I’ve always been a little envious of my fiction-writing friends. They can twist and turn their stories in whatever direction their imaginations take them. If the plot seems boring, they can change it. If a character is annoying, they can kill him. Meanwhile, I am stuck in my factual, nonfiction box, only allowed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. 
 
Don’t get me wrong. I love real-life inspirational stories. But every now and then, I’ve wondered what it would be like to create my own cast of characters, throw them into a story and make them come to life.

Every month I gather together with a small group of writers. Many of them, fiction writers. I love hearing their creative ideas as they brainstorm their stories. They make me shake my head and respond with the following six words:  

“I wish I could write fiction.”

Inevitably, their faces would light up. “You can!” They’d grin, obviously hoping I’d join them on the other side.
 
But I knew I couldn’t.
 
I had zero story ideas. And if, by chance, I ever did think of something book-worthy, I wouldn’t know how to begin … or end ... or what to say in the middle. So, I put my dream on the backburner.   
 
Months passed and turned into years. Then one morning I woke up with a small spark of an idea. Interesting. I went about my day. Then came another idea. And another.

I stood in line at the funeral home, waiting my turn to express sympathy to my friend. What would I say? She had just lost her husband. No words seemed right. I desperately wanted to say something … anything … to help. I quickly dismissed every thought that came to mind.
 
No, I can’t say that. That sounds so cliché. 
No, that sounds like something from a Hallmark card.
No, that’s too upbeat … maybe she’ll think I’m making light of her pain.
No. No. No! 

I hate being at a loss for words.
 
As a writer, I spend a great deal of time thinking about words. I love finding the perfect word to describe a thought. A feeling. A setting. On the other hand, there’s nothing worse than wracking my brain and fumbling to find words. That’s when I dig out every writer’s best friend: a handy little thesaurus. But every thesaurus in the world couldn’t give me the perfect words to help my hurting friend.
 
I hugged her and whispered those two worn-out words everyone says. “I’m sorry.” Then I told her I’d been thinking of her. And I’d be praying for her. I know there’s power in prayer, but as I looked into her eyes, my words felt inadequate. 
 
A couple weeks later, I saw another friend who’s been going through her own serious struggles. Connie has a brain tumor. It has changed her looks. And it has changed how she speaks.
 
Connie was always so quick-witted and proficient with words. She wrote beautifully. But her words don’t come easily anymore. Even within a few minutes of small talk, I could sense her frustration. As if, the words are there, but they’re just beyond reach.

Suddenly her expression grew serious. “I’ve been thinking about you, Sheri. How are you?”
 
I shook my head and smiled. Unbelievable, I thought. With everything she’s been through – and she was thinking about me.
 
I told her I was doing well, but a little nervous about an upcoming MRI.
 
I’ve had an MRI every year since I was diagnosed with MS. One year I had a reaction to the contrast dye. The technician gave me a shot in the arm, slid me into the machine and walked out of the room. Suddenly, my stomach rolled and my mouth watered, signaling to me that I needed a bucket – now. I called for help and prayed she’d get me out of that machine in time.
 
But I wasn’t just nervous about throwing up. I was also nervous about the test results.
 
“When’s your appointment?” Connie asked.
 
“Monday at 1:00.”
 
She squeezed my arm. “I’ll be praying for you.”
 
On Monday I arrived at my appointment early. I filled out the paperwork and waited my turn. Suddenly, my phone buzzed.

She remembered.
 
Connie hadn’t said a word, but I knew ... she was thinking and praying for me at that moment. It meant more to me than any eloquent words she could ever speak.
 
As the technician slid me into the MRI machine, I thought of my friend who had lost her husband. Maybe it was okay that I never found the right words. Maybe it’s impossible to wrap messy emotions into a neat little package. Maybe sometimes, there really are no words.

​The energy and excitement is almost tangible. Fans cheer. Buzzers echo throughout the arena. Shoes squeak against the hardwood. It’s the second quarter and the Rockets are tied: 24-24. They’re playing tough, hoping to bring home a state basketball trophy.
 
I notice the student section is full of teenagers. There are so many familiar faces. Some I’ve taught in my math classes. Some are friends with my kids. Others I recognize from the hallway. But there’s one boy missing from the crowd.
 
