On Giving Birth to a Book

With eyes half-open, I rolled over to check the time. My clock showed it to be a little past 4 in the morning. That’s too early, I thought. Hoping to get a bit more “shuteye,” I retreated back into my curled-up-fetal-position.

Unfortunately, while my body wanted more rest, my mind had gone from a barely roused mode to one of “full speed ahead!” The thoughts began to rumble through, enough to grab my attention. Some of my best ideas appear in the early morning hours, so I didn’t want to miss them.

Death had entered my realm in the past couple of weeks. A former gardening client passed after a long struggle with debilitating conditions. Two days later, the recurrence of a cursed disease took the life of a fellow writer. Then, not much after, some of my family members lost their beloved dog. I wonder if things really do happen in threes. That was always my Mom’s assessment when it came to unfortunate circumstances, such as death.

My mind continued its early-morning activity. I’ve been working on a book for the past six years. There are many reasons, aka excuses, why it has taken me so long. Only one of them carries any real validity: the ill health and resulting death of my partner a year and a half ago. Providing support and care for another didn’t leave much room or time for writing.

Start. Stop. Start. Stop. That’s the rhythm I have been in for the past six years when it came to getting serious about “the book” and about being a writer. That is, until my Heavenly Father went on a walk with me, and things bottom lined. They are waiting. Either. Or. Either accept the gift I have given you . . . or walk away from it.

It was time. I returned from my walk with a resolve and commitment to finish the task He has given me. And to fulfill one of the many roles for which He created me—to be a writer.

Besides being a solitary task, writing is hard work. I know it doesn’t seem like it should be, but as I rewrote my manuscript in preparation for editing, my eyes hurt, my head hurt, and my patooty hurt⸺hour after hour, day after day. Finally, I finished and sent it off to my editor a few weeks ago.

Once the editor has it in hand, the really hard work begins as she leaves no stone unturned. Every punctuation mark is noted, placement of footnotes and their sourcing, awkward composition, the correct usage of words and tenses, on and on.

Mary is stellar in scouring through the manuscript with a fine-tooth comb. “This feels awkward. You’ve used this same scripture three times. These words are synonymous and redundant. Did you say this before you did such and such, or after?”

I honestly feel like I’m back in my senior high school English class, waiting for Mrs. Wilshire to return an assignment she has marked up, noting room for improvement with a poor grade. The ego can take a hard hit, tempered with the sincere desire to improve and create the best end product possible. I had received the final draft from Mary the day before, and I went through it yet another time, polishing it up even more and clarifying ideas. My early morning thoughts went to the manuscript when I remembered some more changes I needed to make. And so, I crawled out of bed. I can take a nap if I need to.

I made the corrections I had thought of while in bed and sent the manuscript off, hopefully for the final time. I knew Mary wouldn’t be doing any work on it, because it was Sunday, but I told her, “I know this sounds silly, but I just feel like it’s in a safe place when it is with you.” While typing, my fingers tend to have a mind of their own sometimes, deleting whole paragraphs. The fear is real. She serves as my safety deposit box.

The manuscript is headed for its final edit, completing a long process. Several of my friends have read it, offering their impressions and thoughts by writing endorsements. I’ve written the author biography and blurb (a new word in my vocabulary, meaning a description placed on the back cover or in a promotion), come up with an author photo, and will soon finalize and accept the final, final draft. The finishing details remain⸺the formatting, the cover, the design of the cover, putting it all together and, of course, the printing. 

I am in the process of giving birth to a book, similar in some ways to birthing my children. This book is a part of me. It has come from my innermost being and would not exist but for God. It is alive, because God breathed life into it. An ordinary book, it almost feels sacred. From its conception, Sermons from a Soapbox bears the mark of God. I must say, though, the delivery feels long past overdue.

May it accomplish His purposes and bring honor and glory to Him.

On Being a Representative

representative: n. Someone who represents others as a member of a legislative or governing body.

represent: v. To stand or act in the place of; to perform the duties, exercise the rights, or otherwise act on behalf of.

The thought was a simple one: Stop by the local grocery store, purchase a bouquet of flowers, and take them to a friend dealing with a reboot of cancer. I didn’t need to visit; her body, mind, and soul are spent. I would leave the rays of sunshine at her front door to be discovered long after I had come and gone.

For myself, I know the source of these thoughts and ideas. As a person of faith, my Heavenly Father sends them my way. I can choose to act upon them . . . or not.

