From www.istockhoto.com/mstay

 

 

 

To write, or not to write, that is the question. Somewhere deep inside, ever since I learned the alphabet in first grade, I have experienced a calling to write. But the alphabet was a scary thing, in first grade, and I started off in the bottom remedial reading group. 

 

Everyone started there too; I just didn't realize it then. It seemed to me that my fellow classmates sprung from the ocean, like Athena, fully grown, and already reading.   I graduated from "Now I know my A', B', C's”, and by high school, I was soon reading at grade levels well above my peers.

 

When it came time to choose a major in college, I chose business. Business was my calling. Business majors always worked, and writers starved. Besides I wanted to live my life, not observe it. Money transported people and things, and accomplished goals. A writer never motivated me to do anything that I hadn't already wanted and planned to do anyway. Great literature, and out and out trash, had no affect on me. The fruits of journalism majors seemed only to line the bottom of bird cages.

 

After graduating, seeing the immediate results of my business enterprises gratified me. Booking rental cars for a car rental agency, I soon discovered that 4 door cars brought a larger bonus than 2 door cars, even though they were harder to book. A businessman traveling alone would only rent a 2 door car, claiming that he only needed to open 1 door at a time. I kept my sales records, religiously.

 

But that voice that said, "Write, write, write, and ... publish!" wouldn't go away. Oh my gosh; it even got louder!

 

I joined several writers' groups, in order to clear my conscience, and go back to making money in business! I learned that I wasn’t too old at 30, and I didn’t have the wrong major.  (Most of these writers started writing after they began collecting Social Security, and as a second career.) I also learned selling was an important skill, in the business of writing. I thought I was washed up, and they actually thought I had some talent! Imagine that!

 

Not knowing how to proceed, I wrote some articles for our employee newsletter. Reviews were mixed. My parents said could I please just stick with business. Employees were entertained, and informed. I was not happy; however, my writing had to persuade and motivate, not entertain, and inform.   It must make a mark on "real life." I didn’t want to merely observe.

 

I prayed to God, "If this writing thing is my true calling, You better show me hard physical proof of a change in a person, place, or thing."

 

A handicapped customer exacted a promise from me that I would do something to motivate organizations to provide electric doors. She badgered me into this promise, after I had rushed over to open the door for her. Expecting a thank you, I got a lecture on how people wanted to move doors on their own. 

 

Deciding to make good on my promise, I wrote a letter to the editor of the local Diocesan newspaper, calling upon Catholic parishes to install electric doors, even though they were exempt from the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990, which required businesses to remodel their premises by removing architectural barriers. I wrote that parishes that took advantage of this exemption essentially shut the door on their physically challenged parishioners. I sent the letter off with a short 3-minute prayer, certain that the letter would be published. I asked God to please consider my act of trying, as a promise kept, even if the letter failed to motivate anyone toward any action. Lo, and behold it worked, the editor published my letter! After reading my long-winded judiciously edited letter in the editorial section, I rejoiced and forgot about it. Months rolled by.

 

Then the Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time rolled around. Father gave a fine homily on that day, on the miracle of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes, including visual aids with real bread loaves, and dead fishes. He said in his sermon, that God can work through all of us to do physical miracles. Time and place didn't matter. All we have to do is to have some imagination. I tried to listen carefully; however, I had trouble believing him, as I had just before Mass, balanced my checkbook, and noticed that nothing in my checkbook had multiplied.

 

However, God wasn't finished with the lesson. After the final blessing, announcements were read, "We have a new door. We have just installed a new electric door, above the wheelchair ramp. Teens, please don't play with it."

 

As with all new writers, I was euphoric! Walking on air, I went up the stairs after Mass, to actually look at this new door. As I walked, I thanked God for fulfilling my prayers for the handicapped, and for helping my writing career; however, I still couldn't quite believe it. Did I really have some influence, after all?

When I reached the new door, I wanted to touch it, but I knew that an adult playing with the new door wasn’t allowed either. Sadly, I didn't change behavior after all.  The door just wouldn't last long at the rate that the teens were coming in and out of it, like a revolving door.

 

But then I reconsidered. Evangelism isn't accomplished overnight. The teens now know that handicapped people are important to the Church. The physically challenged would feel validated, now with solid proof that people do care. The teens, they would eventually come around.

 

And me?

 

"For it is out of the abundance of the heart that the mouth speaks."1 Luke 6:45.  

 

I'm praising God. He has silently, and effortlessly, opened a new door in my life, my writing career, and my Church. One door at a time.

 

Footnotes:

 

1 New Revised Standard Version Bible, © 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ, U.S.A. Used by permission.