Why I Stopped Writing

My husband’s a worship leader so if there’s one family that should have it all together, it’s ours.  He’s on stage week after week, ushering hearts into worship while I teach the grade two Sunday school class.  After the service we mingle with friends, discussing the latest episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine or whose week it is to bring snack to Wee College.  I smile and nod in all the right places, laughing on cue and adding to the conversation on script –

But inside I’m a mess.


Two years ago I read an article written by one of my favourite authors.  The gist of the article was that you shouldn’t write when you’re in the middle of the mess. Instead, you should write when you’re out of the mess.  Write when you have resolution.

My mess hasn’t been resolved.

There may never be a resolution.

So I haven’t written – really written! – since January 2017.

Partly because of the lack of resolution of the situation that’s been weighing me down – and partly because I’m not sure how much of it is my story to share.

Lately I’ve been feeling that if I don’t start writing again now, I may never write again.

At least not about the things that matter.

So here I am, in front of the computer, typing away while my kids are at school. 


2017 was supposed to be a big year for our family:  We sold our condo and moved into a house, finally achieving the goal we’ve been working towards for the past four years.  It was The Dream. 

Instead, 2017 is going to be remembered as the year I lost my mom.


We used to talk every day.  She would call me or I would call her, and we talked about everything.    I called her with questions, I called her for recipes, I called her to tell her when my writing was published.

 Now she doesn’t always answer when I call.

She says she “doesn’t do numbers” – she can’t recognize the ten digits as mine, so she refuses to pick up. 

Before, if I didn’t call her, she would call me – if I missed two days in a row I could be sure there would be a buzz on my cell phone before 9 a.m. on the third day, and it would be my mom “just checking in” to make sure everything was okay.  “We’re busy, Mom,” I would say, rolling my eyes like a bratty teenager. 

Now we can go a week without talking to each other and she doesn’t even realize it.


My parents live on the other side of the country so they don’t see their grandchildren very often.  My mom used to beg me to Skype with her once a week, so she could see their faces and ask them about what was going on in their lives.  Ellie, especially, loved her chats with Grammie – she would run around the house, picking up toys to show her and holding up pictures she had drawn. 

Now my mom doesn’t remember how to use a computer.

They kids have stopped asking when she’s going to come for a visit.


I believe in God.

I believe in miracles.

But I’m losing faith that one is going to happen for me.

For my family.

I’ve been praying for my mom’s health and mind to be restored since I was old enough to understand what praying was.

I’m losing hope.

 I’m worried that my mother’s mind is gone.

God, you’re running out of time!


 Maybe healing isn’t the miracle.

Maybe the miracle is that I still believe in God – that He is a good god, that HE is a just god – despite it all.