Mission accomplished! My heart went out to the recipient, her incalculable needs, and the bright joy sent her way from the mind of her Heavenly Father. I searched for the words to thank God for including me, for letting me in on His secret surprise. I had none.

Some in religious circles apply the phrase “being used by God.” I stumbled over those words. “Being used” has such a negative connotation, far removed from the character and nature of our Creator. He is anything and everything but--a user.

Finally, I had the words to thank Him: Thank you for choosing me to be part of your plan. Very quietly, He reminded me that He whispered years ago: “I have chosen you to represent me.”

When we think about representatives, our mind goes to those in our government we have elected to a position of power and authority. Their primary role is to fulfill the will of the people, not of self. However, being a representative can be found in other areas besides the world of politics. Consider the meanderings of my mind.

I feel people everywhere fill that role. You may represent someone or something. Perhaps it falls into the category of a philosophy, an ideology, a value, a point of character, a cause, or any number of other things.

For example, I may be a proponent of the second amendment with a personal arsenal of guns and ammunition. It would be fair to say I represent that cause. Perhaps I plant my garden with shrubs and flowers that are native to my particular area—it could be said I represent an earth-first philosophy. Do you advocate hard work and accountability? Without a doubt your life represents those qualities. The lives of many represent the results of a bad choice or decision. Others might represent a life filled with greed, pride, and decadence. I represent those things that are important to me, evidenced in the way I live my life.

For those of faith, you who have chosen to live with God, He has, in turn, chosen you to represent Him—to be His voice, His hands and feet. Represent Him well—in your home, with friends and family; at work; in the presence of people you know and those you don’t—so that He might be seen in this world. And, as in the world of politics, remember that, as His representative, we are to fulfill the will of the One we represent . . . not of self.

You are God’s representative. You could ask for no higher calling. Nor could I.

 

 

 

On Looking Back

A basic fact exists in life: It is physically impossible to look forward and backward at the same time. It cannot be done. A person can see one direction or the other, but the eyes can’t take in both at once.

The same fact applies to one’s inner vision. When you spend time focusing on the past, living it over and over again with guilt, regret, and “if only,” you expend all your energy there. The past becomes your home, your dwelling place. You live there—in the past.

The result resembles being sucked down into an eddy or a whirlpool. As you spin in circles, its force renders you powerless and immobile with no chance or hope of ever getting out and moving forward.

While letting go of one’s past may seem easier said than done, hanging on to it weighs a person down in the most literal sense. The past becomes a heavy burden to carry, with no real payoffs--unless you’ve made qualifying for martyrdom your goal. God’s plan and desire for us emphasizes living in the present. Setting up residence in the past serves no purpose.

Living in the present, ever moving forward, occupies a place of importance in order to live a viable, productive, complete, and satisfying life. How do I know? I come from a place of experience. My Creator taught me this as a first lesson.

Valuable principles like these establish a foundation, the base for other spiritual building blocks in a person’s life. In my opinion, this one holds a place of great benefit and worth.

 

But I focus on this one thing:

Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead.

Philippians 3:13 nlt

On Being Grounded

grounded: adj. Confined to stay inside, typically by a parent, as a punishment; in aviation, not allowed to fly. Well-balanced and sensible.

discipline: v. Train (someone) to obey rules or a code of behavior,; using punishment to correct disobedience. 

 

Mom and Dad delivered the verdict to the almost-thirteen-year-old— “You're grounded!” As her punishment, she had to choose between missing out on a friend’s birthday party or relinquishing her cell phone for thirty days. She, along with her group of friends, had anticipated the ice-skating party for days. However, the prospect of giving up her phone, the social connection and lifeline for a pre-teen, for thirty WHOLE days felt daunting.

Her parents were not cruel nor abusive. They set a standard of honesty and forthrightness in their household, and when she didn’t meet that standard, consequences followed.

For many generations, a common form of discipline for children consisted largely of corporal punishment. A parent or an authority figure, perhaps even a teacher or coach, often caused physical pain or discomfort to a minor child when he/she displayed undesirable behavior. They struck the child on his/her bottom with an open hand or implement such as a paddle, deemed “the board of education” in some homes. Fear of the punishment, which would hopefully deter any future miscreant conduct, served as the base premise for this approach.

