In Rebecca Sue: A Sister’s Reflections on Disability, Faith, and Love (IVP, out now), author Kathleen Norris (Dakota, The Cloister Walk) tells of a younger sibling whose brain was damaged during a difficult birth. Becky, as she was known, surfed the ups and downs of bipolar disorder, survived childhood sexual abuse by a stranger, and had recurring cancer, as well as other serious health issues. Yet Norris presents a sister who was funny, resourceful, and possessed of a vigor for life. Becky died in 2013, and Norris spent ten years on Rebecca Sue—her first book in 15 years.

PW spoke with Norris about the spiritual lessons of Becky’s life and where her writing will take her next.

What was it like to have a sister like Becky? What made your connection with her so deep?

Growing up with a sister like Becky was normal because I didn't know anything else. My parents were wonderful at communicating essential things to my older brother and myself. From a very early age, we just knew that Becky had special needs and that we would have to protect her. I don’t know when I realized how alike we were, but we became more aware of that as we became adults. We were both physically awkward, we were bad at math, we loved to read and to draw. Becky was formally diagnosed as bipolar when she was in her thirties, and I have what I call a manic depressive nature that is common to most writers I know. I am aware of it and I can control it, but of course Becky could not do that.

Tell me about Becky’s artwork, which is on the cover of the book. Where and when did she discover art?

Becky always loved to draw, so often we’d give her paper and pastels for her birthdays, crayons and markers when she was younger. She sometimes was asked to draw in anger management and other classes. The cover of this book is a painting she made at an art class at a cancer center where she was being treated. That class was a joy for Becky in the last years of her life. At her funeral, my brother said that her paintings were her last gift to us.

Becky did many things Christians are not supposed to do—lie, steal, be selfish. How did you see through that to what was spiritual about her?

Because I believe in redemption. I believe people can change. I never expected Becky to mature to the level that she did. The world had been really cruel to her from birth, and her bad behavior was her self-defense. But at the end of her life she was thanking people for all they did for her. Her oncology nurse described her as selfless. Seeing that transformation from someone who was so challenged was extraordinary.

You write about Becky’s week in a psych ward during Holy Week as like attending “a different type of church.” What do you mean?

I love to immerse myself in the Holy Week liturgy, which is very intense. But when Becky was admitted to the psych ward, she was in terrible distress, and I knew I had to be there for her and with her. [With the staff], we spent every day helping somebody heal from a terrible psychotic episode. There was healing going on and that is a holy thing.

What did your sister teach you about living?

That there were terrible mistakes made in Becky’s birth is just a fact. She knew that her brain damage was caused by a medical mistakes, and she was haunted by the question, "Why did it have to be me?” But the important thing is that the family dealt with it as a blessing instead of a curse. And that is how God comes into it—in how you respond to what happens. She was a blessing to our family, and I know a lot of people in her life felt the same way.

It’s been 15 years between Acedia & Me, and Rebecca Sue. Why so long? What's next for you?

This book was sitting in limbo for a long time. It would wake me up in the middle of the night and say, "When are you going to get back to me?" I had to get over self-doubt and really stick with it, and I am so glad I did.

I’m already at work on the next book. It's about the desert fathers and mothers. I’ve spent years gathering stories about them. And I want to get back to poetry again, my first love. I need to see if I can get enough silence in my life that the poems will just emerge again.