Cookin' in Brooke's Kitchen
By Brooke Harrison, nine
As told by Eryc Stevens

When I was six years old my five-year-old cousin, Juliana, got sick.  My brother and I were in the family room watching television when my mom came in to tell us the bad news.  I wasn't really sure what "cancer" meant, but I could tell it wasn't a good thing.  My parents' faces were full of worry and tears, and that was enough to make me cry, too.

I asked, "Mom, what's the matter with Juliana?  What is cancer?"  My mom told us that Juliana had been diagnosed with ALL leukemia, a cancer of the blood and bone.  My brother and I were so frightened, we really didn't even know what to think.

When we went to see Juliana in the hospital, she was lying in bed, and she had all these tubes and things hooked to her.  It was confusing and scary.

As her treatments continued, Juliana seemed to be getting sicker and sicker.  Every time I visited her, she looked different.  The medication she took caused her to gain a lot of weight, and she lost all of her long, beautiful hair.  I couldn't understand what the doctors were doing to her - it seemed like they were making her feel worse - not better.
 
Seeing my cousin in so much pain made me feel like my own heart was aching.  Something needed to be done.  I knew I wanted to help her get better faster, but at six years old, I wasn't sure how I could make a difference - I just knew I had to do something to help my cousin.

One night after we visited Juliana, all the way home I couldn't stop thinking about her.  A hospital can be a very scary, cold place.  I imagined how alone Juliana must have felt lying there during the night.
 
When we got home, I sat down at our kitchen table.  I always liked writing stories and drawing pictures, and I started working at it like I had done so many other nights.  But this night was different - I was thinking about Juliana.  I thought, What if I can sell my drawings?  Then I can give the money to Juliana's doctors to help her get well faster and out of that hospital.
     
When I told my parents, they thought it was a wonderful idea - but then we came up with an even better one.  We would make a cookbook.  I really liked cooking and baking plus writing and drawing - a cookbook had all these things combined.
     
The very next day, I asked all of our family and friends to send me their favorite recipes.  To my surprise, everyone jumped at the chance to help. Mom helped to put everything together.  Grandma typed recipes while I drew pictures that went into different sections of the cookbook.
     
My idea for a small cookbook quickly grew to over one hundred pages.
     
The local skating club paid for the first printing.  We sold almost 300 books in our first week.  I couldn't believe the response.  I felt really good!  I have never felt anything like it before.
     
Now the cookbook, which is called, "Cookin' in Brooke's Kitchen," is in its fourth printing and, because of many requests, I am starting on a second cookbook.  My wish to help my cousin has ended up helping lots of people.  The money from the cookbook has all been donated to the Leukemia Research Fund of Canada.  In fact, enough money has been raised to fund two research fellowships.  I have been lucky enough to meet many leukemia survivors, and lots of them have shared their stories with me.  Hearing their stories made me feel important and like I really have been able to make a difference.
     
Juliana recently turned eight and she is doing great!  I often think back to the times we sat in the hospital making miles of paper chains to pass the time.  We must have decorated most of her hospital wing!  The coolest thing is that she says I am her best friend and favorite cousin.
     
Now that my cousin Juliana is healed, I am too.  The heartache I felt was a part of the love I have for my family.  I'm glad that not only was I able to help heal the pain within my own family, but also to help with what happens to other families, too.  I guess life is all about mixing up the right ingredients - it takes equal parts of love and action to make the world a better place.

It's like you want to show that special someone why you love them right then and there,
but it takes a life time to show that person, and that's the beauty of love and what makes it last.

Always put yourself in the other's shoes. If you feel that it hurts you, it probably hurts the person too

LOVE? it's kind of complicated, but I'll tell you this...
the second you're willing to make yourself miserable to make someone else happy,
that's love right there

Today, give a stranger one of your smiles. It might be the only sunshine he sees all day.

Love means making the other happy, even from a distance.

The rose that you gave me has faded, and wilted away.
But, the love tucked in deep inside remains in my heart forever.

