Child-left remnants of lunch pushed aside are the spoils of a familiar way of life. I am comfortable with it. It is the territory I have lived in for a long time; life lived to meet the needs of little people. Now I look at my nearly six foot son and the band of grey hair that I try hard to disguise and know I am travelling through a place I have never been before, bearing the marks of having come from somewhere else. These are new lands. These are new adventures. This is a new season.
I am listening to the accent of my father’s house. It is so familiar and so comforting. I am comfortable with the turn of phrase, the intonation, the inflection, but the words themselves are a new language to me. We are talking about my book. MY book? I am taken back to the moment when I first heard God tell me that words are important and promise me I would one day write a book for His purpose. That was 17 years ago.
Now here I am sitting with my publisher, deep in discussion. I am sitting in a literary cliche. This is just what I would expect writers to do, even down to the stripy teapot and china cup in front of me. We are discussing structure and plot over a cup of tea. We are discussing the third draft with the sunlight streaming in at the window. We are discussing something that I finally have to acknowledge as a reality. I pinch myself. Am I really here? Is this really me?
Yes, it really is! It really is, because God has made it so. The path to this place was clearly mapped out and at every junction when I wondered which way to go I heard the familiar “This is the way. Walk in it”. I have worked with God and there is still plenty more work to be done. But it will be done. It has a title; it has characters; it has a setting; content, purpose and even an end. There is a story to tell. It will be told. This book is growing in the writing womb and I have to acknowledge that it exists. I am “with book”. I can’t wait for it to be born!