Page 9 of In a Word, Yes

“Oh, just a small affair,” she says with a wave of her hand.

I smile inwardly. In Mom’s lingo, “small” might describe a regional conference, as opposed to national. In an auditorium, as opposed to an arena. My mother’s gift for speaking words of spiritual edification to women framed our family life as far back as I can remember. Her Bible studies often camp out on bestseller lists.

“But...” She simultaneously raises one French-manicured forefinger and her eyebrows, which are beautifully augmented with brown pencil. “It was a mixed crowd this time. Menandwomen. A panel discussion. Super fun.”

I shake my head. “Are you positive we share DNA?”

Mom nearly spits out her drink, her eyes laughing. “Oh, Lu! Enough about me. Actually, honey, I’m here by proxy. I have something that, well, belongs to you.” She drops her eyes, and her tone turns somber, it seems to me. “Something from Nana Lucia.”

I dart a brief glance at the petite leather purse Mom dropped inside the front door and shake my head. “I don’t understand.” Must be something small. A piece of jewelry?

“The timing of the event worked out beautifully because, as you know, I still had so much to do at her place. Ugh. Still do. But I felt ready to start dealing with it—you know, the stuff I wasn’t ready to deal with when we were there for her memorial service.”

“Oh, Mom. You shouldn’t have to face all that by yourself. You should’ve asked me. I could’ve driven—”

“No, no, it’s okay. Your father offered, too, but I needed to do this alone. Besides, you’ve got enough on your plate. Speaking of which...” Mom scooches closer until our knees touch. She gathers my hands in hers, silver bracelets jangling. Fingers soft but cold. Up close, Mom looks weary. Has she been crying? Have I ever seen her cry? Harsh light from the kitchen illuminates the lines around her mouth, yet she’s doing that perky thing she hasperfected to a fine art. “First, I would like you to tell me something. How is your writing going?”

I grimace and steal a look in the general direction of my laptop. “Oh. That...”

“Yes, oh that.”

If only we could cut right to the mysterious “something” she alluded to. What could Nana have possibly wanted me to have? After her memorial service back in April, when our family walked through her small ranch house tucked among the rolling green hills outside Salem, Mom urged my sister, Vanessa, and me to each identify something meaningful we wanted to keep. I felt numb. Couldn’t begin to fathom what random household item might ever contain value apart from Nana’s warm presence. Nor could I stomach disturbing those rooms that still smelled faintly of almond and anise, rooms that had so long offered me love and refuge like no place else.

My grandmother—my namesake, Lucia Maria Graglia—never attached value to possessions. Why would I?

In the end, odd as it sounds, I’d adopted a pair of pink Dearfoams that still peeked out from beneath Nana’s bed three weeks after she passed, as if waiting for her to return. I always loved that Nana and I had the same small feet.

I lower my gaze. “I don’t know, Mom. Pretty sure it’s time to set writing aside. It’s been good therapy. Maybe that’s all it was meant to be.”

“Lucia Maria! Bite your tongue. You’ve always been the real writer in our family. And the world needsyourstory. Women need your story. We all need each other’s honest stories. There are too many hurting people with—”

I raise a palm. “I know, I know. With a wound in the shape of my words.” Would my mother be stoking this fire if she had any idea how entangled my story is with hers? Does she really want me fanning old embers back to life with my keyboard? She’d been candid with her multitude of followers about the unthinkable thatstruck our family. And then kept right on marching. What if the additional details, the story told frommyperspective, subjects her to ugly criticism?

I have no desire to undermine the fortress of hope and healing that is Carly Montgomery Ministries.

And then of course, there’s the bigger roadblock.

“Mom, here’s the thing. I can’t write the rest of my story because there is no rest of my story. Yes, God rescued me. But it can’t end there. What was I rescuedfor? Where’s the uplifting ending? I’m no Seabiscuit.” Mom scrunches her forehead in confusion. “Every good story needs an arc. There’s no arc to my story because there’s no story arc to my life.”

“Sweetie, that isn’t—”

“No, really. I thought it was enough to have come out the other side. But for what? My story has no inspiring takeaway.”

“The Lord delivered you from the crucible of suffering. That in itself would be an encouragement to other women who believe they’re eternally trapped in their circumstances. And now you’re raising your wonderful son in this storybook town. You’re keeping him safe.”

The crucible of suffering? A bit dramatic. But not wrong. And there’s the rub. Is it possible I’m keeping Chasetoosafe?

“Bethany Hamilton.” Mom stabs the air twice as she says this.

“Huh?”

“You’re like Bethany Hamilton. After all life has thrown at you, you’ve managed to keep your faith intact. That’s inspiring.”

“Mom. Bethany Hamilton got back on her surfboard afterlosing her arm to a sharkand won championships. Let’s face it. I’m not that girl, the kind who gives readers a reason to cheer. It’s courage we applaud, not the absence of danger. I’m just over here trying to keep my ducks in a somewhat orderly row. Sorry to disappoint, Mom. But until I have a great story, no one will read my book and be helped.”

Mom’s lips turn in on themselves. She blinks a half dozen timesrapidly.Great.If my mother is stymied, I’m in sorrier shape than I knew. For a long moment, she stares out the open window. Into the silence floats the echo of children’s voices below. A basketball bounces, its hollow rhythm an elegy. No doubt, to my mother it operates more like theJeopardythink music.

Finally, her features soften. She steeples her hands the way I’ve seen her do a thousand times on stage when on the verge of dropping some weighty word from above, a phenomenon that never fails to prickle the hair on my arms. In these moments I stop seeing Carly Montgomery as Mom. Instead, I behold something transcendent, a penetrating truth wrapped in love and light come to rest on us. I haven’t always been a fan of my mother’s celebrity, but I’ve never been able to deny the power of God working through her—because it has touched me time and again.