There are many things in life....that will catch your eye,
but only a few will catch your heart .......pursue those

it is really amazing when two strangers become best friends,
but, its really sad when two best friends become strangers

Distance between two hearts is not an obstacle; rather a great reminder of just how strong true love can be

If you're asking me if I need you, the answer is forever.
If you're asking me if I'll leave you, the answer is never.
If you're asking what I value, the answer is you.
If you're asking if I love you, the answer is I do.

It doesn’t matter if the guy is perfect or the girl is perfect
as long as they are perfect for each other

Never look down on anybody unless you're helping him up.

When the eyes meet and hold strongly they are bound to meet again.

Love isn't about becoming somebody else's perfect person
It's about finding someone who helps you become the best person you can be

Sometimes I look around for you and think you'll be there waiting and looking for me too...
but you're not...you never are

If I could be an angel, I'd make your every wish come true,
but I am only human, Just a girl who's loving you

Love is just a word till you can find a special someone who can give it meaning.

Who do you run to when the only person in the world who can
make you stop crying is exactly the person making you cry

Your can't make someone love you. All you can do is be someone who can be loved.
The rest is up to the person to realise your worth.

You can give without loving but you cannot love without giving

I'm afraid to fall in love, afraid to love so fast. Cause every time I fall in love, it never seems to last

There's a girl in my mirror crying tonight,
and there's nothing I can do or say to make her feel alright

Falling for someone the first time is easy...
it's the second time around, after you have fallen and trusted someone to catch you and they didn't...
when it becomes difficult to let yourself fall again

How can you be friends with someone if everytime you look at them, it makes you want them even more?

Why do you expect me to be happy all the time when I'm crying on the inside?

I never really regretted telling you that I liked you,
the only regret I have is never hearing what you really thought of me

I admit I were never the perfect one... I was never always there...
I didn’t make you smile at times but there is one thing I admit I did..
I was the best person I could be for you...

When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody,
you want the rest of your life To start as soon as possible

Even though you are right next to me, you've never felt so far away

If he's the first thing you think of when you wake up,
the only thing you think of when your awake,
and the last thing you think of before you go to bed
then he's really something special

Missing someone gets easier everyday,
because even though it's one day further from the last time you saw each other,
it is one day closer to the next time you will see each other

Do not marry the person you think you can live with,
marry the person you can’t live without.

When I see you smile and I know it's not for me, that's when I miss you the most

Sometimes the perfect person for you is that whom you least expected to be.

Late at night when all the world is sleeping, I stay up and think of you.
And I wish on a star that somewhere you are thinking of me too.

What can I do to make you mine
Falling so hard so fast this time
What did I say, what did you do?
How did I fall in love with you?

Love is waking up every morning and seeing God through the eyes of your lover

Telling someone you love them comes from the heart
The place that made you love them from the start

A true man does not need to romance a different girl every night,
a true man romances the same girl for the rest of her life.

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength while loving someone deeply gives you courage.

There are things you would love to hear but you will never hear it
from the person from whom you would like to hear it,
but don't be deaf to hear it from the person who says it with heart

I don't make you feel special, I just remind you that you are special.

If I love you, Love You forever
Promise me you'll never stop loving me,
Never Never

It is not only necessary to love, It is necessary to say so.

Love is when two people who care for each other get confused.

The phone call came in the early hours.

"Hello, is that Mrs Lawrence?"

"Hello, hello - is that the hospital? Is that Sister? This is Sally Chambers, her daughter, how is my Dad?"

"Mrs Chambers, we think that you and Mrs Lawrence might want to visit Mr Lawrence."

"Oh, oh... Is Daddy worse?"

"Well, Doctor thinks you and Mrs Lawrence might like to be here. If you can. Soon"

"Yes. Yes... we will be there as soon as we can. Thank you, Sister."

Sally took a deep breath; she had been dreading that phone call.

She hurried to her mother who was already dressing.

"Mummy, it was..."

"Yes, yes dear, I know who it was. I must go to him."

Sally's eyes prickled with tears as she saw her mother dressing in her best dress, applying a little powder to her cheeks from her old and treasured compact, a brush of pale lipstick, a hint of her father's favourite perfume to her throat and wrists.

"Mother, we must hurry - they said to come soon."