My boy. 

No doubt he’d be in the midst of it all. He loved hanging with his friends and cheering on the Rockets. My heart aches as I remember that tragic day, almost three months ago. 
 
It was Christmas Eve. Our family was ready to leave for lunch at my in-laws. They lived just up the road, within walking distance.
 
Our oldest son, Drake, had already left the house. This didn’t surprise me. It was a beautiful day, and Drake took advantage of every opportunity to be outdoors. He especially loved our back woods. He spent hours exploring, climbing and building forts. He was my carefree, adventurous boy. I assumed he had gone for a walk and would meet us at Grandma’s.
                    
However, when we walked through the door, my mother-in-law looked confused. She glanced at each grandchild, as if conducting a head-count.
 
“Lexi. Douglas. Alayna. Did you forget somebody?”
 
I looked around. “Drake’s not here?”
 
That kid, I thought. He’s still messing around in the woods. I turned to my husband. “Call his cell phone. He probably lost track of time.” 

​Dana tried his number, but Drake didn’t answer. I thought of his friend who lived across the field. “Maybe he went to Brady’s.”
 
Dana swiped his finger across his phone, searching for the location of Drake’s cell phone. “Looks like he’s still in the woods.” Dana shoved his phone back in his pocket. “I’ll go get him.”
 
The rest of the day was a heartbreaking blur. Drake had experienced a terrible accident – and my world stopped. 
 
Drake’s visitation was also a blur. We spent six hours greeting a continuous line of friends, family, teachers, classmates, neighbors, and teammates. The basketball team came as a group. I knew it was especially tough for them. They had been scheduled to play in a holiday tournament that night. They paid their respects and with heavy hearts, headed to the tournament.
 
I was glad to hear that Rockridge won that tournament, and I was deeply touched when I heard what transpired after the game. The entire team had gathered together, held up the trophy and shouted, “We did it for Drake.”
 
At that point, the varsity basketball team dedicated the rest of the season to Drake’s memory. “Do it for Drake” became their motto.
 
Instead of a funeral home, we held Drake’s funeral in the high school gym. We wanted his friends and classmates to feel more comfortable. The entire gym was packed.
 
Both Dana and I spoke at the funeral. People thought we were strong, but we knew better. They didn’t see the private moments. Yes it was difficult, but we had no choice. We needed to do it for Drake. We wanted to talk to the kids.
 
“This pain hurts,” I said, looking into the eyes of Drake’s best friends. “And we know you’re hurting too. God feels our pain.”
 
The first home game after Drake’s death was an emotional one. The entire basketball team presented our family with the first-place trophy from the holiday tournament. Engraved on the trophy, “We did it for Drake.” The cheerleaders carried a huge banner which said, “Do it for Drake – A Great Friend and Teammate.” This would hang on the gym wall for the rest of the season.
 
We were overwhelmed by the love and support of our small community. Dana took the microphone and spoke to the crowd.
 
“Three weeks ago our world turned upside down. Day by day, minute by minute, we’ve been trying to put it all back together.” He took a deep breath. “You’ve put a big piece of our hearts back together, because of everything you’ve done for us.”
 
The first day back to school after break was especially tough. Drake normally rode to school with me. I walked in without him and passed by his locker. I had hung a poster with his picture on his locker over break. It was still there, exactly as I'd hung it. I felt so touched. I knew how teenagers could be. But no one had messed with it. Not one scribble. Not one mark. I appreciated the students being respectful.  
 
That first day back, everyone – from teachers and students to bus drivers and lunch ladies – wore Under Armour (Drake's favorite kind of shirt) to show their support.

Weeks passed and the “Do it for Drake” motto gained momentum. The cheerleaders dedicated their season to Drake. And then the wrestlers.
 
Meanwhile, the basketball team was having a phenomenal season. We loved watching them. They gave us something to look forward to every week. Their support comforted us, and their determination strengthened us. While the Rockets fought hard on the court, our family fought our own battle with grief.  
 
One night was particularly tough for our son, Douglas. He missed his big brother. He plopped down next to me with a heavy sigh. “I wish we could make one phone call or send just one text message to heaven.”
 
