair was a precisely measured combination of dark grey and white. Her small frail looking finger beckoned me. It was the way her  pink lipstick moved that clued me in on the fact that she was saying something to me. I found myself standing in the middle of the street,  my head lowered so that I could understand her quiet raspy voice. "My name is Amelia" she said, over enunciating the syllables, "AH-MEE-LE-AH".  She must have picked up on the Huh? I can't hear you look I gave.  She didn't raise the volume of her voice, she simply spoke distinctly. In less than two minutes, I learned that she was born in Greece and raised in California. She was widowed and had two children. She was a school teacher, and she enjoyed traveling. At that, she bade me "good day," and drove on. I watched her car until she turned the corner, and I returned to my yard.  I took our short interaction as my cue to stop waving and start visiting.
The first visit was a little awkward. I rang the doorbell and waited. I wasn't sure if she was home because I hadn't seen her drive pass my house. When she opened the door, her greeting sounded like she was expecting me. "Well, come in!" she said, opening the door wide enough for me and the rest of the neighborhood. "I just stopped in to say hi" I said, stepping into her quiet home. I felt unexpectedly strange about being there. It was like I was secretly visiting someone's grandmother. "I won't be staying long," I said. Maybe I was hoping she would be glad about that. "Stay as long as you'd like," she smiled. "We're going to be good friends."  Five minutes, and I'm outta here! I didn't say that, but it sums up what I was thinking.  I sat down and looked around.  Everything was settled and polished and ascetically placed. I had a mental flashback to the four year old me. Sit still and be quiet.
Amelia didn't move quickly, but she certainly had zest. She sat in the high back chair across from me. We reintroduced ourselves, and before I knew it, my five minutes had given way to about thirty minutes of talking, laughing and getting acquainted.  On my way out, she thanked me for coming and asked that I come again. I did, but not very often. I missed Betty, but I didn't want Amelia to be Betty for me. I wanted to be her friend although I had a little trepidation about her age and my heart. I didn't want to miss her too.
Over the course of a few months, Amelia stopped driving. She began taking a cab or calling her daughter to take her to her appointments. One day she called me. She had "an emergency" hair appointment, and her daughter wasn't available to take her. Not a problem. When we arrived, I walked her into the salon. There were three or four other elderly ladies already seated. One lady asked Amelia about her daughter, who had been bringing her. Amelia did a Queen Elizabeth-like wave and announced "This is my friend, Kimber. She's the ambassador of friendship." Just as the oohs and ahhs started, an awkward smile gripped my face. I greeted the ladies, turned and made a quick exit. Driving home, I laughed. No, I thought, she's not Betty. She's Amelia, and we're going to be friends for a while.

Amelia and I didn't DO things together. As a matter of fact, the beauty salon trip was the only time we went anywhere together. I visited her, but I didn't always go into her house.  I often stood on her steps for  a few minutes and we'd chat. Then we wouldn't see each other for a week or two.
I suspect that Amelia enjoyed our short bursts of visits just like I did. Our chats gave her the opportunity to dream out loud.  "Let's go to Greece!" she said out of the blue. She didn't ask if I wanted to go or even if I liked traveling. I could have said no, but why? I had never been to Greece, so why not dream a little with my friend? She told me about the places we'd see and how long we'd stay. She talked about the food and, "oh by the way, have you been to the Greek festival yet?" "No?! Let's go next year!" "Do you know (this official or that official)?" "No?! I'll introduce you." That was how she was. She wasn't ready to stop living, even though she depended on others to be a part of her dreams.
I knocked on Amelia's door one afternoon, but she didn't answer. I phoned her, and still no answer. I figured she was out on one of her many appointments. But when I didn't hear from her or see her for over two weeks, I worried. One day I was walking by her house and saw her in the window. Phew! She had been in the hospital with the flu.
The next time she was "missing", it was for several weeks.  I kept an eye out for her. Several more weeks passed, and I feared the worst. One Sunday morning I saw an estate sale sign on Amelia's lawn. My fear was true. Amelia had died. Her children were selling everything in her house. I took the opportunity to walk over and introduce myself. Her daughter told me that Amelia had been in the hospital with the flu. She was recovering, so they transferred her to a nursing care facility. While she was there, she fell and broke her hip. She passed away several days later.
I was sad to know that I would no longer see Amelia, but I didn't mourn her passing the way I did when Betty passed. I liked Amelia, and especially enjoyed being part of her dreams. I knew from the beginning that this kind lady who drove the tank was not just looking for a friend. She needed someone who believed in her dreams just as much as she did. But it wasn't just about her dreams. God placed Amelia in my life for me. I learned some important life lessons during the season of our friendship.   First Lesson: Don't just wave, stop in for a visit. Second Lesson: Be an ambassador. Third Lesson:  Be a part of someone's dream.

