My mind still plays scenes from those years with my mother. Carolyn Acker Maxwell’s smile and voice, laughter and conversations, songs and stories—so many years later I can still see and hear. Those memories are so good and so bad, so joyful and so sad. Because love merges the conflict with the joy. They live together in this life of nonfiction drama. A mental image of her kindness rapidly shifts to a scene of the chemotherapy removing her hair. She loved to walk and exercise before it was the cool thing to do; she loved to iron clothes while singing and dancing to the music of Patsy Cline and Skeeter Davis; she loved to pray no matter what else she was doing; she loved to sit in that rocking chair and pause for a moment of wonder. I can see her. I can hear her. Though she’s not here, the memories of her heritage keep her movie on the screens of our minds.
Mama never gave up. Her story wasn’t over. And now, her story is still alive.
So, what about you? How can you finish your movie well? How can you leave a heritage? What can motivate you to return to the script—or, maybe in your case, throw away a structured script and begin all new in a screenplay drafted by grace?
Imagine yourself in a theater. The actress looks so much like you. She talks like you. Her mood resembles the pain within your own hurt. Envision how deep wounds have shortened her days. Hope doesn’t seem to be a part of the soundtrack; the images all look dull.
But then, everything changes. The music. The color. The pace. A stranger told her that she had been healed. He told her life was beginning again for her. The old things were gone. All things were becoming new.
Believe that she is you. Today. A new internal scene of peace no matter what the landscape around you indicates. A new season, a new song, a new plot, a new segment.