“I know,” I said, hugging him close. “I miss Drake too.”
 
Suddenly, Douglas brightened a bit. “Drake could send us a selfie with Jesus!”
 
I laughed, but inside my heart ached. Truth was, I’d take anything if it came from Drake. A phone call. A text message. A selfie. Anything. Didn’t matter what it was. I missed my boy. 
 
By March, our basketball team had a seventeen-game winning streak. For the first time in school history, the Rockridge Rockets were headed to state! I knew Drake was watching and smiling down. He always liked to see people happy. He loved to make them smile. And during that final game of the season, I found a great reason to smile. 

I looked up at the scoreboard. Rockridge was tied: 24-24. I called to my daughter. She always had her phone handy.
 
“Lexi, grab your camera! Look at the score!”
 
Lexi knew the significance of that number. Twenty-four was special to our family. For years, Dana and I have been Nascar – and more specifically – Jeff Gordon (#24) fans. When our kids started playing sports, they all chose jersey number twenty-four. Drake had been number twenty-four since tee-ball. These days, I always notice the 24th of every month. The day Drake passed away.
 
Lexi snapped the picture. Just then, Rockridge came down the court, shot a perfect three-pointer and broke the tie. The crowd roared as the ball swished through the net.
 
Dana and I were stunned. Of all players; Rockridge number 24 had broken the tie.
 
Later, when we looked at the picture, Dana noticed one more thing.
 
“Angie,” he said, “Look at the sign at the top of the scoreboard.” It was an advertisement for PAR-A-DICE Casino.
 
“Paradise,” I said with a smile. Drake was waiting patiently for us in paradise.

​That night, the Rockets brought home a state trophy. The final score: 52-47. Without a doubt, I knew Drake was watching (and smiling down at his friends and family) from paradise.

Have you ever felt like you were being watched? It’s a creepy sensation. Like someone (or something) is following your every move. Lurking in the shadows. Waiting ...   

I’ve experienced this feeling many times. The first time it happened was about a year ago. At the time, I was alone in the house.

I sat at the kitchen table, working on a story. Suddenly, the timer buzzed on the dryer in the laundry room. I jumped up from my chair and looked for a basket. As I bent over and pulled warm clothes from the dryer, an eerie feeling swept over me.

I wasn’t alone.

I could sense it. Someone was watching me from behind. My heart flip-flopped in my chest. I spun around and gasped at the face staring back at me.

-
-
-
-

Sorry. Did I fool you? I just wanted to have a little fun. I never get to write spooky Stephen-King-like-scenes.

Anyway, what I said is true. I've had that creepy feeling many times. Inevitably, I turn around to find this cute little stalker with big brown eyes.

Macy is definitely a family dog. She loves every one of us unconditionally. Even my husband- the one who didn’t want a dog. But when Curt heads off to work and the girls are away at school, Macy is undoubtedly my dog. She follows me everywhere I go.

When I sit at the table and work on my computer, Macy sleeps on a nearby blanket on the floor.

When I go grab a snack, she promptly wakes up and follows me to the kitchen.

When I need to do laundry, she trails behind me as I collect all the clothes.

When I go to the bathroom – yep, you guessed it. She follows me there too.

At first, having my own little stalker was kind of annoying. For one thing, it was nearly impossible to take her for walks. She wanted to be so close by; she was constantly under my feet.

I was also afraid I’d trip over her while walking up or down the stairs. One of the first things I taught her was to sit patiently at the bottom of the steps until I got to the top. Once at the top, I’d motion for her and call, “Upstairs!” Then she happily ran up the steps, eager to be back by my side.  

I will admit, her constant companionship has been strangely comforting. 

I know I’ve shared some of the challenges of living with MS on my blog before. It’s an unpredictable disease. But no matter what kind of day I’m having, Macy is there to offer unconditional support. 

On good days, when I feel well and have plenty of energy, I like to go for walks. As soon as I reach for my leg brace, Macy’s eyes perk up. By the time I've tied my shoes, she’s already sitting by the door wagging her tail.

On bad days, when I’m exhausted and achy and I just need to rest, Macy follows me up the stairs to my room. She stares at me until I scoop her up and plop her onto my bed. Then she snuggles down on a blanket, exhales a sweet contented sigh, and falls asleep at the foot of my bed.