I You, God for my friends, Betty and Amelia.

Old Friends - Part 1

Several years ago I met and befriended two elderly ladies who lived on my block. The first was "Betty", the second was "Amelia"(Not their true names).  In this blog I'll tell you about my relationship with Betty.  I'll tell you about Amelia next week.

Betty and I met in my driveway on the day of my yard sale.  Before then, I didn't know who lived in that cute little white house with the large porch at the end of the block. She was about 70 years old, and must have stood around 5'10 before the bend in her spine reduced her to what might have been 5'6. Her shiny white hair was fine and wispy, beautifully contrasting her strong jaw line. Behind her thick grey square-rimmed glasses she had large blue eyes. Her long legs glided her to the table where I was standing. She smiled, so as not to reveal the smoke stained pearls behind her thin lips. The clear plastic tube that looped around her ears and rested with two small tubular openings at the base each nostril were attached to the oxygen tank on wheels, that she had in tow. She smiled. I smiled. We talked. We haggled...and viola! A friendship was born.
I began visiting Betty about three or four times a week. We ran errands together, or I did her grocery shopping when she wasn't feeling well. Sometimes I cleaned her house while she napped, and other times I just visited.  One day she confessed that she didn't understand why I spent so much time with her, knowing that she couldn't reciprocate. Frankly, I hadn't given a single thought to reciprocation. I guess it boiled down to this; I saw a need, and filled it. (Knowing that my three year old enjoyed the visits didn't hurt either.) Before long, I fell in love with that sweet old lady with the large eyes and the oxygen tank. Oh, wait... let me add to that... Before long, I fell in love with that sweet old lady with the large eyes, the oxygen tank, AND the stage four lung cancer.
Our friendship lasted about a year. I hadn't noticed how rapidly Betty declined until the hospital bed was delivered.  Day after day, I sat on the side of her bed holding her weak hand while we watched the news, or she'd tell me stories about her late husband and how they raised their children. When the hospice nurse, her children or grandchildren visited, I shortened my stay. Within about three weeks, the pain had become so severe that she was receiving increasingly heavy doses of morphine.  All too soon my dear friend, Betty was gone.
The mass was held in a little chapel behind a large cathedral where Betty had attended for many years.  When I saw the modest building, I didn't understand why the service was held in such a small place, but when the attendees arrived, I got it.  The chapel's seating capacity was about one hundred,  but only about 15 people showed up.  How was it that this kind old lady's funeral service was so poorly attended? Where were her friends?  I took notice of the white hair around me, and I understood why there were only 15 people there. Unlike me, Betty hadn't lived in California the majority of her life.  Most of her friends lived on the East Coast. I knew her story, but hadn't considered it much, until now. When she and her family moved to California, she didn't work outside of her home.  Her job was to tend to her children. Her husband's friends were her friends. After he died, his friends slowly stopped coming around.  This was probably why her visitors consisted of her daughters, her grandchildren,  the nuns, my daughter and me.
When Betty came to my yard sale she didn't look like a lonely woman in need of a friend, and I certainly wasn't looking to add more to-dos on my list. As a matter of fact, had it been left in my hands,  Betty and I might not have met. I'd often walked passed her house, without thinking that there could be someone beyond those walls who was in need of my friendship. Had I been busy with another customer at the yard sale, I might have given her a quick friendly glance and thought nothing more about it. As it went,  the event was orchestrated so that Betty and I could meet.  I believe this was a divine appointment.  How many Bettys live on your street? Work in your office? Go to your church? Are you a Betty? Are you staying home, locked up in your loneliness, or is there a divine appointment schedule for you?
Betty's death left  a vacancy in my heart. Then I met Amelia.

Reality

"The unfortunate reality was that for most of my childhood, I believed she didn't love me.  I thought she loved my siblings, but not me.  I believed she cared about me.  After all, it was she who cooked and cleaned and provided for me.  Of course she cared.  But I thought she didn't genuinely love me the way I THOUGHT a mother should love her children.  The way Carol Brady loved her children, or the way Claire Huxtable loved hers.  Those thirty-minute TV moms patiently corrected their children.  They smiled at their children's mistakes, and physical discipline wouldn't enter their minds.  My mother didn't quietly sit me down and explain why I was catching the trouble. I knew why I got into trouble, but I wanted her to handle me in the TV sitcom fashion."  With Her and Without Her pg. 33

There are times when I think about my childhood and wish I would have had a better grasp on the real state of things so that I would have understood that my perception was not my mother's reality.  But NOT understanding adult cues is what makes a child a child. With understanding comes growth. I thought that because I caught trouble more often, it equated to her not loving me. The reality was;  I caught the end of the belt,  the back of her hand or the sting of the switch because I was the most blatant of her children. I did things in middle-child fashion, without considering the consequences! I was the child who felt the need to correct  and censor her, even in public. My siblings knew when to stop.  So Mom didn't need to discipline them as often. I thought that if she loved me, she would have said so more often. The reality was that she didn't express her love with words as often as any of us might have wanted, but it didn't mean she didn't love us.  She wasn't withholding her love for me any more than she was from my siblings. She simply didn't say the words, "I love you" very often.  My perception of reality, and that of my mother's were on different planes.

