I am frozen, fingers suspended over my waiting laptop, riveted to a scene from the movie My Sister’s Keeper, where the whole family goes to the beach to satisfy the last wish of a daughter dying from cancer. Somehow in their acceptance of their impending loss, they find this last moment of beauty. But the tears streaming down my face are not for this fictional family; they are for me, because this scene is not about the girl, or the family, or the mother who has fought for her daughter’s life only to now realize she must give up. They are for me. They are about that moment when fear becomes surrender and all the ice melts.
Sad movies are made so women can cry all at once the tears we hold back when crying for our own pain just seems weak.
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Published by Amy McDonald
My earliest memories are of grace and pencils. I have been obsessed with writing implements from the age of 2, when I insisted upon carrying a pencil in one arm and a baby doll named Susie Q in the other. My love of writing began almost as early -- awkwardly penned Mother's Day poems and love notes to my Grandpa eventually blossomed into short stories and A+ essays and a bachelor's egree in journalism.
I spent the next 20 years in public relations, writing for other people -- putting a leader's vision on paper, helping engineers sound simple, and explaining the reasons companies do what they do.
Along the way, I all but forgot to write for myself. My own voice surfaced only in times of heartbreak and loss -- an obituary for my Grandpa, a farewell to my first love, and a good bit of bad poetry.
I can do better. That's where grace comes in. God's grace was made known to me back in the time of pencils, before PCs and keyboards and devices smarter than I am. His grace saves, forgives, atones, provides, waits patiently, and embraces all over again. His grace gives me purpose worth writing about.
Not my voice, but Thine.
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