It was our family’s getaway weekend and in two days, my husband and I would launch our first book, Just Be. In actuality, it was not my first book; really, it was my second. My first book was called Push, which I wrote in my late twenties—and oh my, how I have grown since then. And if it makes you feel better—author's worst nightmare—there's a typo on the cover!
It just so happened that we were spending this momentous weekend at a dear friend's mountain cabin. We were worried that we wouldn’t make it there due to the impending snowstorm headed our way. Yet, even as I was mourning the possibility of our cherished time being robbed from us by the winter weather advisory—I felt God speak to my heart not to worry. We would make it.
Late Thursday night, we got a voice text saying that the family who was supposed to be in the cabin before us canceled, so we had the opportunity to go up a day early and entirely miss the storm. Needless to say, our family was ecstatic. God worked a miracle on our behalf, again.
We spent all of Friday cleaning our home and packing our bags. We loaded up enough food to last us a week, just in case we got snowed in. We left on a beautiful Friday afternoon, ready to take the three-hour drive with enthusiasm.
The entire car ride, I couldn’t wait to get there. My heart was bursting to seek God and just write. My imagination reveled in the possibilities before me. You see, this cabin has a writing room—at least, that’s what I imagine it to be. It’s located in a cozy little loft upstairs. It comes complete with a white wrought iron bed, memory foam mattress, and the most darling embroidered “good night” quilt I have ever seen. The ceilings are six feet high at their peak and span only three feet before they start their dramatic roof-line descent. On my tippy toes, my head can touch the ceiling. It may not be someone’s dream writing room, but it captured my heart from day one.
When you walk up the steep stairs to the loft, you're greeted by a miniature closet and a small vintage writing desk partnered with a chair and a mesmerizing black typewriter. All of which are centered under a modest window overlooking a breathtaking mountain scape.
From my first visit, before I even started writing, I voiced to God my desire to someday write at that little writing desk. And so I have. God can make even the smallest of dreams come true. I wrote chapters of Just Be at that little writing desk. I would move the typewriter to the left of the desk, center my laptop directly in the middle, and place my steaming hot cup of tea to the right. Then I prayed.
That is my routine: I pray and write. I dream and write. I imagine and write. I pray and write again, and I ask God to direct my words.
I’ve met God in that little writing room in more tangible ways than I can count. If the past were any indication of what lay before me on that particular getaway weekend, I knew—it was going to be a memorable, productive God-breathed time.
When we finally arrived, my heart skipped a beat as soon as the house was in sight. We pulled in and the car erupted with excitement. Our girls were bursting at the seams to claim their rooms, unpack their bags, and enjoy our time together.
“Take your shoes off at the front door!” I yelled as they barreled out of the car like a pressurized can of soda.
As I walked into the entryway, I was greeted with familiar sights and smells that felt like home. I smiled as my husband brought in the fifty-pound food bags I had packed from the car. Lugging them up a full flight of stairs to the kitchen with a thankful heart.
By the time I had finished unpacking the food and making dinner for the family, a few hours had passed. The girls had already played chess at least four times. They were now playing around the house, their joy trickling pathways from room to room, leaving its mark on a momma's heart.
Dishes done, I finally made my way to the master bedroom to take a breath and simply pause ... and pause I did. In fact, to say I paused was an understatement, for on the table in the bedroom lay a copy of my book, Just Be.
I was taken back as I stood frozen like a statue, staring. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Astounded. Flabbergasted. Wonderstruck. I had gifted the owner with a copy of my new book weeks before and thought she would simply keep it at home. Yet, she had strategically placed it in this ever-so-private and precious setting.
Maybe it was happenstance, but for me it was like a kiss from heaven that took my breath away. You see, these owners purchased that mountain cabin for the sole purpose of gifting it to others as a retreat for healing. Primarily those who had recently lost a child. And there my book lay, in that beloved private place where each of those couples would stay. Some of them would already know Jesus, others may not, but the honor of seeing that specific book I published there on the table did something to my heart and spirit.
I walked over, gingerly touching its cover, and knew that the weekend would be a weekend like no other. God wanted to do something special in my heart; it was undeniable. He wanted to gift me courage in an area that didn’t seem very courageous to me, especially when there was always more that I could be doing to serve others.
It was and is the courage to celebrate.
That night, the entire family snuggled in the oversized master bed. White cheddar popcorn in
hand, we watched The Librarian for our family movie night. Afterward, we bundled each of our girls in bed and prayed over them. As I lay my head on the pillow, my heart was stirring with expectation for my time alone with God in the morning.
I woke up with the sun cascading through our picturesque bedroom window. A blanket of white wrapped the earth in a snuggle-like God embrace. I knelt on the floor, Bible in hand, and just cried. I cried because of the goodness of God and His deep love towards each one of us—and for the opportunity to be a part of something bigger than myself and my lifetime.
I basked in celebration and adoration to the only One who deserves it. A deep-rooted thankfulness to God for gifting me His strength for that specific journey welled up on the inside.
Strength to push past the subtly loud voices that proclaim publishing is for the proud.
That light is to be hidden.
That giving will result in lack and that God cannot work miracles through the ordinary.
That proclaiming Jesus is for the elite and nothing of value can be accomplished through
the common.
That business is for the courageous and deep, drawn-out celebration is for the weak.
"And as much as I wanted to write and be productive in my little room that day, all I could hear God speak to my heart was the word celebrate."
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Photo Credit: Djordje Petrovic, pexels.com | Design: Milan Klusacek, milanklusacek.com
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