Don't get me wrong. She's certainly not perfect. Some mornings she relentlessly barks at me until I get out of bed. (The nerve of her!) She's a rambunctious puppy with way too much energy. And given the chance, you wouldn't believe what she can do with a roll of toilet paper.

Even so, I've become quite accustomed to having her around. She's a great addition to our family. Even if she is a creepy little stalker. 

Want to get my blog posts by email? Sign up here!

If you're a girl who grew up with brothers, you understand the torment I’ve faced. To be fair, I probably deserved it. I was an annoying little sister. I snooped through their stuff and tattled to Mom. Still, my brothers took such pleasure in picking on me.

One of my brothers had an interesting method of torture. He grabbed my arms, jerked them back and forth, and forced me to hit myself in the face. I grimaced and ducked, trying my best to dodge the inevitable smack. Then he’d laugh hysterically. “Stop it, Sheri! Stop hitting yourself!”

His pompous tone infuriated me. I clenched my fists, and with every bit of strength I could muster from my scrawny arms, tried smacking him back. But it never worked. He was four years older and a whole lot stronger. I only ended up punching myself, which provoked more teasing. “Come on Sheri! Why do you want to hurt yourself?”

As my brother jerked my arms around like a pair of rubber bands, I grew more and more angry. I felt so powerless. And very frustrated.

Strangely, I’ve had similar feelings during my fight against MS.

I remember the first time I heard a basic explanation of MS. “Multiple sclerosis is a disease in which the body attacks itself.” I was completely baffled. Why would my body want to attack itself? It’s like slapping myself in the face. It doesn’t make sense!

Yet, I had been beating myself up for years. I felt the effects daily. Headaches. Debilitating fatigue. Weakness. Pain.

Fortunately, I am beginning to find hope between each sucker-punch. Instead of continuing to clobber myself, I am making changes to take better care of myself.

One example is my diet. I’ve found a real correlation between the foods I eat and how I feel. When I’m tempted to eat junk, I imagine a swift slap upside my head.

“Okay Sheri. I know that Twix bar looks good, but it will give you a headache. Do you really want to hurt yourself?”

Little by little, I am making positive changes in how I care for myself. And I can feel the difference.

Unlike the ridiculous fights with my brother, I am not helpless. My hands aren’t tied. I may be under attack, but I am empowered.

Don't want to miss one of my blog posts?
Sign up to receive it by email!

Other moms tried to warn me, but I wasn’t concerned. I had my emotions under control. Yes, my oldest was leaving for college, but I had no reason to be sad. Was I excited for her? Yes. Proud? Absolutely. I would miss her, but I wasn’t going to have an emotional meltdown like those other moms. Then I watched her say good-bye to her puppy – and it nearly ripped my heart out. Perhaps I underestimated the power of my emotions.  

The two-and-a-half-hour drive to school wasn’t much better. I tried keeping the mood light, chatting about stupid stuff and singing with the radio. Then Taylor Swift came on with a sappy song that made me feel like a boa constrictor was clenching my heart.  

I tried reasoning with myself. Kids grow up. It’s a natural part of life. I always knew this day would come. It’s the ultimate goal of parenting. But every rational thought felt illogical. I’m her mom. From the moment that “plus sign” appeared on the little white stick, it’s been my job to take care of her. Something felt very unnatural - and just plain wrong – about leaving her.

Meanwhile, my husband was fine. Annoyingly fine. He wasn’t an emotional mess. He was calm, cool and collected.  

The weekend flew by in a blur. We moved Emily into her dorm, helped her get settled, bought her books, went to church, grabbed some lunch and before we knew it, it was time to go. Hugs. Tears. Laughter. Pictures. Good-bye.  I love you. See you soon.

The ride home was long and quiet. Not in the mood to make supper, we went out to eat.

“How many?” The waitress asked at the door.
.
“Four.” My heart lurched a little. At lunch, we were a party of five. By dinner, we were down to four.

Later that night, Curt and I sat in bed, reading. My phone buzzed.

You guys make it home?

Yep. I smiled as I texted her back. Just getting ready to go to bed. My phone buzzed again.

