Thirty-some years ago, my mother gifted me an author’s autobiography with the inscription: “To my author-daughter.” For the last three years, I’ve been plugging away at a book that pairs my medical anecdotes with her prayerful antidotes. And this year—on my mom’s birthday—I had an appointment with an acquisitions editor from a major Christian publishing house. On… her… birthday. God’s timing is a beautiful gift on any day of the year, but this one felt bow-licious!

The virtual meeting was fifteen minutes—nearly to the second—but thankfully I’m an animated fast-talker. I was encouraged when the AC chuckled at the title for my book of laments for any medical malady: For Cryin’ Outloud and said, “I love it!” With a couple of minutes left, she double-checked my email address. Not the polite, “We have your info, we’ll be in touch,” but a genuine, “I want to make sure I have your correct email address.” As part of the process, she’ll present my book to her team, and if they get back to me within six to eight weeks… well, Merry Christmas to me!

Later that evening, my local Christian bookstore/coffee shop hosted a private holiday event. My sister drove in to celebrate with me, along with our mom’s sister, our cousin, our sister-in-law, my niece-in-law, and a friend. My sister exuberantly wore our mom’s Christmas sweater, and the two of us unintentionally showed up in the same pinks. A fellow party-goer told us we were an inspiration. She’d been losing patience with her ailing mom and seeing us celebrate reminded her that one day her mother wouldn’t be there anymore.

I shared: “I realized I started losing my mother ten years before she passed. Eventually I landed on the fact that her out-of-character responses and lashing out weren’t my mother—they were the disease. And I’m okay with disliking a disease.”