Within a week of her death I opened a word document.
Two years later I have 70k words, jumbled and painful, raw and gut wrenching - in fact I have still yet to write about the redemption. The grace and goodness that's come.
And so, for two solid years the book idea has fluttered about in my mind, I've shared pieces of it with those close to me. I've sobbed a thousand tears into my keyboard.
And now, twenty four months after I began, I've decided to shelf if. In the back room of my mind. I've mentally put it aside. Because I just, can't. I'm not sure why, the most difficult of the story is written.
You'd think I'd breeze through the rest. No, instead I'm making room in the front row shelves of my heart for ... other words to come forward.
I believe it to be true, hanging onto something stagnant, just pushes new things down. So, I'm saying, okay world, I'm ready. For whatever words are to pour from me now, Jesus take the wheel.
Maybe the memoir will re-surface again. If not, it has taught me a world of lessons I'd never been able to learn otherwise. So either way, I'm eternally grateful for those 70k words. Rubbish or not.
(Missing this woman so much tonight, I sure am glad her yard in Heaven never needs watering.)