Okay, I wrote you and Dad a letter. It’s under the left side of my mattress at the top.

I flipped back my blanket, hopped out of bed and hustled into her empty room. There were no pillows or blankets on the bed. No clothes on the floor. Just a few knick-knacks on her dresser that didn’t make the cut to accompany her to college.

I reached under her mattress, found the letter and plopped onto her bed.

Dear Mom and Dad …    

Over the next few minutes, I read Emily’s sweet words as she poured out her heart, specifically thanking us for everything we’d done over the past 18 years. Her letter was beautiful. it was obvious she had put a lot of thought into it. Clearly, this girl had her momma’s letter-writing skills.

Suddenly, the boa constrictor was back. This time it attacked with a vengeance. It grabbed at my throat, tightening its grip on the relentless lump growing inside.

But to my surprise, I didn’t cry.

Maybe it was because I had already drained my emotions over the weekend. Maybe the joy finally outweighed the tears. Whatever the reason, no doubt my husband would be glad his blubbering wife was finally getting off her emotional roller coaster.

I walked back to our room and handed Curt the letter. “From your daughter,” I said.

I snuggled under the covers and closed my eyes. I was ready to put the weekend behind me. Just as I drifted off, an abrupt noise came from the other side of the bed.

“Sniff.”

I looked over as Curt wiped his eyes. Thank goodness, I thought. I couldn’t help but smile.

It wasn’t long before Toby became a regular visitor at our house. Every day, I spotted him sitting in the sunshine on the front steps with at least one of my girls. Someone always fed him, played with him, and showered him with attention.
 
We checked with neighbors, hoping to find his owner. Everyone knew about the “friendly, orange cat,” but no one knew where he came from.
 
By the end of summer, our next-door neighbors decided to adopt him. It was the perfect arrangement. Each day, he came by for a visit. Every night, the neighbors brought him inside. They even called him Toby.
 
While Toby charmed his way into our hearts, he also wanted to make his way into our home, especially on cold, dreary days.
 
“I think we have a stalker.” I smiled at Madison and pointed to the window. Toby propped his paws up against the glass and gazed into the house.
 
“It’s freezing out there,” Madison said. “Can’t we bring him inside?”
 
Toby peered in hopefully. I shrugged. “I suppose,” I said. “Just keep him on the rug—and be sure to vacuum when you put him back out.” 
 
Madison arranged a blanket on the rug and made him a bed. Toby snuggled in, his paws pushing in and out with a slow and steady rhythm. “See,” Madison whispered, “he’s not hurting anyone.”
 
“If Dad sneezes during supper, this is the last time Toby comes in.”
 
Dad didn’t sneeze, so as the temperature turned colder, we became bolder.

Can we take Toby downstairs while we watch a movie? I’ll keep him on a blanket. I’ll even vacuum later.” Madison held Toby next to her cheek and gave me an exaggerated grin. Outside, the wind howled.  
“I suppose,” I said, crossing my arms. She and Toby disappeared downstairs. I followed later.
 
About halfway through the movie, Madison jumped up and pressed the mute button. “Is that the garage door?”
 
My middle daughter gasped. “Dad’s home! Put Toby out!”
 
Rather than boot the cat outside, Madison scooted him into a closet just as we heard footsteps coming down the stairs.
 
“Hey, I’m home,” Curt called out. I pictured Toby, confused and stuck in a dark closet.
 
Please don’t meow. Please don’t meow.
 
Curt walked across the room, stopped by the closet and leaned against the door.
“What’s for supper?”
 
“Um… chili,” I said. “It’s ready. Let’s eat.” As Curt turned toward the stairs, a little white paw reached out from under the door. But Curt hadn’t seen it. Madison and I looked at each other and exhaled in relief.

Then one night, the girls and I went to a school program. Just as the sixth-graders kicked off their version of “Hot Cross Buns,” my phone vibrated. I glanced at the text message on the screen:

“Why is this cat running into our house?”

Uh-oh. My phone buzzed again.

"Obviously someone has been letting it in the house. It acts like it owns the place.”
 
I leaned over to Taylor. “We’ve been busted. Dad knows we brought Toby into the house.”
 
“What? How?”
 
I shoved the phone into my purse. “Let’s just say that Toby let the cat out of the bag.”