"I was in high school when we talked about that period of our lives." "(I) said, "You know Mom, when I was little, I thought you didn't love me." "(She) replied, I know. But I loved you. I've always loved you.  I just didn't LIKE you sometimes."" With Her and Without Her  pg. 34

I'm the mom now, and have been for almost 28 years. Like my mother, I don't do everything exactly as my children would like. When my eldest daughter was four years old, she decided that the mommy who disciplined her was a robot. Her loving mommy would never "be mean" to her! That was how she dealt with reality. Childhood perceptions and realities often clash with the true state of things. What they believe about adult behavior and what we know to be so will not always mesh. It's important to have open dialogues with our children, not  to avoid the clashes, but to facilitate growth and understanding. There are  many factors that make children who they are. DNA, birth order, environment (just to name a few) all have a part in who our children are.

Here's the reality: My mom loved me. I love my children...even when it's the robot me.

Reality is the state of things as they actually exist, rather than as they may appear or might be imagined. In a wider definition, reality includes everything that is and has been, whether or not it is observable or comprehensible. Wikipedia

Do you remember?

Often when my brother, sisters and I get together we reminisce about our mom. We laugh when we think about some of the quips she used. Mom often said, "If you like it, I love it." That was her way of saying, "It's your choice."  She sometimes smiled and said, "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out!" My mom made the best gravy! Unfortunately, she used delicious gray to smother liver and onions. Ewwww! I also remember mom telling me to talk less and listen more. So I'll take that advise and let you talk to me. 

I have a question...

Do you have any specific memories of something your mother did or said? Share it with me! If your mom is still alive, share something you now enjoy about her! 

Writing a book? Really?

Ever since I was a youngster I've wanted to be a published author. In my teen years I wrote a few poems and read them to friends, and every now and again I had the opportunity to read a poem or two at church. I've written articles that were printed in local newsletters and small magazines, but to have a work that had my name on the front cover? Now that's a writer's dream! I didn't start this project with the intent to write a book. I started out journaling. And even the word "journaling" mightn't be correct. Actually, I was writing as a release. I find that while others take long walks, drive, scream, cry, clean or use punching bags for release, I like to "download".  Not that I don't scream, cry or have other releases (I will admit, my house gets its deepest cleaning when I'm upset), but when I have something on my heart and talking about it doesn't cut the mustard, I find that writing is a soothing release. Funny thing is, I usually toss my download writings aside and later throw them out completely. But five years ago for reasons - clear to me now - I kept my writings from the evening when I began my intense journey with grief. I added to them as I felt the need, and before long I had the makings of a chapter. Everything was rough and unedited, but I saw a book peering through it all. I knew NOTHING about publishing, but I had friends who had been published, so I figured I need not concern myself with the minors.

But what about the MAJORS? At one point the whole idea was starting to feel like one big major uh-oh! It wasn't my intent or aim for this book to be simply about my grief. It was also about my mother. Writing about her wasn't easy for several reasons. First of all,  I didn't know where to start.  I wasn't sure if I should talk about who I am or who she was or both. I think I had a fairly good grip on me, but I only lived with my mother for the first twelve years of my life. So the thought running around in my brain was that I didn't have enough insights on who she was. I wasn't prepared to approach the book with a lifetime of "this is who my mother was" stories and antidotes. After all, what did the twelve year old me really know about her mother?   

Another problem I faced was, What sort of book was this going to be? I had no desire to write a book on the subject of death and dying. I certainly wasn't looking to regurgitate the hundreds of books on store shelves by writing a biography and instructing the readers on the details and woes of grief. 

I won't make this a long list of difficulties and challenges. When it comes right down to it,  the decision to write a book about my journey though grief was made after much thought and prayer.  It wasn't something that came over-night. I made a decision to write, so that's what I set out to do.  I knew I wanted to give the readers my perspective as well as the perspective of other women. Because my experiences come from a woman's point of view, I decided to target other women and give them the opportunity to consider their mothers as well.  Furthermore, not having enough insights about my mother became a non-issue. I simply wrote about what I knew, and as it turned out, it was enough.

Here we go...

This is my first post! I'm new to this and I'm not exactly sure how it works, BUT my intent is to blog about my book, With Her and Without Her. I haven't figured the format just yet but wherever I start is where I'll be! So, let's go!