"Sally I must look nice for him. It's quite all right. He will wait for me. Please don't fret."

Sally wondered at her mother. She knew and her mother knew that her father was deeply sedated. That he would never waken. That he would never see her again. And yet she was taking this time when time was now so short. She felt a flash of irritation. Why were old people so STUBBORN?

Having at last adjusted her (now dreadfully out-of-date) hat her mother was finally ready. Sally took her by the arm, helped support her arthritically painful walk, and guided her out of the house, locking the door behind her. She eased her mother into the passenger seat of her car.

She drove through the quiet streets, hushed as though respectful of the need for their journey at this dark hour. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her mother fumbling with the clasp of her handbag, saw the pale envelope as her mother reassured herself that it was there.

"Mother, I don't know how to say this. I have your wedding anniversary card in my handbag too. This is yours and Daddy's 60th... I wondered... well... I don't want to hurt you or Da..." She stopped, bit her lip as she remembered that she could never again hurt her father.

"You are a very dear and thoughtful girl, Sally, but you won't hurt either of us. Of course you must give it to him. He will be so hurt if he thinks you haven't remembered."

Sally feared that the stress and heartbreak of her father's illness had finally broken her mother's mind. Again she felt the flare of anger. Why wouldn't her mother accept that her father would never know hurt again. That he was suspended from pain only by the most deeply reaching medication. Medication intended to ease him from the agony of the here, to the relief of the hereafter.

"You know, Sally, I can still see him, 60 years ago today - well 60 years ago at 10 o'clock anyway. He was so pale and nervous as he waited for me at the altar. I was wearing my veil down of course, as a modest bride should, and he couldn't see me as I smiled at him. But his face! The relief that I had actually come to him. To be married to him. As if I could NOT have come to him. Sally, your father and I have had the most wonderfully happy marriage. I wouldn't change a single day of it. Well perhaps the odd day when I had to be angry with him over something totally unimportant! But you have to do don't you? You have to be mad at your man sometimes don't you?"

"Your father was always romantic. And it was Daddy who wanted us to be married today, Valentine's Day, 60 years ago. Every year, every single year except for when he was a prisoner in the war, and even then when he came home to me he gave me the Valentine's Wishes he'd made when he was away. Just little scraps of paper. But always something. And every year since then we have made our own Wishes for each other. We didn't buy the cards from shops. They couldn't say what we wanted to say."

"I have my Wish with me now you know. He will love it. He always does."

Sally swallowed hard. Any more of this and she would either scream out loud, or yell at her mother and tell her did she know her Dad was unconscious, in a coma, dying. She felt a chill inside as she wondered how she would cope with her mother looking down on the shrunken, wasted frame of the man she had loved and who would soon leave her. How would her mother cope - afterwards?

They were able to park in a disabled slot right in front of the main visitors' entrance and as Sally helped her mother out of the car, a porter unlocked the doors.

She turned to the porter - "Is there a wheelchair please for my mother. She is very arthritic."

"No, no, Sally. No, I do NOT want a wheelchair. I shall walk to him just as I did before. Just give me your arm, as my own father did as he walked me down the aisle. I must walk to him."

Sally wanted to run, to rush to her father's side, to be with him, to not let him be alone but she knew it was pointless to protest. Her mother was so stubborn when she wanted to be. It had taken them well over an hour since the phone call. She was sure they were now too late.

She took her mother's arm in her own and they slowly walked the long quiet corridor, took the lift. Again the halting walk.

The side ward was dimly lit. The covered figure still wore the oxygen mask. She felt relief for her mother; they had not been too late.

Her mother bent and awkwardly kissed her husband's cheek, the oxygen mask hissing softly. "I am here, Charles" was all that she said.

Two heavy, padded, hospital visitors' chairs lined the wall, and Sally struggled to move one to the side of the bed for her mother.

"It's quite alright, Sally. Leave it there by the wall. It will give your father more space around him."

The two women sat and waited, a wife and a daughter. The wife calm, composed, her eyes free from tears and frequently looking at the face of the man she loved. The daughter, restless, anxious, her heart full but not yet spilling out the grief within her.