In my own life, Mom had a wooden paint-stirring stick as her paddle. When I pushed her beyond frustration, Dad took over when he got home from work. I imagine the final straw occurred when I ran from her to avoid being spanked, putting my hands behind my back to protect my behind.

Dad took me to the woodshed—literally—where he paddled me with his bare hand. The size of his hand seemed enormous. While I have no doubt this involved pain, I don’t remember ever feeling I did not deserve the punishment. I always knew my actions warranted a response from my parents. I highly suspect my sassy mouth and need to have the last word brought the discipline.

Children enter a family and home with a blank slate. The parent’s role is to nurture and guide, to train and teach the values and principles that will serve as a moral compass and spiritual foundation for them throughout their lives.

In the home they learn, both from example and daily experience, how to interact with others. In that safe space, they are taught the difference between acceptable behavior--and unacceptable. They also learn the importance and meaning of discipline. Parents should mentor, not control. Everyday incidents provide teaching tools to encourage development, maturity, and the growth of self-control.

The form of punishment for children has undergone a transition over the past several years. Grounding, the restriction placed on a child from an activity or favorite object, has become a preferred method used in discipline and training, instead of exacting both physical and emotional pain by means of a spanking, for example.

God represents the epitome of a loving parent. A clear correlation can be drawn between that of earthly parents and our Heavenly Father. 

The innovator and master of instruction, He utilizes everyday life to teach us a better way to live. At times the experiences become quite difficult and harsh, but only because of our bullheadedness and refusal to work with Him and allow Him into our lives. We often ignore wake-up calls and leave Him no other option than to apply more pressure.

God operates in the long-term, not short-term. He wants only the best for us and does not choose a crunch situation as His first option. However, if stubbornness rears its head, we leave Him with no alternative. His tough love comes from the base: “If there was any other way . . . Eternity is a long, long time.”

In aviation a grounded pilot is not allowed to fly. That same term applied by God simply means I have “clipped wings;” He places me in a set of circumstances I have not chosen—nor one I particularly like. That process reshapes the life I had planned. The experience can manifest as mundane as weather conditions delaying a trip or as dramatic as retirement plans being altered because of an illness, a stock market shift creating financial losses, or a natural disaster.

As a young woman, I had life as a mother all planned. I decided my family would be complete with two children, and I would determine when that would happen. Nothing went as I intended. God introduced Himself to me in one of my early adulthood experiences by grounding me when infertility ruled my life. Eventually, I realized He simply did not allow me to have my way. In His way and in His time, I was given four children—blessings from God. And that sums up the point and purpose of discipline at the hand of God. His way is a better way.

I questioned my grandgirl about her experience. I asked if she felt the punishment was effective and what she learned from it. “I have never lied since,” she said. “I do feel that it taught me something. (It) taught me a lesson to never lie, always tell the truth . . . because (lying) can get you in trouble, can hurt someone’s feelings.”

Mom and Dad’s grounding appears to have made its point; the thirty days my grandgirl had no phone was a constant reminder of her unacceptable behavior.

The terms discipline and punishment have such negative undercurrents attached to them in today’s society that those in charge have a reluctance to apply them. However, when they come from a base of love and wisdom, nothing can replace their value or necessity.

If you discover you are grounded, remember this: grounding at His hand results in one becoming grounded. Everything in life has a point and purpose—even discipline. And you may quote me on that.

 

It is never fun to be corrected. In fact, at the time, it is always painful.

But if we learn to obey by being corrected, we will do right and live at peace.

Hebrews 12:11 cev

On Unbelief

 

unbelief: n. An absence of belief.

belief: n. Mental acceptance of a claim as true. Faith or trust in the reality of something; often based upon one’s own reasoning, trust in a claim, desire of actuality, and/or evidence considered.

 

I wonder if he knows I’m the one who feeds him.

I heard him before I saw him. I’ve learned to recognize the click-clicking sound of my resident hummingbird. He frequents a feeder filled with sugar water hanging on my back patio. Many hummers feed while poised mid-air, beating their wings. This little guy plants himself on the perch of the feeder and guzzles away—often for long periods at a time.

Today, while I dug in the soil, seeking renewal of my mind and spirit, he sat, like a sentinel, atop the highest branch of the nearby lilac bush. Typically, hummingbirds appear to be in a non-stop flight mode, vaguely resembling miniature bombers as they flap their wings up to four thousand times per minute. Not so, this little guy. He knows how to have his “down” time.