My girls and I had done a good job keeping that little family secret. The only problem was, we forgot to tell Toby. In the end, we learned a valuable lesson: Tell the truth—or someone will tell it for you. Even if that someone is a friendly, orange cat.

Free books! Free books! Did somebody say FREE BOOKS?

Why, yes I did. It's that time again! I am celebrating another story published in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book - and I'd love for you to join me. This time the stories are all about cats.

Cats.

Funny thing about cats ... seems like most people either love them or hate them. In our family, my girls and I fell in love with the sweetest stray cat you'd ever hope to meet. He charmed his way into our hearts and home. Only problem was, Dad did not like cats. So, bringing kitty in the house became our little secret. But, like most family secrets, the truth eventually came out. In the end, you'll never guess who let the cat out of the bag. I'll share the whole story next week on my blog.

In the meantime, I'm giving away TWO copies of Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cat Really Did That? I'll give you FIVE ways to enter before Tuesday, August 1. Feel free to be an overachiever and do all five if you'd like. Then I'll enter your name in the drawing and choose two random winners which I'll announce next week.

Good luck!

FIVE WAYS TO ENTER THE GIVEAWAY ...

#1. Like my writer Facebook page:

#2. Sign up to receive my blog by email:

(Remember to check your junk mailbox and confirm your subscription after signing up!)

#3. Invite a friend to like my Facebook page:

#4. Share my giveaway info on Facebook:

#5. And last but not least, leave me a comment:

Because if you've already liked my Facebook page
AND
signed up to get my posts in your email box
AND
invited a friend to check out my page
THEN
THANK YOU! (YOU ARE AWESOME!)
NOW YOU CAN
leave me a comment and I'll STILL enter your name in the contest!

We had the typical struggle to get three girls out the door. Someone couldn’t find their shoes. Someone else was wearing her sister’s shirt. Amidst the chaos, Curt called over to me. “Did you grab the camera?”

Emily groaned. “Can you please do me a favor? Can you not videotape me this year?”

“What? Why?” I didn’t try to hide my disappointment. “We have every piano recital since you first started lessons.”  

“Well maybe this year you can just listen – and not video it. Okay?”  

“Fine.” I shrugged. Anyway, I still had my cell phone if she changed her mind.

Like always, recital began with the youngest, most-inexperienced musicians first. Some could barely reach the pedals. One-by-one each kid took their turn playing their masterpieces.

We heard a quick version of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Then the ‘ol reliable, Hot Crossed Buns. Then a heartfelt rendition of Ode to Joy. Each kid ended their songs with a little grin and a big sigh of relief.

A girl played the first couple of measures of The Entertainer. Curt and I looked at one another and nodded. How many times had we heard a girl plunk out that song from the piano in our basement?

I leaned in toward Emily. “Are you sure I can’t record you? I promise I won’t videotape. I’ll just record the sound on my phone.”

Emily shook her head.

“But it’s your last recital, Em. You’ll never do this again.”

She smiled. “I know.”

She was glad it was her last recital. I was tired of “lasts.” This year has been full of them. Her last volleyball game. Her last homecoming. Her last performance in the school play. Her last senior banquet. Her last day of school.

It feels like I’ve been desperately grasping to hang onto something that's impossible to hold. It occurred to me, this was a “last” for me as well. My last attempt to hold onto this season of motherhood with my first little girl.

The piano teacher called Emily’s name. She walked to the front and began playing a song called, Butterfly. I was tempted to record it on my phone. But I didn’t. Instead, I honored her wish and just listened.

“Butterfly” was a fitting name for the song. As she played, I imagined a little caterpillar emerging from its cocoon. I pictured its crumpled wings slowly straightening. As the tempo fluctuated, I thought of a delicate butterfly fluttering gracefully in a summer breeze. Its brilliant colors sparkled in the sunlight. Butterflies have no idea how beautiful they are. Neither does my daughter.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. I really hate change.    

But I also know. Caterpillars have to go through a change if they’re going to become a butterfly. And Emily has to go through her own transformation as well.

All I can do is release her. And let her fly.

You can sign up to receive my blog by email!

*Remember to check your junk mailbox and confirm your subscription after signing up