Sally fidgeted and paced the room, looked on the shelves of the bedside cabinet, read the various 'Get Well' cards, pulled open the drawer and found it empty except for her fathers toilet items. His old shaving brush and razor. His preferred brand of soap and toothpaste. His toothbrush. She almost broke into sobs at the sight of the personal items, used daily for God only knew how many years.

There too, was his pen and a blank sheet of paper. He must have been meaning to write a note before he was eased into sleep.

There was bustle in the Ward as the day shift took over and the day Sister came in and checked her patient, reading his notes, taking temperature, pulse, blood pressure as the man lay unmoving. She made her own notes, smiled and asked if there was anything she could get for them, then she was gone to her next patient.

Sally closed her eyes and slept.

She felt her hand being taken, squeezed and realised that her mother was waking her.

Her eyes flew to her father, but he lay as he had those hours before. She shook herself free and stood, stretching the discomfort from her back. She walked to her father and looked down. Quite still. The deeply carved furrows of pain cratering his face.

She looked at her watch... goodness she had slept for almost two hours, it was now close to ten o'clock.

Her mother's voice broke into her reverie ""Sally, do be a dear and fetch me a cup of tea will you? There's a vending machine just outside and that will do nicely."

She opened her handbag, took out her purse and picked the coins to feed the machine. She smiled at her mother, who looked back at her, her eyes bright, a loving smile on her face. "You have been a good daughter to us, Sally. We both love you very much. You know that don't you?"

"Yes, Mum, and I love you both as well."

She walked from the side ward, fed coins into the machine, pressed the buttons and watched the hospital's sludgy apology for tea pour into the plastic beaker.

Walking carefully, balancing the cup in her hand, she walked the few yards to her father's room. She noticed the time on the Ward clock. Exactly 10 o'clock now. As she was about to enter his room, the Sister stopped her.

"Doctor will be here in a moment Mrs Chambers. Perhaps you and Mrs Lawrence would like to freshen up a little while he examines your father."

"Yes. Yes of course" Sally answered.

She eased carefully into the room, watching carefully to be sure she spilled none of the hot drink. Then she looked over to her mother. She blinked, frowned. Where on earth was she?

She looked at her father and was shocked, the cup falling from her hand.

The heavy chair was neatly placed on the opposite side of the bed. Her mother's hands clasped one hand of her father, and his other hand rested on hers. Her lips touched the back of his hand. The oxygen mask lay on the floor, still gently hissing it's life supporting air. Her father's face had smoothed, his skin many years younger. A smile was on his lips.

Sally dashed to her mother, skirting the bottom of the bed.

"Mother" she called. There was no response. "Mother, mother." She shook her mother's arm, and her face tilted to one side. She, too, wore a beautiful smile. A smile of contented peace. She was quite unmoving.

Her heart seemed to contract. She ran to the door. "Sister. Sister. Please come. Come quickly."

She put her hands to her mouth, her eyes staring. There was a flurry of white and the Sister was there.

"Please wait outside Mrs Chambers."

Sally stumbled from the room. Somewhere a bell was ringing stridently. A doctor ran hurriedly into the room. A nurse with a trolley of emergency equipment followed. There was the quiet urgency of sound from her father's room. A muted professional intensity of activity.

A nurse took her arm. "Come with me. Come and sit. Let them see to your father."

Sally let herself be led to a rest room. She sat. Dazed. Uncomprehending. How had her mother moved that heavy chair? She had been gone for 3 minutes at the most. She was only yards away. Her mother couldn't possibly have moved the chair. She had difficulty in walking. How? How?

The doctor appeared, solemn of face and sat beside her.

"I am so sorry. I have to tell you that we couldn't save either your mother or your father. We did our best for your mother, but we had lost her. I am so very sorry."

Sally looked at him numbly. "It was their anniversary today. They have been married for 60 years you know. They were married on Valentines day. Today."

The doctor repeated, "I am very, very sorry. It was, quick, very sudden. She felt no pain, and of course your father was heavily sedated."

The Sister entered the room and gave Sally her mother's handbag.

"We found your mother and father holding these papers. You will want to keep them."

