Open Hands

I’ll do it myself.

I’ve written here before about my fierce determination to handle things on my own. That “can do” spirit served me well as a military wife, whether following the ambulance to the hospital after Older Son’s bike accident or dragging wet carpet through a tiny window when the basement flooded. (Mishaps tended to happen when Mr. Pettit was away on America’s business.)

But I’m learning (I’m always learning—I seem to have trouble getting to the “learned” phase) that “can’t do” isn’t such a bad thing. In fact, accepting what I cannot do is a relief.

Allow me to back up a bit. Around 10 years ago I started repeating this sentence to myself when I was overwhelmed by volunteer responsibilities at church: It’s not about me. As I’d ruminate about an upcoming meeting or report I would swing between fearing I wasn’t up to the task (that I wouldn’t be—Gasp!—perfect) and giving my pride full rein. I wish I could say such wrestling matches are far behind me. They are not.

Another statement came to me as I wrote Chrysalis and sank deeper into my heart as I worked on its sequel. It’s not all up to me. An indie author wears several hats. Writer (well, duh). IT Director. Webmaster. Marketing Director. Human Resources Director. Chief Financial Officer.

I didn’t grow up with keyboarding and computer labs; I had a typing class in high school. (And I am still quite speedy. Thank you, Mrs. Baker. May you rest in peace.) So it’s not surprising that more than once I have felt adrift in a sea of bits and bytes, without a lighthouse or passing ship in sight.

At other times I have been overwhelmed by the process of writing, something that has typically been my safe haven. I decided to hire an editor to give my second book its best chance for success. But then my whining started. She wants me to cut all this out? I love this part! And What do you mean? I don’t overuse this word. You get the idea.

Then I’d remember.

It’s not all up to me.

I didn’t make progress on Chrysalis, much less finish it, until I surrendered it to God. Until I admitted that I didn’t have the power to complete the task before me.

And I couldn’t drag its sequel across the finish line without taking that same essential step. Until I stopped trying to control every variable and pin down every detail. Until I dropped everything at the feet of the One Who had given me this imagination in the first place.

Until I opened my hands.

And received the help that only God—Father, Son and Holy Spirit—can provide.

I couldn’t have finished one book apart from His generosity, much less two. I don’t know what God has in mind for Always, Never, Still. But that’s okay.

It’s not about me. It’s not all up to me.

My hands are open. And I pray they’ll remain so.