[SB] Sabbath Blessing

[Molly Wolf]

The Box

The cardboard carton sits in the front hall, right by the steps where I set 
it when the UPS man delivered it on Thursday. I touch it lightly with my 
foot every time I walk past it. It's a box of books. More specifically, 
it's 22 copies of the same book. (There were 25, but I've already given two 
away and the 25th sits on my desk.)  I really should put it in the TV room 
closet with the other boxes of books, but not yet. Not for a few days.

I never thought this would happen. I thought I'd dried up completely, that 
I'd never be able to write God-stuff with the authority and integrity and 
the lightness of touch that God-stuff needs. For a long, painful time God 
seemed too remote, too unfaithful -- my head knew better, as my head 
usually does, but belief isn't the same as faith, and for a long time my 
faith was sore and aching.  My editor was incredibly patient with me (thank 
you, Sheryl!) but we were both worried. The person who should have been 
most supportive of me kept murmuring into my doubts "What if you can't 
write again? What will you do then?"

But then, in June, it all came together: I found enough bits and pieces, 
and wrote more, and sometimes the words hesitated and stammered and had to 
be yanked onto the screen one phrase at a time, but sometimes (blessedly) 
they flew and I had that old and beloved feeling of simply letting the 
God-stuff pour out without the slightest effort. After a month of intensive 
work, I printed everything out and tossed the print-outs into piles on the 
TV room floor: this piece goes with that one, this one belongs here.... The 
sorting and organizing process took about half an hour. I did a word count. 
I had a book.  I don't think I've had a more richly satisfying moment than 
when I hit SEND and the files went flying off to San Fransisco.

Then it was into The Process. I've done everything in book-making from 
writing proposals to indexing -- everything except design and actually 
setting the type. I've been an editor far longer than I've been a writer. I 
know The Process. Edit, review, copy edit, page proofs, legal check, 
permissions (an experienced writer arranges matters to avoid permissions as 
much as humanly possible -- I learned that one!) One thing was different: 
each time I saw the thing, I liked it better. Usually, writers learn to 
hate the book by their third time through it.

On Thursday I held the book for the first time, my first book in three and 
a half years.  I hadn't expected to be this delighted. I'm wary of 
expectations now; I've learned (painfully) a fair bit about the publishing 
world, and I keep my expectations low. Even when the book got a  starred 
review in _Publisher's Weekly_ , I wasn't going to get my hopes up. I'm 
still being cautious.

But holding a new book is, very slightly, like holding a new baby, although 
considerably less messy.  There is that moment when the cover's still 
unblemished and the pages sit with that special  virginal compactness, 
pressed close by the binding and the packing, unruffled by anyone's 
exploring fingers.  Part of me wants to keep one copy aside, unopened, just 
to hold onto that moment.

Much more than than that: this particular book is a victory of faith over 
experience, of trust over deep hurt. It says that when times get dark, you 
can choose to go on believing: belief, like love, is an act of will, not of 
emotion. And yes, that can carry you through to the other side, where faith 
becomes a possibility once again.

Hello, _White China_. Thank you, God.



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I'm about to hit some sacred cows, and they moo so badly. -- Phyllis 
Tickle, aka The Divine Miz T.