Sally looked down. She frowned, shocked to see her own Anniversary Card. But surely it was in her own handbag that she had left beside her mother when she was sent for the tea? The handbag that was still in that room.

But what were these other papers?

She unfolded the first. In her father's handwriting, surprisingly firm and bold she read

"My Valentine Wish - to my Beautiful Bride

We have loved for more than 60 years.
The time now come to cease from tears.
Come, my love, and take my hand
And let us leave this anguished land.
Walk with me across this line.
Walk with me to a future time
Where for all Our tomorrows - You will ever be Mine.

I love you, My Dearest Valentine."

A sob was stifled in her aching throat as she opened the second piece of paper.

"My Valentine Wish - to my Handsome Husband.

My dearest Man, my Love, my All
I've waited long to hear your call.
I will, in love, take hold your hand
We will respond to God's command.
I have no fear. I have your Heart
At last I know we'll never part.
My Pledge, my Troth - You will ever be Mine.

And I love you too, My Valentine."

Tears ran unchecked down Sally's aching face.

She opened her own card, the one she had been unable to give them.

Inside, under her own wishes for their anniversary, was written in her father's hand

"Sally, thank you for your lovely wishes for us both. Your dear old Dad."

Below that, in her mother's hand

"Sally, dear. We do love you so much. Please do not mourn. We have each other. We are happy now. Mum."

She could no longer hold back. Her shoulders heaved. Her body was wracked with her grief.

A few yards away, side by side on gurneys lay two cooling bodies. Am I mistaken? Are they holding hands?

The day began like any other moving job in the city. The moving crew was on the job at the agreed upon time, 8:30 a.m.

After introducing themselves to the customer and a brief tour of the residence to assess that plan for loading, the old gentleman asked them if they would like some coffee. The men, being charged by the hour, declined his offer. He smiled at their honesty and gestured to them to continue.

The old house had a redolent fragrance of musty rose petals. The bereaved seventy-nine-year old husband merely watched and quietly chatted and quipped with the young-strong men as they went about their work. It was obvious he was lonely and welcomed the rather captive audience into his home. Even under the albeit necessary circumstances of having to move to the nursing care facility, their presence heartened him.

The young men were kind to the old gentleman, tolerating his rather one-sided conversation. Occasionally, they had to ask him to 'move to one side' while they removed furniture and memories all at one time right before him.

In a way he was as glad to be leaving the house which really had no relevant significance for him anymore since his partner of sixty-two-years had died two years ago. He found peace each day in prayer. The responsibilities for his care would be a welcomed solace.

The hours sped by and the house became but a shell of past occupancy. Upon near completion of the job one of the movers went through the house to check each room to make sure nothing had been left behind. In the upstairs bedroom under a small alcove there was a chest almost imperceptible because it was the same wood hue as the paneling on the wall behind it. When he started to remove it, the entire contents fell through the bottom of the chest. Papers were strewn all over the floor, along with photos. He began to collect everything into some semblance of order when a yellowed newspaper clipping caught his eye: TWIN BOYS DIE IN BOATING ACCIDENT. After quickly scanning the article, he learned that they were indeed the old gentleman's sons, lost to him and his wife forever over three decades ago.

When the movers had completed the move, the man thanked them for their diligence and careful concern for his precious belongings. He told them that their kindness to him was more appreciated than they could ever realize.

Six months later, almost to the day of the move, the gentleman died. In his will, he left his entire fortune of one and a half million dollars to the "Two movers who were so kind and reminded me of my own sons."

He finally gave in to his friend's girlfriend
When she said "there's someone you should meet"
At a crowded restaurant way cross town
He waited impatiently
When she walked in their eyes met and they both stared
And right there and then everyone else disappeared, but

One boy, one girl, two hearts beating wildly
To put it mildly it was love at first sight
He smiled, she smiled and they knew right away
This was the day they'd waited for all their lives
And for a moment the whole world revolved
Around one boy and one girl

In no time at all they were standing there
In the front of a little church
Among their friends and family
Repeating those sacred words
Preacher said, "Son, kiss your bride," and he raised her veil
Like the night they met time just stood still for

