Age: 54
Writing letters since: 2002
Life story in 100 words or less: Grew up in Northbrook with parents and older brother; graduated from New Trier West High School (now known as New Trier High School); married her first husband, Jeff, in 1987. They had two children together, a daughter and a son, who was diagnosed with autism when he was 2 years old. The couple divorced in 1997, though they are "still good friends" and "parent together." Married Andy in 2000. Worked as an administrator at First Presbyterian Church and later Christ United Methodist Church. Currently is the town clerk for West Deerfield Township.
Self-description: Outgoing and someone who "enjoys making connections" with others. She likes to read, and has to frequently stop herself from talking about book plots, "like when my husband is watching TV."
Writing experience: Scott has written short pieces that have been published in Chicago Parent Magazine. She recently started blogging about her son at GoodMarching.com, which her family and friends encouraged her to do. "My friends say I am a writer, but it is hard for me to identify myself that way."
Unique trait: Scott started and led a support group for parents who have children with disabilities. The group focused on providing parents with emotional support while they provide for their children. "I feel very strongly that there is a lot to be gained through being vulnerable and speaking our truths to other people."
— By Alexandra Kukulka, Tribune reporter
Latest thoughts: When I worked as a church secretary, my boss included a section he called "Soul Food" in the weekly e-message he sent to the congregation. It was a collection of theology-related news snippets, unique quotes on faith and eclectic food for thought and soul.
Nine or 10 years ago he included a quote by the Episcopalian clergyman Phillips Brooks, which I ended up framing and hanging in my kitchen, where I've read it every day since. It's a message that took me years to accept, as my adult life unfolded very differently than I imagined — or assumed, in my youthful arrogance — that it naturally would.
Because that life was painful, and difficult.
More difficult than I believed, at times, I could manage.
My son was diagnosed with autism, and my grief almost consumed me. My marriage fell apart and I became a single mother of two. My father died when I was 38, and my mom developed Alzheimer's soon after, dying from the disease seven years later.
I remember the hours I spent raging at the world, demanding a miracle, a different game plan, scornful of those who had it easier, proclaiming that I could not do it, no one could do it, it wasn't fair, it was all too much to manage.
And yet I did manage. I have actually managed fairly well. I understand now that all the times I cried "I can't do it," I really just meant, "I don't want to."
I remember transcribing the quote, which my boss, the gifted Chicago minister Chris Coon, chose for his e-message that week 10 years ago. I recall the feeling of surrender while absorbing the words, the relief of recognizing at last the path I needed to follow, of accepting that life would always be difficult, but I could rise to the occasion of that life:
"Do not pray for easy lives. Pray to be stronger people. Do not pray for tasks equal to your powers. Pray for powers equal to your tasks. And then the doing of your works shall be no miracle, but you shall be a miracle. Every day you shall wonder at yourself, at the richness of life which has come to you by the grace of God."