The Making of a Book and the Shaping of my Heart

Today, I find sitting down to write to you hard. I don’t know why, other than the fact that I’m feeling a bit restless in general these days (why is the waiting always so difficult?), and I’m not sure if what I had planned to share with you is of interest. I wanted to tell you about how my book came to be and the journey that God took me on through its pages. But do you care? I honestly don’t know. And that, right there, tells me I need to write it anyway because while I do want my words to serve you, I seem to have forgotten that first and foremost they are my offering of worship to Jesus.

He cares. And He invites me to take time to remember.

How It All Began

I remember the day, two and a half years ago, when I fully realized that my faith-journey was not linear. When the idea of a spiritual wilderness became part of my framework, and I pinned it onto my looping, swerving timeline of life events. The classmates in my spiritual formations course nodded in understanding as I shared with them that our first few years in Alaska were definitely a wilderness experience–in all kinds of ways–but I was pretty sure I’d dipped back into one during our second and third years in Thailand, as well.

I accepted a challenge to journal, documenting not so much my daily events as the prayers of my heart. This sacred escape into words, or rather watching the words escape from me, reminded me of how I love to write. How I wanted to be an author for most of my growing years. How in the beginning was the Word, who spoke words of life, giving light to all men (John 1). And I remember how I realized I needed to use my words to make sense of it all–the calling, the wilderness, the present.

Writing with a preschooler on my arm was clearly not going to work, so I gathered the courage to ask for Saturday morning writing time. My husband, ever the supportive friend, heartily agreed, and I began my search for the ideal Thai coffee shop. Some opened too late. Some played music too loud. Some had uncomfortable seating. I finally found one in an idyllic, serene setting only to be assaulted in the bathroom by an enormous spider. I never found the perfect coffee shop, but I drank some amazing caramel macchiatos and rediscovered my passion for writing. More than that, I found Jesus in my story.

The more I wrote, the more convinced I became that every aspect of my life had His faithful fingerprints all over it. I put words to some of my most difficult memories, asking Him to show me how He saw them, and suddenly they became a testimony of hope and purpose. The victories I’d thought I’d won, the battles I’d thought I’d lost, they all looked different now. They held the sheen of grace, His undeserved, perfect gift to me. Each page became a paverstone on the path toward true intimacy with my Father. How could I have gotten here without them?

After many Saturdays with Jesus, coffee, spiders and ants, I looked at my words and knew they weren’t just for me.

Am I Really A Writer?

That’s when the real wrestling began. I’d self-published a biblical fiction book years ago, but this felt so very different. This book was personal, and it was worship. It deserved the best chance I could give it to reach the most hearts possible, but that meant choosing to call myself a writer. It meant honing the craft, studying the market, choosing a publishing course, and lots and lots of edits and revisions. It meant investing time, money, and creative energy into the process, from building a website to attending a writer’s conference.

At the outset, I didn’t know all the details of how I would get here, but I knew it would take commitment and sacrifice from not only me, but also my family. I needed to know this was the direction God wanted me to take, so I asked for confirmation again and again. And, in His inexplicable kindness, He gave it again and again.

One year ago, I finished my rough draft. 50,000 words. I was ecstatic and confident that some editor out there just couldn’t wait to get his hands on it and publish it. I was sure that internet readers would flock to my shiny, new blog and eagerly subscribe. I just knew that God had all the connections ready for me to glide right into the world of the published author.

It didn’t, ahem, turn out quite like that. I chose to self-publish again, which, honestly, felt a bit like admitting defeat, but it has allowed me to work on the timeline I’ve needed and given me ample creative control. My beginning has been small and slow, but I am learning to rejoice in it. I don’t take lightly that God is using my meager offering of words. And I am grateful, oh so grateful, for you, dear reader.  

An Intentional Journey

It seems that the path of the writer is much like the path of the Christian pilgrim, swooping into valleys of doubt right after scaling mountains of success, doubling back on itself, dodging pitfalls of pride and self-sufficiency, and meandering through pleasant meadows where it would appear we are instructed to do nothing more or less than delight in the giver of wildflowers. I am again discovering that the journey isn’t linear, but it is intentional.

As in all things, the sole purpose, the chief end, is not to produce or achieve or succeed. It is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.

So, thank you for allowing me to glorify and enjoy God in this remembering. He is always and forever faithful and good.

What part of your story do you wish God had written differently? 

Make time to sit with Jesus and a journal or laptop and ask Him to retell it to you from His perspective. Try not to overthink or edit, just let the words pour out.

It may be a simple frustration from your morning or a traumatic event from years ago. The size doesn’t matter; what matters is learning to see God’s hand in it. I promise this practice will transform you.