Into the Fire

Not that I’m disclaiming them as not my own or anything. But . . . my novels are not “my children”. Not “birthed” by some nine month gestation and “delivered” in excruciating pain. Nope. That analogy doesn’t work for me.

My novels are . . . me. They are an extension of myself in every character, good or bad. They are a part of my nature, my hopes, my fears, my personality, my interpretations of other personalities, my observations, my inspirations, my hates, my loves, my ugliness, my beauty, my life, my experiences, my insights, my revelations, my failings, my freedoms, my successes, my humanity, my spirituality, my writings. Yet they are not my own.

I have yielded possession of myself and anything of value that I produce to the Lord Jesus Christ. He is the Friend and Judge of all things I do. Only He is worthy to assess them, to give them credence or importance or value.

And though I “labor” over them to make them real, it doesn’t compare to the divine partnership of creating a child. The creation of a novel can be done without divine partnership, but to do so limits its eternal worth. So many things in our lives will be burned up as chaff simply because they have no lasting value and were not done in obedience to Christ.

My children are the result of a three-way union. Children make no choice for their parents. The merging of their fathers and mothers cannot produce life without God’s permission. We are creators of nothing. All our knowledge and skills comes from our Father. Apart from Him we can do nothing. We often say that, but do we truly translate it into our limited realities? Nothing. It has no real definition because it connotes non-existence. Void. Nothing.

No writer is more aware of her limited skills than me. I have to give credit to the Lord for His transcending my natural thoughts and giving me creative images which forge their way into characters that seem—if not limited to the type on page—to be real. I know them. I live with them. I watch them. They sometimes amaze me with their words or their deeds—or disappoint me or disgust me. As I sometimes do to myself. They could easily breathe . . . but they don’t. They are of paper or screen. Pictures of those who participate in reality: composites of life. But not alive. At least not living and breathing.

No, my novels are not my children. They’re mine through thick and thin. Not to be disowned unless destroyed. A part of me. An extension of myself. An endeavor to convey the inner workings of the human parts deep down where we all find ourselves in the squalor and are forced to admit we are dust and dirt, sinful and base. Unlovely, regardless of the adornment—physical or spiritual—we cannot hide ourselves from the One who provides all our beauty and talent. It is He who presents us with our worthiness. He alone.

In His hands I attempt to place my own, surrendering what He has given me to His leadership and direction even when . . . yes, even when it travels a different path than I dreamed we might go. His is better, no: best. Over the years I’ve learned that lesson—not easily, I might add. And, yes, I still often wrestle with that firm grip like a wayward child in a department store. But like that child I know when I strain against Him, I make it all about me. And “me” isn’t really worth the pulling away. Without Him and apart from Him, I can do nothing.

I am one of His children, His creation, and my desire is to fit securely into Him so that I cannot be seen. Only Him. That way these novels, these extensions of myself, can be extensions of Him.

Father, continue to create in me a pure heart. I long to serve you and you alone. Then I will be of use to the others you put into my life. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.