As I left the Richmond airport, two weeks ago, my phone pinged announcing a voicemail that had been received while I was in the air. I was returning from a second attempt to avoid the feelings surrounding the first anniversary of my mother’s death, arriving home on that very first anniversary date.
Because I was also yammering with my husband (who was driving), I popped open the voicemail’s transcript while wondering who was trying to sell me what because I was quite sure I didn’t know anyone who had a Dayton, OH phone number. In that transcript, I saw the words, “Erma,” and “Congratulations,” and “W-9,” and what the actual eff was happening?
Well, that last part wasn’t in the transcript; that part was out loud, which caused my husband to stop speaking and say, “What’s going on?”
Seven weeks prior, I had submitted a piece to the 2026 Erma Bombeck Writing Competition. I had written it very quickly and very much against the contest deadline after completely flaking on my promise to keep track of that deadline this year. The piece was called “The Tiny Traveling Urn” and told a bit about just that: a tiny urn that, on occasion, leaves my home for an adventure.
In that tiny urn? A sprinkling of my mother’s ashes.
I have been a huge fan of Erma Bombeck since I was a child, when I first discovered her books on the side table next to our couch. The Erma Bombeck Writing Competition is an annual contest that honors Bombeck’s writing style, combining real-life events with a bit of humor. My entry was accepted as the 437th piece submitted for the 2026 contest and, when I saw that number, I quickly moved on, positive that I’d never hear a peep from the judging panel.
Instead?
Instead, on the first anniversary of my mother’s death, the very person inside that Tiny Traveling Urn, I got a most-unexpected call congratulating me for being chosen as the winner of the 2026 Erma Bombeck Writing Competition in the Global Human Interest category.
I don’t know if you believe in messages from beyond, but I do, and this one had my mom’s name all over it. In a few weeks, we will travel to Erma’s hometown, where I will collect my award and spend the weekend with hundreds of other amazing writers. I will also read my entry (against my will and while sweating profusely) in front of a large audience, likely with that tiny urn sitting on the podium next to me.
Click here to see the announcement.
Click here to read the piece.
Ironically, the days leading up to that absolutely unexpected phone call were filled with winks from my mom.
I took not one, but two cruises in February under the guise of “travel agent research,” but really, I was avoiding my feelings in the crystal clear Bahamian waters because what better place is there to avoid one’s feelings? While on that second cruise, I ran into not one, but three women named “Judy.” This is not a very common name. It is so uncommon that I have spent much of my life screeching out, “Oh that’s my mother’s name!” when meeting another “Judy,” and the response is almost always, “Oh wow! There aren’t very many of us!”
To meet three “Judys” over the course of three days on a trip specifically designed to run sail away from feelings related to missing Mom simply could not have been a coincidence.
To then arrive home and discover a voicemail from an unfamiliar number announcing a win in a contest that my mother would have absolutely loved?
Well, message received, Mom.
And, Mom, thank you.