Candace ... The Conversation
Suddenly it dawned on me that as a dedicated writer, I have not truly told Candace’s story. I have spoken endlessly about forgiveness—the word that saved our lives—but I have not written Candace’s story, her biography. My grandchildren, and this entire next generation, may never know who she really is. They will know the crime. They will know the legacy that followed.
But they will not know her—or how it all came to be.
But how do I do this? How do you write a story about a child who lived only thirteen years - a life that had not yet reached the milestones we tend to call a “good plot line?” I might have to use my own life as a springboard for her.
The next question: Why does Candace’s story still transcend her years?
We continue to see it happening. When she went missing, an entire organization—Child Find—rose in her wake, born out of the urgent need to search for other missing children. In her death, she drew attention to the importance of living in the moment. She loved the water, and now a swimming pool carries her name—a place alive with splashing, laughter, and play.
Then, after twenty-two years, her unsolved murder erupted into a dramatic arrest, followed by a decade-long trial process that exposed a painful truth: how victims can be re-victimized by the justice system itself. Out of that reckoning came the Candace House—a place of refuge, compassion, and dignity for families living in the shadows of the courthouse.
Yet perhaps still unexplored is something deeper: her transcendent love. Even as a child, Candace had a way of connecting with troubled children—a quiet, intuitive gift that continues to inspire me and to challenge me. It’s a love that has drawn me across boundaries I once believed were impossible, leading to profound learning and ongoing transformation.
So how do I write her story? Not as a conventional biography. Not as a catalogue of achievements. But as an exploration—an act of listening. A journey inward. An honest engagement with the questions her life continues to raise.
And yes—I am going to glow about her. Legitimately. She was remarkable.
I remember one afternoon standing by the window of a friend’s house, watching our two daughters play in the backyard. My friend, disappointed and discouraged with her own child, said, “I was reading Reader’s Digest this morning, and I’m so tired of parents who write in such glowing terms about children who have died. No one is that good. I could never write an article like that about mine.”
I said nothing. I wanted to honor her pain.
But as I watched Candace—her hair lifting in the breeze, her giggle floating through the air—I remember thinking, I could write that about Candace. She was a pure spirit of light and love. Not perfect—but even in her raw moments, she carried an indescribably beautiful spirit.
My second thought was, I hope I never have to write that article.
Ironically, decades later, Reader’s Digest did publish an article about Candace.
That memory gives me permission to glow about her—legitimately.
In this book, I also want to explore the “Candace Conversations.”
Perhaps even now, she can teach us a way of speaking that is warm and curious, open-hearted and brave; unafraid of truth, unafraid of pain, unafraid of wonder—unafraid to cross impossible boundaries.
Please feel free to comment here or write me at [email protected]
At this point, I would love to hear all comments, suggestions, additions, corrections and reflections. Her memory now belongs to all of us.... W
But they will not know her—or how it all came to be.
But how do I do this? How do you write a story about a child who lived only thirteen years - a life that had not yet reached the milestones we tend to call a “good plot line?” I might have to use my own life as a springboard for her.
The next question: Why does Candace’s story still transcend her years?
We continue to see it happening. When she went missing, an entire organization—Child Find—rose in her wake, born out of the urgent need to search for other missing children. In her death, she drew attention to the importance of living in the moment. She loved the water, and now a swimming pool carries her name—a place alive with splashing, laughter, and play.
Then, after twenty-two years, her unsolved murder erupted into a dramatic arrest, followed by a decade-long trial process that exposed a painful truth: how victims can be re-victimized by the justice system itself. Out of that reckoning came the Candace House—a place of refuge, compassion, and dignity for families living in the shadows of the courthouse.
Yet perhaps still unexplored is something deeper: her transcendent love. Even as a child, Candace had a way of connecting with troubled children—a quiet, intuitive gift that continues to inspire me and to challenge me. It’s a love that has drawn me across boundaries I once believed were impossible, leading to profound learning and ongoing transformation.
So how do I write her story? Not as a conventional biography. Not as a catalogue of achievements. But as an exploration—an act of listening. A journey inward. An honest engagement with the questions her life continues to raise.
And yes—I am going to glow about her. Legitimately. She was remarkable.
I remember one afternoon standing by the window of a friend’s house, watching our two daughters play in the backyard. My friend, disappointed and discouraged with her own child, said, “I was reading Reader’s Digest this morning, and I’m so tired of parents who write in such glowing terms about children who have died. No one is that good. I could never write an article like that about mine.”
I said nothing. I wanted to honor her pain.
But as I watched Candace—her hair lifting in the breeze, her giggle floating through the air—I remember thinking, I could write that about Candace. She was a pure spirit of light and love. Not perfect—but even in her raw moments, she carried an indescribably beautiful spirit.
My second thought was, I hope I never have to write that article.
Ironically, decades later, Reader’s Digest did publish an article about Candace.
That memory gives me permission to glow about her—legitimately.
In this book, I also want to explore the “Candace Conversations.”
Perhaps even now, she can teach us a way of speaking that is warm and curious, open-hearted and brave; unafraid of truth, unafraid of pain, unafraid of wonder—unafraid to cross impossible boundaries.
Please feel free to comment here or write me at [email protected]
At this point, I would love to hear all comments, suggestions, additions, corrections and reflections. Her memory now belongs to all of us.... W
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