One boy, one girl, two hearts beating wildly
To put it mildly it was love at first sight
He smiled, she smiled and they knew right away
This was the day they'd waited for all their lives
And for a moment the whole world revolved
Around one boy and one girl

He was holding her hand when the doctor looked up and grinned
"congratulations, twins"

One boy, one girl, two hearts beating wildly
To put it mildly it was love at first sight
He smiled, she smiled and they knew right away
This was the day they'd waited for all their lives
And for a moment the whole world revolved
Around one boy and one girl

It happened today as I passed a full-length mirror while shopping in the mall. Rather than my usual brief glance to check my hair and makeup, I was brought up short. It suddenly seemed as if I was looking at my mother - her face, her hair color, her body shape and her kind of shoulder bag. For one brief moment, I thought about calling to tell her about it. Then my mind cleared and I remembered that heaven is farther away than the best fiber optics can reach.

Getting used to being motherless is taking longer than I thought possible. Even though it's been six years since my mother died, many things still trigger thoughts of her: seeing her birthday or anniversary date on the calendar, wearing her wedding ring, dusting the brass candlesticks she bought overseas, sniffing the aroma of meat loaf in a cafeteria (it's not as good as hers), or glimpsing an intensely pink sky at sundown, a near duplicate of the one that appeared the day she was buried.

Common sense tells me these reminders will lessen in frequency and intensity as the years pass. Or will they? My friend Frances recently told me, "My mother died over thirty years ago, and I still miss her so much."

Why does the loss of a mother seem different than other losses? Maybe it's the unique mother-daughter relationship that causes motherless daughters like me to feel our grief for years while concealing it like a box of old love letters high on a shelf. The immense expectations connected with a mother's role leaves us struggling with the void she's left behind. The one we thought would always be there for us - nurturing, loving, caring - now no longer is. Suddenly we find ourselves measuring the future in terms of mother-absence. Mother won't see her grandchildren born. Mother won't attend her oldest grandson's graduation. Mother won't be escorted down the aisle first in her granddaughter's wedding. But even those painful thoughts are clung to because they represent a connection, a remembrance.

Jeanette, a friend who lost her mother three years ago, calls her difficult moments "grief points" - times when she suddenly feels the loss of what was or what could have been. With the realization that her mother, an excellent seamstress, would no longer be there to make a wedding dress for her someday, Jeanette was left with a poignant sense of future loss.

My grief points usually involve past losses, regrets over the times my mother and I failed to communicate. If I could pick up the phone today and reach her, would we get beyond small talk to deeper issues? Because she lived seven hundred miles away (and often seemed intimidated by the phone), we postponed those conversations for our semi-annual visits. Then there never seemed to be enough time or privacy - until she was dying.

During that seven-week period, our conversations went well beyond the books we were reading or current events. We talked about life and death, past and present hurts. The mother-daughter bond grew stronger (better late than not at all). I thank God for those times, at the same time wondering what might have happened if He'd chosen to grant miraculous healing.

Why didn't we communicate better earlier? I was simply "too busy." While I was caring for a growing family, the years rushed by in a flurry of activity. My mother said she understood because she'd been there. She even boasted to her friends about how complicated my life was. But after finding a packet of my old letters in her bureau drawer while emptying her house, I regret not writing her more. I, too, often played that foolish game of "I'll write her when she writes me." A game where nobody won. My mother frequently described herself (pretty accurately) as "the world's worst letter writer." This was evidenced by a note she wrote me in college that included a sentence about having the cast taken off her leg. I called home immediately and found out she'd broken her ankle two months earlier but neglected to mention it!

Although physical distance kept us apart most of our adult lives, I wish I'd been better at bridging the emotional distance that sometimes separated us. Now I realize I shouldn't have expected it to be a fifty-fifty proposition; one person usually needs to give more in order to keep communication open.

Ironically, I've come to understand my mother better now that she's gone. It recently occurred to me that I never saw her cry. She undoubtedly had many reasons to cry: a traumatic childhood with an abusive father, the loss of her first husband in World War II, a turbulent marriage to my father (an alcoholic), and multiple health problems and surgeries.

