Wait: The Story of a Certain Champagne Bottle

So something very cool happened to me this week.

But to get there, allow me to tell you about the journey of a champagne bottle. (No scanning ahead, cheater.) This one, here.

This champagne bottle was stowed somewhere on a flight from Rome to Denver in January, 2017. My squirrely family of six bumped on board that flight on our final leg of moving to the U.S. after five and a half years in Uganda (like little kids, the “half” gets important to me). Eighteen of our bags slid into the cargo hold, packed to precisely 23 kilograms.

Picture a slightly-less-wrinkled version of me sinking into an aisle seat, my attempt at a pleasant smile not quite reaching my eyes. Every now and then on that flight, I would blink away some moisture. I knew why we were moving back on paper, but not really. (See posts like The Broken Heart: On Leaving Africa. Or this one, that I wrote on that flight: 6 Lifelines for the Season When It Feels Like God’s Against You).

My kids all commenced their favorite part of international flights, plugging in their headsets for non-stop movies (#thatmom). Mine remained blank, but not for the lack of trying (was this some kind of metaphor?). I meekly flagged the flight attendant, who reset the screen to no avail.

It was no big deal. I sighed into a free seat behind me, where I could still watch the kids like a hawk. Eventually, I turned my screen on, brain off.

So my eyebrows lifted when the attendant placed that bottle champagne in my hands. (I couldn’t even remember what champagne tasted like.) “Thanks for being so flexible on this,” she smiled.

I thanked her, placed the awkward shape in my carryon. Nothing felt much like celebrating.

Arriving in our new home, I placed the bottle in the back of our cavernous fridge. I decided I would open it if I ever signed a book contract. I had worked on that vague dream for years. But it felt distant, like African acacia trees on the horizon.

This would look better in the trash

That was two years ago. Since then, I did acquire a literary agent, now Bob Hostetler, which felt like a minor miracle. I have also had three or four book proposals rejected. (Lost count.)

The kids began to refer to the bottle in the fridge as “Mom’s Book Contract Champagne”, in explanation as to why it wasn’t consumed. But as the rejections hit my inbox, the bottle was moved to a cupboard above my head, way in the back. It looked better there.

The catch

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when I sat in a back room at the church, rereading the story of the great catch of fish. (I thought about that a lot here, too, in The Catch: On Great Expectations When They Don’t Make Sense). Submitting another book proposal felt like some version of “Cast your net on the other side!”–only without Jesus himself saying it.

But a couple of weeks ago, at midnight in Egypt, where I’d traveled to encourage a friend, I received an email from my agent.

Friends, lift a glass with me: Zondervan will be publishing my first on-my-own book, on spiritual life skills for messy families, in March 2021. As I type, I am crying a little.

God doesn’t always promise that when I wait, I will get what I want. Africa and life have certainly taught me that (see Here in the Waiting).

But he does tell me those who wait on the Lord will not be put to shame (Psalm 25:3).

He is the object of The Wait. He is my advent, my goal, my champagne. If there were no book deal, no earthly terminus to this wait, he would still be the most faithful in the universe, the most good.

My net, by God’s generosity, is starting to feel heavy. When I wonder if it will break–if I will have what it takes for this task–I remember God made the disciples’ nets unnaturally strong enough for what he brought in after that long, silent night offshore.

I feel a little like the woman with her lost coin (Luke 15), who calls all her friends. I’ll give you a shout, too: Come celebrate with me.

This week, family gathered in my dining room. I cracked open one particular bottle of champagne. It’s at least two years old. I quoted a Zulu song, roughly translated, God, you have walked with us this whole way.

And in whatever you wait for right now? Your waiting is never lost. Jesus died on a Friday–but Saturday felt interminable. No one knew such a Sunday would be around the corner.

Like this post? You might like

• An Open Letter: When You’re Tired of Doing the Right Thing
• Don’t waste the waiting
• A Symphony around My Chopsticks: Thoughts on Everyday Faithfulness