Today I got a call from my dear editor. “Sharon, I’m holding your book in my hands. Do you want to come over and get a copy?”

Did I?

I raced the few miles over to Bethany House, hoping any police who might catch me speeding would understand that I was giving birth . . . to my first novel.

And there it was at the reception desk, waiting for me. Shiny, beautiful, REAL.

I fingered the raised letters, touched the glossy cover with awe, breathed in the sent of paper and ink . . .

And felt deep gratitude. It was only a few years ago that I was asking God WHY He had called me to write and IF anyone would ever read my stories besides a handful of family and friends. I would wander the book aisles in Target, Barnes and Noble, and our local Christian bookstore, and get weepy because of the longing God had planted in my heart–not a longing I had stirred up on my own . . . but one HE kindled–to one day see my book on those shelves.

Each step has been a miracle of God’s patience, guidance, and provision. God says that He remembers we are dust. Well, I’ve felt very “dusty” during the past few years. I won’t bore you with the details of just how frail, weary, and wobbly I often feel–or the weaknesses of mind and body and circumstance that have made this journey extra challenging. But I have to acknowledge them because it shows what a remarkable God we serve. The God who multiplies fishes and loaves, who celebrates a widow’s mite, who uses spit and mud to bring sight can bring good things where they are not deserved and don’t even seem possible.

Thank you, Lord, for loving us and designing myriad artistic ways to express that love. Thank you for the written word and for the gift of stories. Thank you that you planted a tale in my mind and helped me wrestle the sentences into order. I pray that my little story will give you pleasure and bring encouragement to others. Amen.

In Him,
Sharon Hinck

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