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Maureen is one of those special people who not only knows how to ignite the creative spark in people, but she nurtures it into a roaring flame with her genuine warmth and passion for writing. I’m honored to have called her friend for over 25 years.

Stories spring to mind when I think of her. Here’s one that I hope to never forget!

Back in 2019, I was hospitalized with a severe injury that resulted in shoulder surgery. It was the middle of the night; my family had gone home, and I was feeling alone and worried that my right arm was completely numb and might never regain its function. My right hand felt foreign, and my fingers flopped as if they belonged to someone else. Would I ever be able to write again or even hold a pencil?

Awkwardly, with my left thumb, I tapped on the link for the Charlotte Readers Podcast on my phone. If I couldn’t write, at least I could listen to writers. As Landis interviewed Maureen, I heard her voice weave a tapestry of inspiration and joy. Her words flowed over me, and I rested in the gossamer net she created of beauty and possibility. Drifting in that gentle space, my mind leapt across a constellation of stars, and my body felt free of the agony I had endured over the past many hours, and a tiny tingling began in my fingers.

That’s just a tiny bit of the magic Maureen creates!

    A few hours still before dawn. My husband and I get up and shower, force ourselves to eat a small breakfast. I gather Sydney, still warm from sleep, into my arms and whisper, “It’s time for us to go.” She nods sleepily against me, her pale cheeks slightly damp.

I kiss the top of her head as I settle our five-year-old into her car seat. Are we doing the right thing? Will she be okay? Am I an overly concerned mom, putting my daughter through needless procedures? Have I blown her symptoms out of proportion in my imagination: her stomach pain, constipation, inability to nap, her small stature? Maybe all these things are normal, part of raising a healthy child.

This morning, the nurse at the hospital will prep her, and Sydney will be anesthetized. The doctor will take samples of the tissue in her small intestine, send it to a lab, and with any luck, within a few days, we will know whether or not our daughter has celiac disease.

I have never been a cook. In fact, Joel and I survived for years on a diet of microwave dinners and takeout food. Most weekends, we treated ourselves with a delicious four-inch high, wheat-bread sandwich made from our local chain whose name had the word “Bread” in it, topping off the meal with a huge chocolate chip cookie made with wheat flour. A few hours later, we’d pick up subs (with whole wheat rolls, if we were being virtuous) or visit our favorite Italian restaurant for plates of baked ziti—noodles made with what else but wheat.

Wheat was our family’s mainstay. We survived on it, planned around it, looked forward to it, even drooled over it. Gluten was a foreign concept. One of those weird words that overly health-conscious people used, people who liked to make others—like us—feel guilty.

All that would change when we learned that our daughter had celiac disease. What does it mean when someone is diagnosed with celiac? In medical terms, according to the Celiac Disease Foundation, when someone who has celiac eats gluten, an immune response is set off which damages the villi (tiny fingerlike projections) in the small intestine. When these villi are blunted, they can no longer absorb nutrients. This leads to autoimmune disorders and other health issues which can be serious such as anemia, arthritis, liver disorders, delayed growth and failure to thrive, to name a few.¹

In human terms, my daughter was not being nourished.