A Writer's Prayer From "The Valley of Vision"

If you follow me on facebook or twitter, you might know my love and affection for a little paperback, first published in 1975, called The Valley of Vision - A Collection of Puritan Prayers & Devotions. I try to share a few lines every Monday in a #mondaydevotion.

We have so much to learn from the spiritual giants who came before us. It was their wise and timeless words that guided my thoughts in a right and fitting prayer over my writing today.

Thy cause, not my own, engages my heart. 
Not my name, my reputation, my followers, my talent, or my success. Neither is perfection my cause, because I don't have it in me to make the story perfect. It will be full of mistakes, theological and artistic. The world may scorn it, but to the one who's eyes are open, or whose eyes are soon to be opened, it will make the Lord and his dealings with his people something beautiful. That's my hope, my prayer, and the cause which engages my heart.

And I appeal to thee with greatest freedom to set up thy kingdom in every place where Satan reigns.
There is no time and no place like the one I'm living in right now. No freer citizen of an earthly kingdom existed. I have so much time, so much access to information, so many avenues to proclaim his name, and so much freedom to do it without fear of persecution.

Glorify thyself and I shall rejoice, for to bring honour to thy name is my soul desire.
Lord, make this so in my heart, which is so dark, so bent toward my own glory. Destroy my pride so these words are always on my lips, so my joy is in you alone.

I adore thee that thou art God, and long that others should know it, feel it, and rejoice in it.
Lord, make my heart to ache for the lost, for my soul to weep over them, for my grief to be inconsolable. Let that be what drives me finish this work.

...To the eye of reason everything respecting the conversion of others is as dark as midnight, but thou canst accomplish great things.
My words, my story, are as refuse to much of the world. I am incompetent at best to tell the story I long to tell, and have it be used to soften hard hearts. Yet you can accomplish great things through feeble hands if you desire. It is only for me to stay faithful to the task and lay it at your feet to use or discard as you will.

The cause is thine and it is to thy glory that men should be saved.
Not mine. Not mine. Heaven forbid I would try to rob you of your glory.

Lord use me as thou wilt, do with me what thou wilt, but, O, promote thy cause, let thy kingdom come, let thy blessed interest be advanced in this world!
How good of God to put a version of this prayer on my ignorant, faltering lips many years ago when I first began to write. And how sweet of him to set my eyes on these words, written and preserved by men much smarter, holier, and closer to the Lord than me. How I praise him for this, and for his word which never changes.

Give me to grasp for multitudes of souls, and let me be willing to die to that end.
Can I truly make these words my own? Do I even understand them, after a lifetime of worshiping, working, praying, and writing whatever I please, without fear of persecution in America? The people whose story I long to tell were willing to die for this. Am I? If the world grows dark, and some wicked ruler puts my neck in a noose for the words I write, would I say, "Yes, those are my words."? Lord grant me the courage I require should that day come.

And while I live let me labour for thee to the utmost of my strength, spending time profitably in this work, both in health and in weakness.
O, how I need him every hour, every minute, every second, to stop my mind from being distracted, and my hands from being idle. There is so much in this world that seeks to destroy my productivity. Let me labor, Lord, to my dying day, stringing words together, crafting stories which honor you, if it pleases you to have me do it. And if it doesn't, take this longing from me, and set my heart on another.

Amen.

Waiting for Wisdom

Those are good words for me as I think about my week--the first full one with all of my kids back in school. I did spend a lot of time with my manuscript (oh, how I've missed it), making little changes, adding depth to scenes, trying to cut words.

I'm still stuck on the first three chapters. I've been stuck on them forever, it seems. These have been my most critiqued, with two Genesis, and one First Impressions entries, and the critique has been good. Worth the money, nerves, and false hope? I don't know yet. There is a learning curve with entering contests. It still creates a lot of unnecessary stress for me.

But I do know it has been good for my story to edit it with the voice of one of the judges in my brain: "Your character seems like she is just being carried along."

I was defensive about it at first. "That's kind of the point," I said out loud as I read the critique. But six months later, a freelancer who offered to edit a chapter for free made an almost identical comment. That's what it took for me to see the truth in it. That's how long I had to wait for wisdom.

Once I had that sweet nugget of wisdom, I got to work. Again. I revised the first three chapters for the umpteenth time (I literally have no idea how many times I've revised it). Instead of my character getting yanked around by oppressive forces without voicing her thoughts about any of it, I've revised those early pages to show how she longs to be loved. That's the driving force of the next 60,000 words. Now it's built into the beginning. Such an improvement! Why haven't I seen it until now?

Four years ago when I typed "Chapter One" my character was little more than a scared child, watching events unfold. Then she became a bumbling klutz, incompetent at household chores (some elements of that I have kept for the sake of the story). For a time she lacked maternal instincts, resenting her role as care-taker of young siblings, I but revised that too, making her joy and her consolation her presence in her siblings' lives.

When I think about who she was four years ago compared to who she is now, I realize that I have simply been getting to know her. She has revealed herself to me over these years, often through others' critique.


It was they who showed me she was flat, cliche, and unlikable. Now she's full-bodied and real. Her longings are clear and consistent. They make sense. It's not just about the story anymore. It's about this flesh and blood person who lives in the story. It has taken this long for me to get here.



I'm convinced it could not have come any quicker. I'm too slow to learn from critique. My imagination needs time to receive it, to think on it, meditate, make connections, and to build layer upon layer.

So for the rest of wisdom, I will wait, and I will continue to work, to revise, and to submit for critique. Because, like Calvin, I can ascribe nothing to myself.