When I grow up, what will I be? It’s a question we’ve all pondered, and at the age of sixty-two, I’ve finally decided. I want to be a writer. I want to be an author. A published author.

When I was young, my mother was the writer. I remember the Christmas my father bought her an electric typewriter. It was the IBM Selectric. She was giddy about it, and he couldn’t have given her a better gift. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the sound of its clicks and whirrs from behind the closed kitchen door. Up until then she had been handwriting her stories, including the novel she was writing.

She told me once that nightly, after tucking us all in, and that included my father, she would wearily lay her head on her pillow to sleep. But sleep would not come. She said the characters she had given birth to were wide awake in her head. Going places and carrying on conversations. She said they wouldn’t hush until she had written it all down. It sounded odd to me, and I couldn’t imagine what that felt like.

Over the years life became busy. My mother went to work at the American Red Cross and taught a Sunday School class. Through the years she would return to her manuscript and read a chapter to me. After asking my opinion about a scene or two, she’d proclaim she must get back to it. On a few occasions she told me I might have to finish it for her. When my father passed away, we thought for certain she would take to writing again. We thought it might save her from her sadness, but instead, she mourned his death for many years and never completed her work.

The summer of 2011, my daughter and I flew to north Georgia to stay with my mother. The visit gave my sister and her family time for a vacation. Those two weeks spent with my mother were so sweet. We watched movies and ate too many snacks. We reminisced and talked about recipes. We talked about her beloved characters hoping to find each other again across the pages of Sparrow Alone. Then the morning came for me to take an early flight home. It was still dark outside when I climbed up in bed with my mother. Nestled against her back, I wrapped my arms around her, and we talked. She reminded me she was 87 and we might not see each other again on this side. She again asked me to bring her story back to life, and then she made me promise.  My sweet Mama flew upward just a little more than a week later.

Years passed before I finally had a brave moment. I opened the dusty box and pulled out the old manuscript and read it through. The yellowed pages were a gift my mother had left me. I knew I had to finish it. I suppose my mother had some notion the project would turn a light on in my soul. How could I have lived so much of my life not knowing the passion of writing a story? Now at the age of 62, I lie in bed at night and close my eyes, but something happens. A chatter begins in my head. As my husband sleeps soundly, I gently roll out of bed and close the door behind me. It’s just as my mother described it. The voices. The scenes. Those busy characters won’t let me sleep. I scurry to my keyboard and type away. There’s a story to be told and people are waiting to read it.