I head for the outdoors and fresh air when claustrophobia sets in. Winter has just officially started, but weeds have already begun to cover any bare soil with bright green vegetation. Several industrial-sized garbage bags filled with leaves waited to be spread on my garden. It was late in the day and quite cool. Dressed in warm clothes, I responded to my garden’s beckoning.

These kinds of tasks create the opportunity for hands-and-knees kind of thinking. No one interrupts, and the mindless work frees up my mind for thought. The moist soil allowed the weeds to come out easily. I cleared an area to stack with leaves that would compost, enriching the soil.

 Periodically I glanced up and noted my feathered friend was still sat on his observation post.  Occasionally he did dash away to some very important appointment but quickly returned to his station. When I’m in this pensive frame of mind, I don’t keep track of time. It was just God and me—and the hummingbird made three.

I have carried a heavy heart recently. Relief and peace evade me in these troubling times; worries and inner turmoil plague me as I seek the “peace that passes all understanding.” 

The hummingbird’s presence served as a reminder: “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?” ^[2] I cannot deny the love and care God has given me throughout my life. He deserves far more trust and respect than I am giving Him.

As darkness approached, I gathered my tools. “Help my unbelief,” my heart cried as I went inside to the welcoming warmth. The hummer flew off to settle down for the night as well.

Christ’s ministry on earth lasted three years. It began with His ordination by the Holy Spirit when John baptized Him. It ended with His crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension into heaven.

During this time, He called twelve to walk with Him. These ordinary men left their lives and families to follow Him and to be taught. They became part of an extraordinary event taking place before their eyes, one that would be chronicled as a pivotal point in the history of mankind.

The Scriptures tell about three of the disciples--Peter, James, and John—going with Christ to a mountaintop. There, God Himself verified that Christ was His beloved Son when Jesus visibly changed into His heavenly form before their eyes.

Masses of people followed Christ wherever He went during His time of ministry. While the four were on the mountain, a crowd formed below and waited. A father who brought his demon-possessed son to be healed was part of the large throng. I can only imagine the disappointment and heartache he experienced—going from the highest hope to the lowest low--when none of the disciples there could free the young man. In that emotional devastation, doubt most certainly overwhelmed him.

When Jesus came back down from the mountain, the father told Him of the circumstances in his young boy’s life: An evil spirit caused his son to be deaf and mute, brought seizures, and tried to destroy him by casting him into fire or water. He begged Jesus for help. “All things can be done for the one who believes,” Jesus responded.

As tears rolled down his face, the dad cried out, “I believe; help my unbelief!”  With that Jesus rebuked the foul spirit and ordered it to come out of the child and never enter again.

Later, the disciples privately asked why they couldn’t cast the demon out. “This kind can come out only through prayer,”[3] Jesus answered.

The world is in a state of upheaval. I live in a divided nation--brother against brother, one way of governing in direct opposition to another. A global pandemic that threatened lives while altering our freedoms has left an aftermath of fear, regulations, and unanswered questions. Riotous destruction without consequence rages through many cities as pervasive lawlessness reigns. And it transpired in what feels like the blink of an eye.

I have been living like a yo-yo recently. I’m up. Then I am down. I am a person of faith, and I know in my heart that nothing happens that is separate from God, including right here, right now. I can relate to that father and his dichotomy--the appearance of a contradiction of faith.

How can I believe and still have unbelief?

Doubt is the leavening of unbelief. It may come in a torrential flood or silently move in like a stifling fog. The underlying goal of doubt never varies. That goal is to challenge the validity and strength of one’s faith. Care must be taken to keep doubt outside the door instead of allowing it to walk in and take up residence.  

Living life with God is a process. There is nothing magical about it. Much of that process requires digging deep, grinding out the nitty-gritty of things. Unbelief falls in that category. Its presence cannot be willed away by mind power and needs to be dealt with---by God and in His presence.

“I do believe. Help my unbelief.”

I am at His mercy. As are you.

By the way, I read that hummingbirds do recognize people. Although they are territorial, I believe my resident hummer knows I am the one who feeds him. He has been given to me by God and offered support as two very different types of gardens were dealt with—my outer physical garden as well as my inner.

I am blessed.

 

 

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[1] Phillipians 4:7 JUB

^[2] Matthew 6:26 niv

[3] Mark 9:17-29

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