Pain. We’ve all had it at one time or another, that all-encompassing, consuming pain that invades every thought and steals your life. You cannot escape it – even in sleep. And when it’s chronic, you know that sooner or later it always comes back.
I knew this thief intimately. He’d come into my life in 1985 when I fell down a flight of stairs. The doctors said it would’ve been better if I’d broken bones – they would have healed. Not so with all the slamming and wrenching my body endured on the way down those thirteen steps – and believe me, I felt each of them. I had the bruises to prove it. But I was young and strong, and the permanent partial disability of my neck, shoulders, and back wasn’t about to keep me from doing things – no matter what the doctors said. I had the Great Physician after all – and far more stubborn Irish pride than was probably good for me. But by the time 2005 rolled around, I was singing a different tune.
I have no idea if the fall I took was a contributing factor or not; it didn’t/doesn’t matter. All I knew was that for the last two years I had begun to suffer from excruciating pain in my fingers and hands. Was it overwork, overuse? There was no way to tell. The pain would seem to descend from out of the blue, linger for indeterminate amounts of time, and then disappear as suddenly as it came. The first half of 2005 was spent in misery, trying to figure out what could be done, forcing myself to do my database job and write in spite of the pain. And when it finally disappeared once again, I was ready to make up for lost time.
Praying nearly non-stop, I set to work that December of 2005 on the story of grandmother Glory Harper. Her antics made me laugh – the idea of a 52-year-old trying to teach her grandson to use a skateboard was amusing, the end result of the lesson (the runaway skateboard causing a three-car pile-up) even funnier. The more Glory and her family developed, the more excited I became . . . and the more convinced I was that this story would finally get me published.
I studied the requirements for the Heartsong Mysteries line and hoped I was following the directions for a proposal. Even though I’d always been a SOTP (seat-of-the-pants) writer, I dared to write a synopsis for a book I hadn’t written. I prepared the submission packet with care, asked advice from the writer friend whose book had been accepted for the line, and had my daughter edit it with a fine-toothed comb. Things were falling into place. Well, sort of. It needed a title – and not just the goofy one I’d come up with: The Case of the Bouncing Grandma. But every time I thought of changing it, something stopped me. Or was that Someone?
2006 dawned with Gramma (my former mother-in-law) getting sicker. From one hospital to another and an ever changing diagnosis, she wasn’t improving. Despite obvious discomfort and pain, she retained a positive attitude and a ready smile.
Visits with Gramma always began with her asking, “How’s that silly grandma coming?” Her eyes would light up as I’d share the most recent Glory Harper escapades. And the more I shared my ideas, the more certain I was this was the manuscript that would go all the way. Gramma’s confidence and laughter reinforced this notion. No matter how ill she was, she wanted to know how the writing was going and what I was planning to do next.
I drew on Gramma’s strength as I always had, determined that the excruciating migraine that began shortly after the new year wouldn’t stop me from getting the proposal to Heartsong Mysteries or keep me from finishing this book. Through doctors’ visits and medication that landed me in the emergency room three times, I persevered and finally got the proposal sent.
Gramma was still cognizant when Susan Downs, editor for Heartsong Mysteries, wrote to request a full manuscript. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes or her determination that I would finally succeed. But as much as we all wanted her to stay a while longer, God had other plans. Early in February of 2006, he called this angel home.
FOR GRAMMA
She came on loan from Heaven,
A Saint from God above.
She brought with her the sunshine,
She gave to us her love.
Her work was hard and painful,
Her heart was great and true.
She taught us to be humble
And watched us while we grew.
But Heaven only loaned her
For a brief and special time.
They felt her absence deeply
Much more than yours or mine.
We miss her laugh, her smile, her voice
They never will grow dim.
But we thank the Lord the time He gave
Before calling her back to Him.
Thank you, Cornelia, you taught me more about living and loving than you’ll ever know.
