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.