Burmese Ruby

It is 8:30 pm on a Tuesday evening, a solid half an hour past my usual bedtime. I have a good reason, though, to stay up, as I have a phone date with Lisa, my beloved friend from college. With Lisa being a mom to three kids, and me juggling being a working mother, opportunities to have soul-affirming conversations require intentional planning and coordinating of schedules. 

Friends such as Lisa, are as rare as a Burmese Ruby. Prized for their rich, deep, and almost blood-like color, Burmese rubies can both ignite creativity and passion in the mind, while simultaneously soothing the soul. Unlike many gemstones, rubies do not seem to draw your eye across the surface—instead, a ruby draws you to its captivating core. Ever since its inception, my friendship with Lisa quickly draws us both below the superficial surface of our manufactured personas, uniting the cores of our souls. 

Lisa is the friend who creates a comfortable pillow bed on the floor of her dorm room so I can rest, when I’m emotionally raw from being abused by my first-year roommate.  She is the confidant who listens to me for hours as I process my surprise pregnancy and drives from out of town in a minivan full of children to my baby shower bearing boxes of maternity clothes. Lisa is the sister who shares the brutally honest realities of motherhood and family. She thoughtfully reflects on my struggles while offering firm, but soft, wisdom to guide me in the darkness. 

My phone dings, alerting me to a text message: “Okay, free! The fresh air did him in early, LOL” I call immediately, Lisa answers in a whisper, “hold on, the baby just fell asleep, and I need to create a pillow fort around him and find a place where I can talk without waking anyone up.”  Once she is situated, I start off the conversation by thanking her for her wisdom in cautioning me to not immediately share all my writing—especially my most vulnerable stories—for all the world to see on the internet, without carefully considering the impact both personally and professionally. 

We debate the benefits and drawbacks of sharing my story in its raw truth. On the one hand, I choose to be vulnerable with my mental health and relational struggles to help other people feel like it is safe to share their story, hopefully freeing them from oppressive—potentially, life threatening—shame. By doing this, however, I open myself to the judgment of others, potentially limiting my career possibilities, and even putting myself at risk of retribution from my ex-husband. “Either way,” Lisa points out, “you will inspire someone to be brave.”

Given my propensity for all-consuming grandiose ideas, I admit with defeat, “writing a memoir such as this is grandiose, who I am to think I can accomplish such a feat.”  Adding onto my fear, I add, “I may even scare people, especially those closest to me, for they will think I’m manic.” Lisa pauses in reflection, then says, “Caitlin, all memoir ideas are grandiose, but so are other important things. Building a house is a grandiose idea that requires attention and coordination of details; yet people need places to live, and someone needs to build them.” She continues, “even more importantly, people also need to be inspired and captivated by stories, why can’t you be the one to write one?”

I am speechless. I know she is right, but I question whether I can produce such a work of consequence I dream of, without being all-consumed by it. Then it hits me, my ulterior motivation for authoring a novel or memoir. Yes, I want to help people who are suffering not feel as alone in their struggles, but I also want to chart my own course, never having to work for someone again. With my biological clock ticking, I feel immense pressure to earn more money so I can afford to have another child. After revealing my fears, I look at the clock. It has been almost two hours and we both are exhausted and call it a night.

As I am drifting off to sleep, I hear my phone ping with one last text from Lisa. “Robert loves you, and if you want to have another, you do not need to be a bestselling author; You just need to bring you. You do not have to raise any other babies on your own. I think that men can rise to the occasion for their babies as much as women can and I believe Robert would. Live for God and the rest of the stuff falls into place.” Just as with a Burmese Ruby, the core truth in Lisa’s astute words captive me. I first began to write to process and heal from trauma by reflecting on the grace of God that serves as the main theme in my story. So, when I lose sight of the true meaning and worth of my life, I will hold the precious ruby in my hands ever so tight.