Paperback

My mother hated my first book. Shortly after it was published, her sister asked to meet with me, and observed that the woman who wrote it was very angry. I believe my aunt was quite surprised when I agreed with her. I remember the morning well. A clear, blue sky sliced by shards of winter-white sunlight accompanies me on the drive north from the city of Eau Claire. Turning east, I pass by the frozen expanse of Lake Wissota and grimace in response to the migraine creeping up from the base of my skull, coming to rest across my eyes. The sunlight seems to feed the pain. I am thankful for a short reprieve as I turn out of the path of the sun and into the subdivision of homes built in the 1970s. I find the house, park the car, and make my way to the familiar front door. As I lift my hand to knock, I hear Aunt Pat’s voice inviting me in. She is standing near the railing above the entryway. Beside her is an oxygen concentrator. She is tethered to it by yards of clear plastic tubing. Until this moment I hadn’t known about her reliance on supplemental oxygen. This is what kept her—a consummate hostess, a woman who came of age in the Kennedy era—from walking down the stairs to the landing and greeting her guest. I step across the threshold with a sense of compassion. The migraine is momentarily forgotten as I shut the door softly behind me. Removing my shoes and climbing the stairs, I follow her into the familiar kitchen where female family members—five generations of women—had gathered in years past for Christmas baking days and seasonal crafting nights. On the round kitchen table, my book sits, face down, near her right hand. She pours our coffee and we settle in with a bit of small talk before she reaches forward, tapping the paperback lightly with her index finger. I respond with a silence that indicates I am listening. She begins. “The woman who wrote this book is very angry,” she observes. Battling migraine-induced nausea, I respond quietly, “I agree. I was angry. I’m not angry anymore.” Something in her shifts, as though in preparing for this conversation she had not considered that I might agree with her. The book was newly published, but months and months of my widowhood had passed. I had moved to another city, changed jobs, joined a grief group, and was finding healing and friendship there. In addressing Aunt Pat’s observation, I speak about my pain—the way it felt as my mother and father had demanded control of the funeral arrangements as though I was a child incapable of making decisions; how they questioned why the obituary was taking so long when people were calling them asking for details; why I cared about the grief of my husband’s siblings more than the pain of my own parents; and most hurtful of all, how a woman had shared with me a rumor my mother had perpetrated, declaring that a medical decision my husband and I had made was somehow a choice to end his life—a suicide. After a brief pause, I tell Aunt Pat about visiting my parents at their home a few weeks after the celebration of life, with two questions: Dad, why didn’t you attend the funeral? Mom, why did you choose the word “suicide”? I share with Aunt Pat how I had listened as my parents spoke that day, bearing witness to their pain, striving to understand, and desperately seeking some admission of remorse or the vaguest hint of an apology—words that never came. I’d left their home empty-hearted, feeling invisible, unloved, abandoned, orphaned. The manuscript—the story that became the book—had unfolded very early, in the weeks immediately following my husband’s death, a season when I was hopelessly sad and lonely, exhausted, and very angry. And, while my anger had subsided, one question still lingered. I somehow form the words, asking the question aloud to Aunt Pat: “How did my mother, who is not tech-savvy and would not have ordered any book from Amazon, receive a copy of my book?” The question lingers in the air. The migraine rages within me; the nausea escalates. I leave the kitchen table and make my way to the bathroom.

When I return, sit down, and look into my aunt’s eyes, I discover mercy and compassion.

Aunt Pat understood. She too has been hopelessly sad, exhausted, and angry. I was widowed, but she and her husband had buried a young adult son. Grief had battered both of us. The conversation shifts. I ask questions about her son’s birth, her pain, her joy. A couple of hours after my arrival, Aunt Pat and I stand up and make our way toward the foyer. I open the door and step into the bright, cold Wisconsin winter knowing that Aunt Pat will comfort her sister—my mother. I sense a growing feeling of gratitude within me for this woman who has loved me since birth. God had prepared this time for me, for Aunt Pat, and for my mother—a time to bear witness, and a time to ease our pain.

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Founder of Whispered Hopes ministry, Renee Wurzer describes herself as a flawed, human and fragile encourager, a woman seeking to inspire others with courage and hope in Christ. A widow, her joy here on earth is her legacy family, especially grandchildren. She finds hope in walking with her faith community, editing for others and writing her own blog. Learn more about Whispered Hopes here.