If entering into deep union with God were as easy as walking into a room, many would gladly do it. The door that leads to life first leads to many deaths.
JEANNE GUYON
I STARE AT my computer screen, stare at Lightseeker's last e-mail, until the letters on the screen blur into a jumbled mess—much like the thoughts jumbled in my mind. I lean my elbows on my desk, and my head in my hands. Then I rub my eyes, sigh, and lean back in the chair again.
Since my failed meeting with Brigitte, agitation has gnawed at me like a piranha, destroying my confidence in my own abilities. As an adult, I've controlled my circumstances and often the actions of those around me. Now, for the first time, I find myself in a situation I can't control.
That realization both angers and scares me.
I'm consumed with that reality and in desperate need of help—hence, my return to Lightseeker's e-mail. Okay, I admit, I've read it multiple times a day since she sent it. Good grief. You'd think I have nothing better to do. Though, I haven't followed through on her suggestion to read the Bible. Whatever.
I swivel the chair and turn away from the computer. But before doing so, I reach for the remote control. I face the flat screen hanging on my office wall and turn the TV on and flip through channels, but nothing holds my attention. Nothing stops the nipping of the piranha.
I flip back to CNN and let it drone as background noise.
I concede and get up, go to the hall closet, and grab the box I dropped in there several days ago after it was delivered to my door. In the box is the Bible I ordered. Somewhere, I have a Bible from my childhood—a small book with a white leather cover. But I refuse to dig it out—too many reminders.
Anyway, that isn't the God I want to know.
Instead, I decided, if I was going to read the Bible, as Lightseeker suggested, I wanted a new Bible for a new God. Okay, so maybe He isn't new. But I need a new understanding of Him. That much I get.
I think back to the evening I ordered the Bible online. Who knew there were zillions of Bibles to choose from? And translations. Give me a break. I e-mailed Lightseeker back for a recommendation.
Now, I go to the kitchen, set the box on the counter, and then tear it open. I pull out the heavy book, take the wrapping off, and then hold it up to my nose and breathe in the rich scent of leather. I take the Bible and head back to my desk where I sit, set the Bible on the desk, and fan through the fragile pages.
"Well, Sam, I guess there's no time like the present." Sam, who's laying under the lamp on my desktop, stretches his front legs out and then curls back around himself. I begin flipping through the pages again. I stop when something catches my eye, though most of it seems meaningless. I stop at the book of Ecclesiastes and read:
"Meaningless! Meaningless! Utterly meaningless!"
"My point exactly."
I keep reading:
"What does man gain from all his labor at which he toils under the sun?"
I read to the end of the chapter. This, I get. It's what I've felt all week long. I inked a deal with a cable channel for the Andee Bell Show. I looked at buildings with Cass and the new broker and found two to choose from—both are perfect. I completed the first draft of my current manuscript. And I interviewed two potential publicists.
But so what?
None of it stirred anything in me.
The enjoyment I used to derive from my work seems lost to me.
I've done it all.
I have it all.
So what?
With the Bible still sitting on my desk, I close it, and then lean forward and rest my forehead on it. For the first time in my adult life, I have no idea what to do.
Everything is pointless.