Write for God

Since 1990, I had worked for two of the largest and most stable employers in the Florida county where I live. During the years when I had a secure job, I had little reason to think how my life would change if I suddenly weren’t employed. The first step in what has turned out to be my most significant spiritual journey began in October when I found myself with nowhere to go on a Monday morning for the first time in almost 18 years.

By coincidence—or divine guidance—I had been reading Dante’s Commedia in three Italian/English editions. In many ways, Dante’s trek has paralleled my own. The poet and I had worked in local government and we had both run afoul of pig-eyed political powers. Dante was exiled from Florence, but at least it was only my place of employment that I had to abandon. He divides his Commedia into journeys through Hell, Purgatory and Paradise; I’m out of Hell now, but Paradise is a long way off for me yet.

In poet Robert Pinsky’s rich translation, Dante begins the first canto of Inferno with the words,

Midway on our life’s journey, I found myself

In dark woods, the right road lost.  

Two days after my 50^th birthday, I found myself without a guarantee there would be a paycheck at the end of any week. The woods were black indeed.

Was it unexpected? Yes and no. Excellent performance ratings from your supervisor usually don’t lead to unemployment, but Florida is an “at will” labor state where bosses don’t need to justify why they want you to leave. There were many reasons why I resigned under duress, which I won’t go into here, but 11 Mondays without a reason to go anywhere have taught me some lasting spiritual lessons, as exile was Dante’s teacher.  The last thing I said as I left work that Friday afternoon was, “God will take care of me.” I was on my way to many days when that would be put to the test.

The first days that I was without a job, I cried and raged. I’m the working parent in our family of four children and a stay-at-home father. Without my income, we had no backup financial plan. That issue is still not resolved but, in every way other than having a paycheck, losing my job was the best thing that could have happened to bring me closer to God.

The most valuable lesson I’ve learned is discerning who my real friends are. In these weeks, a small group of former co-workers has stuck by me with encouragement and job leads. One is coping with a husband who has cancer and another has two young children and a career, but they’ve made time to check on me. Another friend lives out of state and juggles a job and two boys. Others have taken me to lunch and will email or call weekly to see if I’m all right. I’ve thanked God for these ordinary saints in my circle.

The people who saw me on the job daily during the last year of my job have dropped me. Most likely they’re afraid of running crossways of the boss, too. I received a Christmas card from one but no one else whom I greeted, laughed with, had lunch with or passed reading material to during that year has acknowledged the fact that I’m suddenly not there. The bosses I had in the year before last haven’t, either. I’ve been tutored in the real nature of friendship and the lessons have come from those who turned out not be my friends.

I’ve also realized that the job I had and the title on my business cards wasn’t who I was. I was always a writer and writing turned out to be only a part of my duties at the job I left. I worked for an elected official who had—as a friend of mine put it—a great disconnect between her public self and the private self with the office staff. I wrote articles and columns and placed her name on the byline to make her sound intelligent and interesting. I had to laugh when constituents wrote in complimenting her on her excellent columns. I ended up just taking that as a private pat on the back. After years in public relations, I’m finding it more distasteful to spend my talents and energies making someone else sound good. I’m more intelligent and interesting writing for myself.

I had a Thai lunch with three genuine friends just before Christmas. One urged me to pursue legal action, another offered me freelance assignments and the third gave me a hug and wished me well. I’m grateful to God for friends who care in so many ways. Sainthood and friendship aren’t about huge miracles, but about small acts of caring. As I left the restaurant, I was not employed and I had less money in my purse than when I walked in, but I felt supremely blessed to have these people in my life.

The last words of the Inferno came to mind as I walked to my car. Dante has left Hell and is now journeying to Purgatory as he says,

Through a round aperture I saw appear

Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears

Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars.

Belief and gratitude are easy when things are going well, but all the more meaningful when you’re still in dark woods, but you remember to look above to see the stars. Don’t miss them even if you feel lost.