A year ago at this time I was working hard on a novel I believe was from God. To my amazement, the whole story played out in my mind like a movie over a few days time last May in the middle of something difficult I was going through. That difficulty quickly passed, but the story wouldn’t let me sleep. I took notes like crazy in May, and on the first day of June, sat down at my computer to write. By September, I had a novel in my hand that I carried to the ACFW conference. It was my first Christian writing conference and the results were mixed. My agent was happy to have me there and we had a wonderful dinner together with a dozen of his other writers. One of those writers became a dear friend, a critique partner, and best of all, a prayer buddy. She is now a rock in my writing life.
As far as editors go, I ended up approaching only one with my new novel. The response wasn’t encouraging. First the editor said, You must change your main character’s name. It’s awful. Then the editor went on to say that I had way too much going on in my story and I needed to learn my craft. Go home and read some good fiction, was the editor’s advice. It was all I could do not to weep as I left that meeting.
Beyond humble now, I met with a couple other editors at that conference. I did not pitch my new novel to them because I’d lost all confidence in the manuscript. A second editor asked to see another book I’d written, a historical romance I completed before giving birth to our sixth child, Garry James. It didn’t take that editor long to reject my historical. She came upon my hero cursing God in chapter two and promptly rejected the novel for the cursing. Again, I was deeply embarrassed and humbled. And I apologized to God as well.
After licking my wounds for awhile and reading some great fiction such as Lost Mission by Athol Dickson, I went back to work on my new novel. Because I’m the stubborn type, I kept the main character’s name “Destiny” and continued to call the novel Holding Destiny.
But the thing that threw me the most coming out of the ACFW conference was that when I returned home, my husband Scott told me that he wanted another baby. Scott also said I needed to back away from my writing career and put more time into our home and family. I had to admit, Mac and Cheese had become our common meal. Still, this news from hubby hit me in the gut. In the beginning, I wrestled a fierce wave of resentment. All those, “When is it my turn to pursue my dreams?” emotions overflowed.
At the end of this tirade of flesh, I dropped to my knees. It was then that I realized there was no room for a “my turn” in my life. There was only “God’s turn” and if my husband wanted baby number seven and a wife who put her writing once again on hold, I needed to surrender to this.
By spring, to my relief, I wasn’t pregnant, and I was ready to attend another writing conference. This time it was Mount Hermon and again I met my wonderful agent there. Before going to the conference, my agent had sent Holding Destiny to a couple of editors. One editor responded the next day after receiving the proposal. She liked what my agent sent her, but her first request was that I change the main character’s name. I may be stubborn, but I’m not stupid. I immediately renamed that character Amy. This editor also felt the book was too dark, so I quickly rewrote the novel eliminating the darker elements, but to my disappointment, the editor decided she couldn’t pursue the project. So I headed for Mt. Hermon with two versions of my new novel in hand, the original version and the softer themed one I’d just completed. This conference I left my historical at home. I decided that my new novel deserved my best shot and I would only try to sell it.
At Mt. Hermon, one of the editors my agent had contacted before the conference asked to meet with me. She seemed excited about my new novel and liked the darker elements in the original work. She also said the name “Destiny” was a bit over the top, so we agreed on going with the name Amy for now. She gave me some tips on what she’d like to see in the novel and told me to send the manuscript when I was ready. In April, I emailed her the novel. I haven’t heard back from her yet.
At Mt. Hermon, I shared with my agent that my husband wanted another child. My agent said the nicest prayer for Scott and when I came home from the conference, to my utter surprise Scott said, “I think I will get a vasectomy in July, but I still want to try for a baby until then.”
In June, my parents took us to Pacific Grove for a short vacation at the ocean. While praying and walking through the dunes, I came upon a doe and two spotted fawns. For a moment it seemed God shined his light on the deer and I wondered if that meant the Lord was going to give us another child. In the mountains a few weeks later, I saw another doe and fawn, and then we went to family camp last week. Redwoods Christian Park is about 15 miles from Mt. Hermon. The first day of this camp as I was walking and praying in the redwoods, I came upon a doe and fawn. In that moment, I realized I could be pregnant. The next day, during my prayer time, while I was studying my Bible, I felt eyes upon me. I was sitting on a porch of the house where we were staying at the camp. It sits at nearly the top of a mountain in a redwood grove. When I looked up, there stood the doe and fawn about fifteen feet away watching me. Sunlight streamed through the towering redwoods onto the mama and baby deer. I knew at that moment that I was pregnant. My Bible reading that day confirmed it for me. I’ve been studying the life of Obed-Edom, the man from 1 Chronicles who took the ark of God to his home when King David was too afraid to do so. In chapter 26 of 1 Chronicles, which I was reading on the porch when the doe and fawn appeared, the text says: Obed-Edom had eight sons, for God had blessed Obed-Edom (1Chronicles 26:5).
