March 25, 2022 –

My editor Ruth* and I chose a coffee shop close by the church, and decided to have our hot drinks and meeting outside. At first, I relished the cooler air on the patio, but as my body temperature decreased, I started clinging to the warmth of my Styrofoam cup.

“You’re my first in-person meeting since the pandemic,” Ruth told me. “So I apologize if I’m a little out of practice.”

“I’m just so happy to meet you face-to-face,” I answered, all smiles. I had been planning this meeting for so long, I couldn’t believe it had actually happened. My magnificent editor was right here, sitting across from me at our patio table. She was sipping her coffee and adjusting her scarf only a few feet away.

Last winter, I’d carefully printed 300 pages of my fantasy manuscript, wrapped them in paper packaging, and paid a hefty sum to ship them to Ruth’s San Francisco apartment. How distant and far away California had seemed! But now I was here, meeting Ruth in person.

“Well, what would you like to talk about first?” she asked.

Writer’s Block

I carefully pulled out my pages for today’s meeting.

“I’d like to talk about the convent memoir,” I started. “I’m working on the structure of the book, but…I’ve been getting stuck lately. It brings up bad memories.” My gaze fixed on the tree behind Ruth’s chair. “It’s been really hard for me to write about certain things.”

Ruth tilted her head. “Bad memories from the convent?”

“Oh no. I had a wonderful experience there. The Sisters helped me so much to heal and grow. No, the memories come from the past. When I was in the convent, I was able to heal from some old wounds.”

“Oh,” said Ruth, listening. “So the convent was a safe place for you.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, for sure. I was separated from all my friends and family, so I didn’t have to worry about what they might think. I started to think and act for myself.” And for God.

“I had chronic back pain for 12 years, and when I entered the convent, it got worse. When it got really bad, I finally told my novice mistress about it, and she offered to help me. I went to the doctor first, and tried physical therapy. I did exercises and switched mattresses, but nothing made much of a difference. The back pain was still there.”

I paused to take a long sip of my coffee. It had finally cooled down enough for me to drink it without burning my tongue.

“Then right after Easter, I remembered something from the past—something that happened just before my back started to hurt. I thought it might be the cause, so I told my novice mistress about it. She had me talk to one of the sisters—probably a counselor, although I’m not sure—and eventually I was able to heal both my back and my heart.”

They Believed Me

Ruth nodded. “The Sisters believed you when you told them what happened. They didn’t dismiss you, or say that you were making it up. That’s beautiful.”

I considered that for a moment. “Yes, they did believe me. They helped me, when no one and nothing had been able to help me before. I’m so grateful to them, and to God. I want to tell everyone about what happened, to share my healing story with the world. I—I think people need to hear more stories about healing these days,” I stammered. “There’s so much hurt and suffering going on.”

I sighed. “So I really want to write this. But I just feel…stuck. Like I can go no further.”

“What’s hard about writing this right now? What do you think is blocking you?”

I sucked in a breath, pressed my fingers into the scattered papers on the table.

“It’s painful, re-living the moments I’m writing about right now. Re-living them in my head, and on the page. Sharing them on my blog. It hurts so much, I wonder—is it worth it?”

“It is worth it,” Ruth answered. “Write towards the pain. When we do this as writers, the pain gets transformed into something else.”

Something else. I wondered what that might be—what I might discover, if I could just get past this block.

But I couldn’t. I had tried. Whenever I approached writing this part of the story, a terrifying darkness awaited me, as if I faced the very jaws of death. I wanted to tell this story, sure, but did I want to tell it at any cost? Did I want to tell it, even if it would destroy me?

“Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him…” – Job 13:15

I shook my head. “Why is it so hard for me to write about this? I thought I was healed.”

An Alarming Solution

Ruth gave me an appraising look. “Maybe it would help for you to tell me what happened. The traumatic event that caused your back pain.”

I gazed up at her in alarm.

“You don’t have to, but I think it will help.”

The clammy weather dug its teeth into my sweat-soaked clothes, making me shiver.

Can I tell Ruth? Is this another safe place?

“You don’t have—”

“No. I want to. Just give me a moment.”

My stomach twisted with anxiety, making me feel sick. How could something so firmly fixed in my thoughts be so difficult to speak out loud?

This is silly, whispered a voice in my head. Why are you still making a big deal about this, this tiny little thing?

“When did it happen?” Ruth asked me. “How old were you?”

“Fourteen,” I managed, grateful for the prompt. “It happened in winter 2000. It was on…”

In halting words, I told her what had happened, when I was 14. What it was like. How it made me feel. The details from that moment. The person involved, and how much I loved and admired them. That last part was very important. The key to everything. I loved the person who hurt me, and didn’t want to injure them by sharing this story.

“They love and care about me, Ruth,” I told her. “They encouraged me to enter the convent, and supported me when I came home. This really did happen to me at 14, and it hurt me. I want to tell people about it because of how the Lord healed me, but…I’m afraid.”

The Missing Chapter

“Why are you hesitant to talk about it, if it’s true?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I stuttered, lowering my eyes. “I guess I want to protect them.”

“Well, you don’t have to share any of this story with anyone if you don’t want to,” she said, “but I challenge you to write down everything that you just told me. Ten, twenty pages, whatever you need. Record all the details, everything that you can remember. Even if it doesn’t end up in your book, at least you’ll have it written down.”

I jotted down her assignment, swallowing back my fear. What would happen when I wrote it all down? Just the idea of it seemed like a betrayal. A condemnation. On the other hand, I couldn’t see how I could gloss over this scene in my book. If I just kept my description of the traumatic incident to three vague sentences, my healing process wasn’t going to seem very meaningful. No, sharing the details would make the story personal, relatable, and real. I wouldn’t share names, but I would share the facts.

Getting Closer to the Truth

Ruth gave me other homework to do as well:

1. Write three scenes, set at different times, that show the effects of that day to the reader.
2. Write the scenes where I’m trying to write about the trauma, and instead encounter a wall of dark thoughts.
3. My biggest project: write the missing chapter of my book. What actually happened, when I was 14.

Once I write it down, I’ll find the answers. Once I write it, I’ll get closer to the truth.

“The healing is the gift of this book,” Ruth asserted, near the end of our meeting. “It shows how the convent, and your family life, are good things—the benefit of the convent/family life. Of having a shelter, a safe place.” She smiled encouragingly at me. “Can the convent deal with suffering? Can my writing deal with my suffering? These are questions your book will try to answer.”

“I can write this,” I told her and myself, “because writing this doesn’t make it worse, but better.”

“That’s right,” she assured me.

Our meeting was over. Ruth allowed me to take a picture of us together (don’t share on social media, please!), and then gave me a warm hug. That was something else I couldn’t get from a phone call meeting.

“The most important thing about writing is to be brave. Courage—” Ruth placed a hand on my shoulder. “Ah, but you are brave, Mary, or you wouldn’t have written this far.”

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