For most of the fall, I’ve had two due dates in mind. First,
the day a final draft of my book was due to my publisher–December 31st.
Second, the day our third child was due to be born–January 22nd.
I’ve heard the two compared before. The idea is that birthing a child is much
like birthing a book, bringing a new life into the world, moving from the
private and even secret life/idea to a very public proclamation of existence.
But now that the book is in the hands of my editor (yay!),
I’m not sure the analogy really holds up. See, writing the book was a process
largely under my control. I worked on it when I wanted to, and then I put it
down and walked away. Writing the book was fun, too. Lots of hard work, sure,
but I am enough of a nerd (or enough of a narcissist?!?) to enjoy reading my
own writing out loud just to make sure that everything sounds just right. I
enjoy checking to make sure I haven’t repeated words–consolation, coy, joy,
tiny–too often throughout the course of the manuscript. I enjoy the challenge
of fixing a sentence or reconstructing a metaphor.
Whereas this baby… not exactly in my control, as this
waiting game–when exactly will s/he arrive–attests. I want to be receptive to
this human being within me as whomever s/he may be, not as the one I have
crafted. I want to know this child as one created in God’s image, not one that
we have fashioned ourselves. Moreover, I don’t find it fun to be pregnant (I know
there are women who love it, and I know there are others who long for it.
Please don’t take this statement as any sign of ingratitude for the gift of the
child. It’s just a statement of fact that lugging around 30 extra pounds is no
fun, as far as I’m concerned.).
And finally, I know that the act of birthing this child will involve a tremendous amount of pain. Submitting my manuscript to my editor involved hitting send on an email. Pushing this child into the world will involve blood, sweat, and tears. And then lots of sleepless nights and turmoil in our household and moments of wondering why we ever thought more children was a good idea.
But here’s the thing. Next fall, the book will be published. I hope it will be a gift to readers for many years to come. And I trust that stories have a life of their own, even beyond my intentions for them. And yet, at the end of the day, the book is a finished product. The words won’t grow or change.
But for this child–the words have not yet been written. Or, perhaps I should say, they will never become fixed. This little boy or girl will always be in the act of becoming. S/he will always be the one who was brought forth from the union of Peter and me, and yet s/he will also always be the one who is separate from us. S/he will be a gift, and a gift that changes with time.
I’ve heard before that English doesn’t have enough words to express the various facets of the word “love,” and that’s part of my problem in trying to express my thoughts about these two loves of mine. I love writing. But the love I feel for my children is very different. Messier. Riskier. And far more transformative, life-giving, risky, and intimate. Any day now, I will receive a new child to love. And that child will be a part of changing me for years to come.
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