Writing has always called to me, ever since I was a mediocre high school student whose parents were astonished to hear I had been selected for the Quill and Scroll Honor Society.
It was not that they thought I was a terrible student. They knew, in those years at least, that academics were not exactly the center of my universe. We often forget how awkward those years were, choosing instead to remember the freedom of youth while leaving out the uncertainty, insecurity, and pressure of trying to figure out who we were supposed to become.
Years later, when my parents asked why my college grades were so different, I gave the simplest answer I could.
“It matters now.”
Writing may have called to me at a young age, but as an adult, most of my writing served someone else’s purpose. With the exception of a historical account of a professional association that remains in editing, much of my work came in the form of public policy talking points, client communications, and public relations-style pieces written on behalf of others.
Very little of it, apart from the occasional journal entry, was written for me.
There was no byline. No public recognition. Just the quiet satisfaction of doing the work well enough to earn continued trust — and, if I am being honest, the occasional contract renewal, for which I remain genuinely grateful.
That began to change as I grew older.
As a Gen-X dad who came to fatherhood later in life than most, I found myself drawn more and more toward the things closer to home. In earlier years, travel and ambition had a different pull. But parenthood changes your center of gravity. The freedom to go anywhere slowly gives way to the deeper responsibility of being present.
I am the child of two loving parents who met overseas while my father served his country in the United States Air Force. When I was born, I became part of an international family. My mother was born in the small pueblo of Maqueda, Spain, in the province of Toledo, in Castilla-La Mancha.
That family history has always lived somewhere inside me, especially as my Abuela reached the remarkable milestone of turning 100 years old in 2020.
Unable to visit as much as I should have, I remain forever thankful for the “wizardry,” as my Abuela called it, of modern telecommunications. Through video conferencing, we could visit and talk extensively at little or no cost. It was through those conversations that I truly began to learn about my Abuela and her remarkable story.
As I learned more, it became my mission to write a book about her and my Abuelo, who had passed away in the 1990s. As a child, I was always struck by his strength and personable, charismatic disposition.
Their story called out to me through our cherished conversations in ways I was only beginning to understand. It was an epic narrative of struggle and hope, carrying the weight of history: two people caught in events beyond their control as a divided Spain became embroiled in civil war. With few options before him, my Abuelo served as a Legionnaire, fighting for the Nationalists, while my Abuela was forced to leave Castilla-La Mancha for safety, becoming a refugee on the run.
They lived through that conflict from very different perspectives, each enduring the cascading chain of events in their own way, shaped by forces larger than themselves and trapped in someone else’s war. In my mind, their marriage became a symbolic form of Spanish reunification — not in any political sense, but in the deeply human one of two people choosing love after history had tried to divide everything around them.
After three years on unknown roads, Abuela returned home from the war, only to find that the hardship remained. What should have been a homecoming became another cruelty to endure, filled with vengeance and blame. A voice driven by jealousy called her to account for something never hers to carry.
It was an accusation cast to separate her from the man she loved and kill the light that had somehow survived. Her hair was shaved as others looked on. The war had ended, but division had found new ways to survive.
But Abuela refused to give that lie the victory it sought. She refused to cry. She stayed silent, strengthened by the flame inside.
What I came to learn, through a formal process of taking her testimony over several months, was that she carried a flame inside her that endured through the ages. Beneath her quiet yet affable demeanor was the transformational story of an extraordinary person, hidden beneath what we so often take for granted. Her enduring flame became a generous gift of strength and perseverance to her family — a light that still calls us home when life gets heavy.