The Bittersweet Humility of a Published Book

Several years ago I sat in my rocking chair to “have it out with God.”  I was tired of talking about writing and trying to write a book. I needed to know if this desire to write was from God, or was something I only wished was from God.

I was willing to set it aside and do something else–getting a Ph.D. in American history has always been the fallback–if this wasn’t something God wanted me to pursue.

I’d been reading about prayer and one book exhorted us to “dream big,” and “ask for the impossible.” We also were advised to scrub our hearts and desires to determine what we really wanted.

While I’m not a “name it and claim it,” Christian, I decided to ask for the one desire of my heart.

“Okay, Lord, I want to write a book.”

Ping. The light went on in my brain. I’d already written several books.

“Okay, Lord, I need to revise that. I want to publish a book that makes a difference in someone else’s life.”

I don’t think God said this, but I laughed at myself–was that my second request?

I don’t worship a genie God who waves His hands and gives me the desires of my heart. I worship a God who gave me gifts that He might be glorified through them. The honor and acclaim needs to be His, not mine.

That’s easy to say, but what does it really mean? I needed to confront my reasons for wanting to write.

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I hate to admit it, but the real, honest truth hidden deep in the recesses of my soul is, I want to prove a point.

Unfortunately, the people I most want to impress are dead. Long dead and will never know I actually wrote a book that was published.

My mother always expected me to amount to something–she put up with a lot to make sure I had a secure and happy childhood filled with opportunities. If I wanted to be a writer, she wanted to make sure I had the opportunity. I’m sorry she’ll never know my name appears on the cover of A Log Cabin Christmas Collection.

She lived long enough to see my name on the masthead of the UCLA Daily Bruin and to get a copy of Military Lifestyles Magazine when I won the grand prize short story contest. She saw the biography I wrote about my grandmother and of her parents. She knew I was writing Pioneer Stock, but never learned it ended up in the Library of Congress, much less in genealogical libraries around the country.

I’m sorry, Mom, it took me so long.

My Aunt Rosie gave me a Webster’s Dictionary for my tenth birthday. She probably got it on sale, but was surprised at how it pleased me. I loved  words and still have the volume, the pages brown and spotted with age. She asked me one day when I was in college what I planned to do. “I want to write,” I said.

“Really? What do you have to write about?”

“Oh, my thoughts and stories.”

She sniffed.

Auntie Rosie lived long enough to read Travels with Jeanette, a story I wrote about touring Europe with my mother. Not published, but complete. She liked it, as did her brother, because it brought my mother alive again for them.

My uncle’s wife, Auntie Arly, read Travels with Jeanette as well, and liked the parts about my mother but wanted me to write a mystery next.

She never understood that it didn’t quite work that way.  🙂

They’re all gone now, and won’t hold this book with my name on the cover in their hands.

So, what else was I trying to prove?

I spent twenty years following my naval officer husband around the world, raising our children in a variety of locales, teaching Bible study and doing almost anything but writing. Unlike most of my close friends–or at least most of the godmothers of my children–I did not work a job. To be able to publish a novel would demonstrate all my fine IQ points were not wasted on raising children. That’s the other point I needed to prove.

Except I know, as many of you know, that I didn’t waste all those years raising children, making a home and teaching Bible study–not to mention working at pregnancy counseling centers, volunteering as a Navy Relief budget counselor and all the hours at eleven different school districts.

I know. You know. But I didn’t feel accomplished.

After that day praying, I knew there was no point in God answering the desire of my heart to be published if I thought being published would be the pinnacle of my life. I needed to recognize I have worth in God’s eyes beyond what I can produce.

Intellectually, I understand completely. Emotionally, I struggle.

A Log Cabin Christmas arrived yesterday. I held the book in my hands and looked at the green embossed title, my own name in small letters on the bottom line. I hefted it in my hand, flipped through the pages and marveled at seeing words I typed on this very computer, printed into a book. It felt humbling and marvelous.

It reminded me of holding a new baby: the joy, the awe, the wonder.

But you know what? A baby is more valuable than a book.

I am humbled to have a book with my name on the cover. I wish my parents and my aunts had lived to see it.

But more importantly, I know my parents and my aunts lived to see my four children and my happy marriage.

They died knowing I am a success.

Thanks be to God.

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