The "Temp" Job

I did not know I could be a writer until I quit writing.  I felt all along that my participation in the work of social services as a grant writer and program developer was designed for someone else.  Since that someone failed to show up or just said “no” to the offer, God tapped me.  I sensed that the work was a “someone-has-to-pay-the-price” thing and that the Lord could not find anyone else to climb into the saddle of this race horse.  Since He knew I was available, he placed me in that fast-paced, firing-range type position doing a work that He simply needed to have done.

I raised millions and millions of dollars in the nation’s War on Poverty, but always felt like a fish-out-of-water.  I just showed up.  After all, my training is in Microbiology and Psychology, not English or Social Services.  But God accomplished a work in spite of me.  Truly a miracle!

The technical writing is over and I now write in a different way.  But I appreciate some things that I learned while engaged in that “temp” job that lasted 26 years. 

First, I came to the computer each morning desperate, since I felt that I knew nothing whatsoever.  For years the work day started with me calling out for God to be God in the weighty matters before me. I began one step at a time and things of importance came forth at the point of greatest need and only as I worked.

Also, I learned God’s intense care for persons experiencing poverty and homelessness.  This passion often gripped me so hard and strong that I paced the floor.  The office area was large and other staff came know the pacing as part of my workday.

I also learned to fight.  I sensed that often what was going on was out of sight and in another realm, so I came to work early in order to pray for this non-profit organization, and it became needed component of my day.  The writing continued, but prayer was my center point.  I learned that I was not alone, ever. 

 

I now write in a different way, but sometimes still cannot imagine that this writing life is for real and not just another “temp” job. Yet something is different.  I seldom resist the computer when my resident friend, desperation, is there.  I accept this “guy”, since he seems to partner rather closely with the living God.

I sense that I really do not need to know much of anything.  I just need to know Him. 

Close Encounter of a Natural Kind

I park my car, clicking the lock and trudging slowly toward a nearby trial that circles a small lake.  It is late Friday afternoon and a thin layer of clouds cover the sky.  As I turn onto the trail, every visible form of life clamors to escape my towering presence. Some gain altitude, some paddle away and others scoot along the water in a significant struggle to gain a safe distance from my intruding presence. 

The resident Great Blue Heron adds to the commotion.  He lets out a guttural, caw-caw complaint at my interference in his life and flies forward around the lake, guaranteeing yet another interruption of his sublime fishing expedition. 

I continue with eyes downcast in a steady pace, expecting my way to now be predictable; however, at the next bend in the trail, a fully-grown doe comes into view and stands her ground.  The doe’s jack knife ears zero in to examine and determine the danger factor of the upright movement 100 feet in front of her.

The doe continues to hold her position and in five minutes doe and I meet—two feet apart at most—head-to-head and heart-to-heart. 

Time then stands still.  I begin to share from my heart the difficulty of living life in the fast lane and the urgency of recovering from such at week’s end.  The doe listens intently, still motionless, responding with her significant understanding of underground matters of life. 

 

The doe then seems to whisper, “just be.”  She reflects back to me the steady rhythm of life on the lake in the quiet of the day, reminding me of her season of early summer and the need to plant and give birth at the right moment in time--not too soon and not too late.  The doe refers to that “monarch in the sky” and its dominion over her most important objective: giving and sustaining life.  I sigh and look up, noting that clouds no longer hide the sun and long shadows outline my doe. 

The doe is not finished, however, and I must receive several more minutes of deep counsel that is focused on the “work” of waiting in silence.  At last I sense the freedom to move on and turn back to the trail, noticing for the first time that I am in a secret garden: wild roses, myrtles, salmon berry vines, hawthorns and salal bushes form a halo over my head.  Their leaves brush against my arms as I continue my walk around the little lake. 

I now walk strong, tucking this mysterious encounter with wisdom and beauty in my hip pocket and dropping futile labors to the ground.  Such become trifles and cannot survive a day of life in this secret garden.