Why write the book?

I was asked today why I wrote my book.
I gave a truthful answer about promoting hope and faith. After the conversation I stopped my day long enough to really ponder the question with more critical thinking. Why had I wrote the book? My stories were somewhat interesting and lightening had struck us several times, so to speak, and we, the children and I had not only survived but we had grown closer to each other and to the idea that our tragedies didn't define us. This is all true. What else is true is our story is a story someone can hang on to when they are going through their own misfortune. My book has a message of hope and humor and life long learning. This is all true. I believe if given the chance this book could help someone believe again that they will be and have the right to be happy.

Those are all good answers and true to my heart. But I couldn't help feel like they were not enough.
I opened my manuscript for the thousandth time and stared at the words I had painstakingly typed and retyped. I reread passages that I loved and remembered some of the events as if I were still there. The truth is I love this book. I feel connected to the phrases and verbiage as if it were a young child. It is very much my baby. But I had told my kids and friends the stories contained in the tattered pages for years now, so why write the book? Everybody I knew had heard everything I had written several times. I continued to thumb through the pages of the book absently looking to see if it contained the answer I was looking for. I laid on the bed with the manuscript on my chest, when the reason I wanted to know came upon me like a cloud burst. In that moment I knew exactly why I had to have the book written and published. As much as I have spent my entire life helping the sick and wounded in my careers, this book was written for my children, those born to me and those I have acquired over the years. I desperately wanted to pass on things I have learned and lessons I had stubbornly refused, so that my children would come to know why I am the way I am. I wanted them to see me not just as their mom, but someone who has hopes and dreams and disappointments and love, real love. I want my kids to know it's OK to fail, if you get back up. I want them to know that real love takes bravery and requires risking one's heart. I want them to know any hurt I have suffered was never in vain and I have few regrets. I want them to know that growing up is painful. It stretches your heart, mind and soul to their limits and causes suffering and anguish, but in the end what you are left with is the most amazing, miraculous joy. I want them to know it's O.K. to cry giant buckets of tears and let out the demons that haunt their dreams and paralyze their promise. It's wonderful to dance in public and sing yourself to sleep. I want my kids to know that imperfect is a goal not a failed attempt. I want my children to know I have learned so much more from them than I could have ever possibly taught.

I am who I am because they believed I could be. Long after I had given up and given in they were the ones who reminded me that miracles can come from dust. They believed in love, hope and forgiveness. Their memories were short when it came to my transgressions and long with forgiveness. I wanted them to know I had paid attention to them when they spoke. I saw their hearts and their intentions. Now I wanted them to see mine. I want my children to know that their unyielding love saved my life more than once. I want them to know if not for them I would never have been brave enough to try love and marriage again. I would have missed out on the deeply loving relationship I have with my beloved husband.

I wrote my book to show my children that they raised me well and I am forever grateful for all the hugs and kisses and hand holding they have done since their arrival. I wrote the book because my children will be the first ones to tell you that when you learn an answer to a big equation, you have to show your work.