After she died, I found a poem in her Bible that spoke of accepting what comes into our lives without complaint ("whatever is, is best") because it comes through the hands of a loving God. Apparently, she believed that. Even though she didn't come to a personal relationship with Christ until several years before she died, she never harbored anger against God for the way her life turned out. Thinking of her perseverance and strength gives me a fresh appreciation for her attributes.

On this continuing grief journey, I'm learning not to look at the past through rose-colored glasses, to succumb to the temptation to make a martyr of my mother (she would have hated that!), or to idealize her with a perfection no human being merits. Neither do I blame her for any childhood deficiencies, not even the ones for which she apologized. She gave me what she was capable of giving at the time. And I've forgiven her for the times when that wasn't enough, as I hope my children will forgive me.

When I was about five years old, I used to climb onto my mother's lap and say, "I love you. I have the best mommy in the whole wide world." It seemed to embarrass her because she never knew exactly how to respond. The reason became clear when she explained to me on her deathbed that, for some unknown reason, the words "I love you" had always been hard for her to say.

Sometimes when I think of her now, I don't see her as I last did - in her sixties, frail and bedridden as she lost her second battle with cancer. Instead, when life knocks me around and I find myself suddenly inexplicably wanting my mother, I picture her as the beautiful twenty-eight-year-old woman she once was and myself as a child again. I climb onto her lap and say, "I love you. I have the best mommy in the whole wide world."

But this time my mother puts her arms around me and says, "I love you, Honey. I have the best daughter in the whole wide world." And it is enough.

Maybe when I join her in heaven, we'll have a chance to try it again.

Sitting on one of the most beautiful tropical beaches on earth, I had every reason to be happy. For the past three years, my husband and I had been living on the private island of La-na'i, Hawai'i. The calm blue Pacific stretched endlessly before me. The white sand felt warm beneath me, and the palm trees above swayed gently in the trade winds. Most people considered this to be paradise.

So why in the world was I crying?

It was my fortieth birthday, and I found myself battling with the same demons I had struggled with for the past twenty years: my fears of becoming a mother.

I'm sure it started with my own childhood. Though my parents loved me the best way they knew how, life dealt them some tough blows. My father, a Jewish soldier fighting on the front lines of World War II, experienced horrors that no human being should have to endure, including cleaning the ovens where his own people were slaughtered. He returned home a broken man, unable to give me the kind of love a child hungers for. My mother, a talented writer, gave up that life to marry and work jobs she hated. She spent the rest of her life bitterly disappointed. Somehow, between the two of them, I got lost. As a result, the idea of becoming a parent left me confused. I held two completely opposite images of motherhood: the harsh reality of my mother's despair versus the Betty Crocker television mom who baked perfect cookies, raised perfect children and handled life with a perfect smile. Becoming a mom myself, with all of my own real-life wounds and inadequacies, left me terrified.

As the years passed, I convinced myself I didn't want children. I, too, was a writer, and set my sights on birthing bestselling novels. There was no room for motherhood in my life.

I continued avoiding the whole issue, until I met Dennis. We met in a big city on the East Coast and fell head over heels in love. Within the year, we were engaged. Shortly after, work took him to Hawai'i. We married there. Through a quirk of fate we ended up living on the tiny, rural island of Lana'i. Coming from a big crowded city myself, Lana'i was like a fairytale. There were no stoplights, no fast-food restaurants and virtually no crime. The entire population of 2,700 people lived in Lana'i City. It was a charming village with hundreds of giant pine trees, colorful wooden plantation houses with tin roofs and free-roaming roosters.

On Lana'i, people knew each other by the car they drove. In fact, the only "traffic jam" that existed on this island was when a car or an old Jeep suddenly stopped because the driver wanted to "talk story" with a friend strolling down the dirt road.

A tremendous sense of community, or 'ohana as it's called in Hawai'i, existed on Lana'i. Slowly and almost magically, Lana'i melted away my urban crustiness. I began to slow down and truly connect to people for the first time. My heart began to open up more and more. I believe this was Lana'i's special gift to me.

