When
I don’t get what I want, I can count on a nice church lady to fold her hands
and remind me in a whispery voice, “When God closes a door, he always opens a
window.” Grrr. I hate that saying. First of all, how am I supposed to walk
through a window? I have to get a leg up and climb. And how many stories up is
this window anyway? Sounds risky. If you’re going to close the door in my face,
opening a window is not an equal substitute. Maybe it’s a sweet proverb, but it
does nothing to assuage genuine disappointment. And I’m pretty sure Solomon
didn’t come up with that one.
Photo courtesy of Flickr Commons: Library of Congress Photostream |
Recently
the door I was knocking on closed. Or maybe it just never opened. It was as
good as open in my mind, and I made the necessary emotional accommodations to
leave one career and take on another, one in Public Relations. It was going to
be a big step, the kind where you hike up your knickers, plunge in some
rapidly-moving, very cold water, and maybe hold your breath for a minute or
two. But I was ready for it. Game face on.
Then Slam.
To
be truthful, I knew the career change was a stretch. But I had a cheering section
comprised of my mom, dad, and a few friends. Myers-Briggs was very encouraging;
the ENFP profile said I was a perfect fit. But technically I didn’t have any
experience, no real qualifications except for all the writing and smiling and
talking I do on a regular basis.
But
I had gotten bored in my current line of work. I was frustrated that my life
was one big problem-solving session:
Line
up.
Okay,
what’s your problem?
Oh
yes, that’s very difficult.
Okay,
here’s how to fix it.
Empathy Schmempathy. I’ve been doing
this since junior high. It’s time for a break, I thought to myself in a tiny cabin outside of Manhattan. Please, I
need an open door. Something new. I called a friend, and then, an opportunity.
In PR. A door, cracked but open, ever so slightly. As part of the application
process, I received a writing assignment that felt a little like stringing Ulysses’
bow, but I wasn’t Ulysses. Nevertheless, I put the horse blinders on, slung
back some extra espresso, and I pulled that bow until my little hand hurt. Ten
hours later, I turned in a decent piece of writing. Now to just make it to the
second interview, then they could meet my shiny face and see how charismatic I
am, and then they’ll throw all their money on the pixie-haired brunette
from the small town.
The
dreams were big. The waiting moments were long. I wrestled, hoped, resigned,
and wrestled more. I knew I needed change. This had to be it. And then the
answer came. The sound of a door clicking shut. I sucked in my gut and took it
like a woman, but later on, the cloud of disappointment blew over and rained on
my head. I was soaked.
I don’t see a door or a window right now,
God. I left my old job emotionally,
and now I will still be here. Will still go to work and convince people to feel
hopeful and happy when I don’t really feel that way myself.
But
pain asks hard questions, and it’s in the agony that we can really answer them.
The question: What do I really want to do
with my life? I bravely squeaked, “Write.” Well, PR job or none, writing I
can still do. I can still blog. I can still share these thinking in our writers
group, The Inkwell. I can submit my best work for publication. I can still
write.
After
a night of tears and prayers offered up by the one who wasn’t crying – that
would be Josh – I slept and woke up, made coffee and went to work. Like any
other day. And I helped some sad people with messy lives and I sat on the edge
of my seat, leaned in and heard them. I got involved again. But I still wanted
to write. Still wanted to open a door of new.
I
took a late lunch, but at least I got one. Standing by the office window for
reception, I opened my email and saw this.
Your
submission.
Accepted.
Publication.
Wahoo!
Wahoo!
I
sent this in a month ago, before the door that just closed had opened at all. I
stopped hoping for this door, small as it might be. But here it was. It’s not a
book getting published, but it’s one of my pieces. And by a group of recognized, gifted writers, the Burnside Writers Collective, people who take their work seriously.
And now they’re taking me seriously.
Gasp.
I’m
not a published author yet. But this is a step in the right direction. A back pat
for my faithfulness, or maybe like a bowl of ice cream after a break up. Either
way, it feels good, God. So thanks. I’ll take it. Feeling a little better already.
Maybe
another door will open soon, my Hope chimes hopefully. But not a window. Please don’t
open a window.
1 comment:
You can always pound on the back door and hope someone hears you and comes to open it. ;)
Post a Comment