I made a vow to God right then and there on the porch that I would not fear or question this pregnancy. I would trust in the Lord with all my forty-two-year-old heart (Proverbs 3:5). I hope you don’t mind that I added my age in there. Forty-two. You see why I need to trust God in this? I also vowed to believe God: that a pack of boys are a blessing from the Lord. Along with our two teenage daughters, we have four sons and my biggest challenge is getting them to use the toilet. Our boys would rather pee on trees or each other or on our poor dogs then use the bathroom. Wash their hands… hardly. Pray for me not to beat this wild behavior out of them. I guess a forty-two-year-old pregnant woman will have a hard time catching young boys running and peeing through the yard, anyway, so no need for real concern. I doubt I’ll have the speed or the balance to beat these boys in the coming months.
Another challenge I faced last week was finding a pregnancy test at a Christian camp to show Scott that God had answered his prayers before the dreaded vasectomy day arrived. The camp store is stocked full of Bibles, T-shirts, and Noah’s ark toys. Needless to say, I did not find a pregnancy test there.
We had to drive to a Rite Aid to solve our problem. I took the test in the pharmacy bathroom, but shoved the test stick in my purse without waiting for the results. Scott and I then headed for the ocean to view the stick together on the beach.
In Santa Cruz, we decided to drive up the hill to the Catholic mission instead of going down to the sea. Though, we are presently members of the Nazarene denomination, our roots are Catholic, and Scott and I still love the Catholic Church. Holy Cross cathedral crowns the high ground of this beach town where the old mission is located. This beautiful, white building soars into the sky- you can see it from the highway- and I have always wanted to go inside this striking landmark. With two-and-a-half-year-old Garry James in tow, we walked up the church steps and found the double doors of the cathedral locked. Undaunted, we sat down on the steps and said a prayer together. Then I pulled the test stick out of my purse and without looking at it, handed it to Scott. During our other six pregnancies, I’ve always taken the pee-stick test alone. This time, I wanted Scott to be the first to know the results. There on the church steps, Scott looked at the stick and let out a whoop of joy. The Hispanic gardener who had been keeping an eye on us as he tended the churchyard, came over and told us we could go into the mission church when it opened in five minutes. He pointed across the street to the old mission.
“We came here to dedicate our baby to the Lord,” I told the gardener. He looked at Garry James and smiled. “Not that baby,” I explained. “We already gave him to the Lord. We want to dedicate the baby we just found out we are expecting to the Lord.”
“Oh, you are on a pilgrimage,” cried the gardener, a huge grin splitting his brown, weathered face. “I will get the keys to open the cathedral!”
Before we told him he didn’t have to do that, the gardener was off, and then back again unlocking the door for us. “Stay inside as long as you like, the church is yours,” he graciously said.
Scott, Garry James, and I then walked to the altar of this magnificent church. We kneeled there and Garry James pointed to the huge crucifix hanging high on the wall behind the altar. “Jesus… sleeping,” said little Garry.
“Yes, that is Jesus,” I answered. How our Nazarene raised toddler knew that was Jesus hanging on the cross, I don’t know. I’ve had Protestants tell to me how upset they are that Catholics keep Jesus on the cross. As a newly converted Protestant, I agreed that I liked the cross better without Jesus twisted and broken there, but now nearly ten years into my Protestant walk, I have to say, I don’t think the Catholics have gotten it wrong keeping Jesus on the cross. The Protestant faith could use a good dose of guilt that leads to repentance. I’d like to slip into every Protestant Church in the United States and replace their crosses with life-size crucifixes. At least for a month or two…
Okay, sorry for the rant. I’ll get back to my pregnancy story.
So there at the altar in Santa Cruz with Jesus sleeping on the cross, Scott and I offered this new life growing inside me to the Lord. He (or by some miracle, she) is about the size and shape of a tadpole right now. I have named our little tadpole Cruz (which means cross in Spanish), and just hope he won’t join his brothers in peeing on the dogs when he’s older.
This morning, I read on Facebook that many of my writing friends are gearing up for this year’s ACFW conference. I confess I cried today because, with a tadpole on my string, my career is probably once again pond water. But I am now on a pilgrimage, as the church gardener put it, and I wouldn’t trade this spiritual journey for anything.
Last March I was at Mt. Hermon hoping to become a bona fide novelist. This March, by the grace and mercy of God, I will be bringing Cruz into the world.
I sure appreciate your prayers 🙂