I thought I had found my publisher. He had earnest blue eyes and an idea for a series.
I was all in.
Then I learned he wanted me to write his book for him. The first of his six-book series.
He amped up his determination and locked those blue eyes on me.
“OK,” I said. “What are we writing this book about?”
“I need you to tell me a story about Buzzy the bee.”
“You’re not going to tell the story?”
“I don’t know it yet.” Connor shrugged like seven-year-olds sometimes do.
Buzzy the Bee's Adventure
I threw together a quick story while we sat together.
“Yeah, that’ll do.” He nodded. “OK, go type it up.”
In short order, we had the story in a digital file.
“Now we have to print it,” Connor said.
I copied the text into a formatting program, bumped the type size to sixteen-point, and widened the margins.
Voila! We had a three-page book. Because I could.
Hoping to impress this young author. Publisher. Probably both, like many are these days.
Making the Book Cover
“Now we need a cover.” Connor had this book stuff down better than I thought. “Maybe Eric could make us one.”
Eric is his nine-year-old brother, who nodded enthusiastically. “What do I draw?”
The technology bug hit me again. “Let’s create a Photoshop version while we’re waiting for Eric.”
Connor liked that idea.
Photoshop churned out a yellow-and-black bumblebee soaring over a field of flowers—Buzzy in all his glory. I slapped the title above him and added Connor’s name.
We printed it and Connor was happy. “That works.”
As the printer chugged out the first cover, he was already planning his marketing plan for his second book. (I am not kidding.)
Eric studied the book cover. “Why doesn’t it say ‘Illustrated by Eric’?”
“Well, you didn’t illustrate this one,” I told him.
Outside your window, birds sing, anticipating spring.
Their life is simple yet dangerous. But how they sing – about the simple things. They celebrate the dawn, the cool air of the morning, the discovered meal.
Let their song rise within you, its lightness flowing to your heart, to your limbs, to your shoulders. To your mind.
Fresh hope longs to blossom within your heart. Your loss does not block my love for you. It isn’t the final action.
My strength can flow through you and heal you moment by moment.
Notice the dawn, the cool air of the morning, the meal from a friend. Sing about the simple things, my love.
Anticipate the newness of this season.
Look at the birds. They don’t plant or harvest or store food in barns, for your heavenly Father feeds them. And aren’t you far more valuable to him than they are? Can all your worries add a single moment to your life? Matthew 6:26-27
Listen for the crescendo of music drawing your thoughts into a place of restoration.
Gentle notes fill the air so that you can almost see the tones.
The songs of the harp, the flute, the lyre, the bells weave a tapestry that wraps your parched heart and mind with tranquility and beauty.
Chaos may roar at you, but I will hold it back so you can hear the sweet tones of my presence.
On this path, I have already swept away the rocks that would bruise your feet and pushed back the branches that would slice your face.
Now I give you more: the songs of eternity sweeping away the turmoil of your grief.
Take another step into my presence. Attend to the melodies of healing.
“My heart is confident in you, O God; no wonder I can sing your praises with all my heart! Wake up, lyre and harp! I will wake the dawn with my song. I will thank you, Lord, among all the people. I will sing your praises among the nations. For your unfailing love is higher than the heavens. Your faithfulness reaches to the clouds.”
