Bags of candy fill the aisles in the local grocery stores; while costumes for young pirates and cowboys, princesses and fairies await the excited child. In neighborhoods across the United States, homes are decorated with pumpkins and stalks of corn, for in just a few days it will be Halloween.

We had no neighbors when I was a child, no one to trick or treat. But the country school that my siblings and I attended had a parade for all the little goblins of the area.

About 150 farm children donned old sheets, handmade masks and grandpa's worn hats, to march around the old wood-planked structure. The principal watched as we paraded past parents and teachers, and then selected a few witches or rodeo stars for candy prizes.

Mom made our costumes from scrapes of cloth; and one year, I was the Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe. She cut up a cardboard box, painted it with brown shoe polish, and sat it in an old red wagon. She dressed me in a blue bonnet and long dress—both of which she also made. My dolls and those of my sisters lined the wagon bed, and I marched proudly with the other country kids, pulling my imaginary family. And, that year, I got an award.

Mom is now almost ninety years young; she is frail but active. I don’t know if she remembers that special Halloween; but every year, I think about it. I remember the dolls peeking through the windows in the cardboard shoe, I remember struggling with the rusty wagon over the grassy path, and I remember the white cotton balls tucked into my bonnet so that I might appear old. I felt special that day—Mom made it so.

When I think of Halloween, I always think of her. And I wonder, with seven unruly kids, how did she find the time to make costumes for us all? Perhaps she was the Old Woman in a Shoe. Was I, for just a few hours, my mom?

Do you remember the rhyme? It goes like this:

There was an old woman
Who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children,
She didn’t know what to do.
She gave them some broth
And a big slice of bread,
Kissed them all soundly
And sent them to bed.   (Mother Goose Version)

When you think back to when you were a child, do you have a favorite Halloween memory? Does it include your mom? Time changes our perspective or at least offers a context, doesn't it? 

I’ve always enjoyed writing, even though I did not envision myself a writer until recent years. Busy with work and my growing family, there was little time for the play of words. Three years ago, though, I retired and decided it was time to write. On the surface, this was a simple decision, for I imagined that writing would be a process of connecting the stories that made up my life. But, I was mistaken.

I’d awaken in the early morning hours with scenes faded by time, and then would be guided through the corridors of my heart, where I wrestled with confounding flashbacks and elusive threads of connection. In my younger years, I had been in an unhealthy relationship and over time, I lost my sense of self. As I walked back into this experience, I felt the terror, felt the despair and my heart nearly broke. Then I realized—the tears and gasps came and went--because they could.

One story after another unfolded on paper, as sections from frayed journals and yellowed family photos came alive and spoke to me. The dramas that once controlled my life and held me captive were but ailing memories, soon to meet their demise. And as I gazed upon this human collage of struggles and apprehensions, a miracle occurred: I realized that my journey was everyone’s journey.

We all face challenges; we all struggle with adversity. Who doesn’t experience sorrow, fear or regret? And, don’t we all go through life trying to make sense of it all? When I realized the commonality of our collective quest, and saw how hardships shift our horizons, soften our hearts, and often bring us home to ourselves, I began to see the blessings inherent in life’s hurdles. And this, more than anything else, drove me to write.

The patchwork of memories that formed the outline of my book was ultimately given new life by the collective story of our human quest for the one Perfect Love. This is why walking through our past is a journey of the highest order. Not only do we redeem the broken remnants, we realize the hidden blessings.

Bishop Kallistos Ware wrote that, “at the Last Judgment, God will not ask me why I was not Moses or Abraham... God will ask me why I was not my own true self. That is our aim, to become truly ourselves…”

It seems so simple, doesn’t it? But, for me and perhaps for most of us, to become truly ourselves can be a lifelong journey. And writing? Well, it is one way to find that elusive self, but there are so many other ways. What is yours?