Every time I have a break from work, I find myself praying to God and asking the same question. “God, am I a writer?” This holiday was no different. It was a Friday morning, March 19–the last day of my spring break. I knew I needed to go to church to ask the Lord my question–again, but I was running late. Mass started at 8:30, and I wasn’t ready to leave the house until 8:28.
“I’m leaving anyway,” I affirmed as I stared at the microwave’s clock. Then I wavered a little. “Maybe I’ll just drive by the church and see what time it is when I get there. Then I can decide.”
Weekday morning mass only lasts 25 minutes. It would take me at least 10 to get to the church. I just wasn’t sure if it was worth it to get there, park, and try to quietly enter a sanctuary filled with only a handful of people and not be noticed. Surely the priest with the heavy Cuban accent would spot me no matter how stealth I was.
“HONK!” said the car that I cut off because I couldn’t decide if I was turning left or going straight. That’s when I swerved into an eastbound lane. And that’s when the familiar chaotic feeling overtook me–indecision. By the way, that indecision also has the ability to make me motion sick. When I’m motion sick, all I can do is lay on the couch dabbing essential oil on my forehead and then wait to feel better.
New plan
“I’ll just head to Summer Moon first,” I said out loud knowing that without a plan, I would have to turn around and head home because dizziness would begin to take over. I could already feel the twinges of it. The more chaotic my thinking, the easier it is for me to get motion sick–even if I’m standing in my kitchen.
Since part of my plan for the morning was to get some creative writing done, I thought to myself, “I’ll start by working on my play at the coffee house. Then I’ll figure out what to do next.”
Knowing that the trek to the café was a long one, I second-guessed myself again, but this time without almost causing an accident. I still really wanted to get to the church, even if I couldn’t make it to a mass.
“I’ll go to Hobby Lobby. They should be open now, right?” The clock on the dashboard of my minivan read 8:37 a.m. I imagined customers waiting outside the sliding doors like in a commercial I remembered from the 90s.
“I can listen to my Master Class course while I wait.” This practice had become one of my past-times–listening to writers talk about the writing process.
When I pulled into the strip center parking lot that also contains an Academy and a Ross Dress for Less, I was surprised to see it so empty and equally surprised to see the Hobby Lobby parking lot so bare. I rarely get over to this store because for some reason the fact that they are closed on Sundays prevents me from making it there. It’s also not close to my house–it’s a 15-minute drive. Even though I work from home, I don’t have the time to drive there, shop, and drive home. On Saturdays, one of the last things I want to do is be cloistered in with all of the other customers who can’t get there during the week, so, I just never make it.
When I finally arrived at church
Because I knew that I could get into the church just to pray, I used my shopping time at Hobby Lobby to spend my time wisely until the church patrons cleared and I could speak to God in private. I picked up a couple of breakfast tacos then backtracked to the local Catholic church prepared for solitude. But right when I was ready to pull into the church, a car was behind me with its blinker on–also ready to turn into the church. “Mass is over,” I said loudly. “Sheesh!”
I still had to eat my tacos, so I was annoyed when the car parked directly in front of me when there were plenty of other spaces. I wondered if they had done that on purpose because they wanted to watch me scarf down my tacos and laugh. In fact, they’d probably been following me since I left Rosa’s drive-thru. Every obstacle had come my way this morning, so I knew that the person in the car watching me may have been no person at all, but Satan himself–trying to keep me from getting an answer to my question. He is the master of confusion is what I have always been taught.
I asked my question again
After finishing my tacos and noticing the car in front of me was now empty, I exited the van and walked towards the building. I opened the heavy door, entered the sanctuary, chose a pew, and then pulled down the prayer bench. My sigh was heavy when my knees touched the bench. It had taken me most of the morning to get here. My hands automatically reverted to a prayer position, and I began to pray fervently. “God, am I a writer? If I’m not, can you let me know that so I can pursue something else?” Suddenly, it hit me. This whole day, this fiasco would make a great personal essay.
And that’s when I knew. I knew then that I was wasting time asking God if I was a writer; I was. I just needed to go home and write. Writers make time to write. What I learned from David Sedaris in his Masterclass had rubbed off. He said that part of being a writer is putting your butt in your chair, not in a church pew.
