Read an Excerpt
Chapter 1: “Promise Me You’ll Tell People That They Are Not Alone”
I knew something had changed when I realized I was the one holding the spoon. My grandmother lay flat on her back in the hospital bed, with only her head tilted. She was approaching the end of hour two of six following strict instructions to lie on her back as still as she could because of the excessive bleeding in the recovery room after her aortic-aneurysm surgery. I paused midscoop with the spoon that held her favorite treat, Blue Bell light vanilla ice cream, to peer into my grandmother’s crystal-blue eyes. She and I held each other’s gazes without speaking a word. During this long pause, we exchanged our love in silence. Love welled within me to the point of bursting as my blue eyes held the loving gaze of her blue eyes. How many times—from the days of my early childhood when she had spoonfed me treats—had my eyes stared into hers and a deep understanding come over me that I was loved, deeply loved. Today, the same exchange was made, except I was the one holding the spoon. As I finished scooping the bite of ice cream, I glanced at her hands that told a thousand stories of gentle acts of kindness and love. Those hands had scooped bites of baby food into my mouth, stirred the large spoon in the cast-iron pot as she stood at her stove making a roux or crawfish étouffée, and joyfully fed her great-grandchildren the very treat I was feeding her today. She sheepishly accepted my offer of the bite of ice cream, the role reversal apparent to her as much as to me. She smiled and joked about this being her job when I was little.
I had no idea that holding the spoon in my hand that day marked the beginning of a life-changing journey. Three weeks later, my grandfather learned that he had a brain tumor. Two days before his surgery to remove this tumor, I submitted the manuscript for my first book. A week after his surgery, my hometown, Baton Rouge, experienced a flood that local news reporters called the thousand-year flood. The waters rose so quickly and suddenly that no one was prepared for the impact. My husband, brother, and uncle rescued my parents out of their home by boat. It was only a day later that we maneuvered our way through the wet, devastated streets of Baton Rouge to meet with my grandfather’s neurosurgeon in New Orleans, to receive the news that the tumor they removed was indeed cancer: glioblastoma. After I’d spent hours on the Internet prior to this appointment, researching the possibilities, that word—glioblastoma—hit me in the stomach and literally took my breath away. Aggressive, terminal brain cancer.
We drove back through the water-soaked streets of Baton Rouge to my home. I could not process all that we were holding in this moment. The uncertainty of whether my parents’ home was destroyed. The devastation of thousands of homes flooded around us, including those of neighbors, family, and friends. The people immediately in front of me needing help. The continued recovery of my grandmother from a life-threatening aortic aneurysm. The news of my grandfather’s terminal cancer. I tried to wrap my head around the enormity of all that had happened in just a month’s time while my mind raced through the various roles and responsibilities related to the calls of my life. Marriage. Motherhood. Ministry.
If I’m honest, I don’t even know if I prayed that day in the car. I was overwhelmed to the point of feeling numb. The prayers came, though, in the days, weeks, and months after that car journey through my town. I cried out to God like never before as Baton Rouge fought its way through recovery again, as my grandmother healed, and as I accompanied my grandfather to his final breath.