As my relationship with Dennis deepened, I found myself wanting to give him a baby. It was a spontaneous feeling that I couldn't control. But when I admitted it aloud, all I could do was cry. Over and over, Dennis reassured me that we didn't need to have a child. He already had a grown son from a previous marriage. Yet he had spoken of his sadness about missing the day-to-day raising of his son. He would have loved to be "a true dad."

This all brings me back to what happened on my fortieth birthday. The night before, I came home feeling very upset. I knew my biological clock was ticking and winding down. I realized I had to face this fear and make a decision. But everything in me screamed, "No!" If I decided not to be a mother, I was afraid I would regret it in my final hours. If I chose to have a child, I was afraid my inadequacies would hurt my son or daughter the way I had been hurt.

Finally, late in the night, I crawled out of bed and got down on my knees. Tears flowing, my prayer was short but heartfelt: "Help me with this decision, God. Please. All I ask for is peace."

The next morning, I drove to the beach to be alone. Sitting by myself on the sand, staring blankly at the horizon, I felt exhausted. How would I ever make this life-altering decision?

Every once in a while I focused on the ocean, searching for my friends, the dolphins. On Lana'i, we were blessed with a group, or pod, of Pacific Spinner dolphins who have made this bay their home. Sometimes as many as 500 would come here to rest and play.

Over the past three years, my husband and I frequently swam with these dolphins. In the morning, we'd search for distant splashes that only a trained eye could see. When we spotted them, we'd don our masks and slowly swim out. The trick to getting the dolphins' attention, we discovered, was singing into our snorkels. We'd sing and splash around like kids, and minutes later the dolphins would show up. There are only two ways wild dolphins will approach you. Either the entire pod arrives, sometimes in the hundreds, or a few of their largest males will swim close by. These scouts then return to the group, letting them know you're okay. Dolphins are an intelligent, close-knit community. They would never send their most vulnerable members to investigate.

This particular morning, I thought I saw the telltale splashes offshore. I slipped on my mask and entered the water. My eyes were still puffy from crying all night from obsessing about this challenging decision. I swam out, weakly humming into my snorkel. Floating face down, looking into the clear water, I waited. About ten minutes later I glimpsed a ghostly shadow in the distance. Assuming this was the scout, I stayed perfectly still, never expecting what was about to happen. Through the turquoise mist a single dolphin emerged. What I didn't see immediately was the baby by her side.

They swam closer and closer, coming within a few feet of me. It was mesmerizing, and I was witnessing a miracle. Mother and baby began circling me. I could easily make out the stripes on the baby - proof it was truly a newborn. I felt a powerful connection with the mother. The instant our eyes met, I heard a gentle voice in my head. It was as crystal clear as the water surrounding me. Relax, the voice whispered. Motherhood is beautiful.

For almost an hour, the mother and baby dolphin circled around me. The whole experience was like a dream: the shimmering Pacific, the gentle dolphins so close. It was as if they were there to comfort me. Guests from the nearby hotel began gathering on the shore. They couldn't believe their eyes.

Eventually, some people swam out to investigate, which sent mom and baby back into the protection of the distant pod. I left the water in a trance.

Though my despair about the decision lifted, three years passed and still I didn't conceive. By my forty-third birthday I assumed that the dolphin encounter was just a coincidence, and that perhaps God had made a mistake. Others, who were less troubled than I, might have somehow seen the episode as an answer to my prayer for peace. I could only assume that if I hadn't gotten pregnant by now, I obviously wasn't meant - or fit - to be a mother.

A few weeks after my forty-third birthday, I found myself praying again. Something was missing in my life. With all my heart, I asked God for a fundamental change. Something so basic, it would permanently alter everything.

Only days later, I discovered I was pregnant. That was over nine months ago. Today, as I write this story, my newborn son, Reyn, lies sweetly and peacefully at my breast. A perfect little boy, as beautiful as any angel I could imagine.

So why in the world am I crying now?

Because I'm overwhelmed with gratitude and joy. Overwhelmed with the sheer miracle of his birth. Overwhelmed with such deep love that sometimes all I can do is weep.

I can see now, as clearly as I saw mama and baby dolphin swimming beside me, that God was utterly and absolutely right. Relax, motherhood is beautiful.