An Interview with God Page 5

  Arms crossed, Gary obviously has an agenda that won’t wait, making Paul even more uncomfortable.

  “Paul . . . Paul . . . you there?” the woman asks. “Did we get cut off? . . . Can I see you later? We need to talk.”

  “Hey, look, someone needs to speak with me,” Paul says in a mock-professional tone, “so can I call you later?”

  “Yeah, of course . . . You promise? . . . Paul?”

  Paul stays upbeat. “Sure, yeah, will do. Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon. Bye.” He hangs up the landline and stands to greet Gary. “Hey! What’s up?”

  Gary gives a funny look, a bit of a glare. “Yeah, hey, Paul. What’re you doing here anyway?”

  Appearing apologetic, Paul starts mulling over what excuses might work. “Yeah. I know, man. Sorry. I just—”

  “You know paid leave means we still pay you, but you have to leave . . . right?” He uses air quotes with his fingers, making his point as succinct as possible—one he thought he’d already made quite clear in their last meeting.

  “Yes, HR explained that very well, as did you,” Paul relents.

  “And how much time off have you actually taken since you got back?” Gary briefly pauses, then decides to not wait. “I think the answer you’re looking for, Paul, is none.” The air quotes are in use once again as he grows stronger in his presentation.

  Paul is at a rare loss for words.

  In his peripheral vision, Gary catches several nosey coworkers’ eyes locked onto him, everyone knowing the conversation has the potential to not end well. He looks around, declaring he is the boss of the fishbowl, and with more volume and authority states, “You’re looking? And you should be working!” Looking back at Paul, he lowers his voice. “What this man is not supposed to be doing.”

  All the reporters and writers suddenly become engrossed in whatever is on their screens. All staring is officially over.

  Gary shifts from the role of boss to friend, saying with compassion, “You know there’s no shame in stepping away, right?”

  Just like in his conversation with God, Paul switches gears to deflect from what he’s being asked. “Thanks, but I needed to . . . Uh, did you get my text?”

  “Yes, I got it. Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah, all good.” If nothing else, his boss is now off the paid leave thread. “Just been a crazy morning. I’ve been working on something.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Gary eyes him. “Is everything cool at home? With Sarah? What’s she up to?”

  “She’s good,” he responds nervously, trying much too hard to be convincing. “Yeah. She’s good. I’ll tell her you asked about her. Thanks.”

  Gary’s assistant approaches with some documents and hands them to him for review and signature. Paul sees his out and turns back to his desk while Gary looks over the pages and quickly signs the dotted lines.

  As his assistant leaves, the boss focuses where he left off.

  “So, what do you need, man?” Gary asks. “Tell me.”

  Paul makes a pained face and slowly turns around. He appears puzzled, a response he’s getting good at giving. “What do you mean?”

  Gary gives his best come-on-man-work-with-me-here look. “Your text? This morning?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Right. Well, I have this, um, friend. He really needs some help.”

  Gary repeats the previous look but with even more flair. “Uh-huh. Really? A friend?” Gary’s air quotes are becoming a staple in their conversation.

  Paul realizes how that comment sounded—the classic I-have-this-friend line. “Whoa, no! Not me, Gary. I’m not talking about me. It’s a guy I met overseas. He’s having trouble since he’s back and we’ve been talking.”

  “One of the soldiers you were embedded with?”

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  Gary’s demeanor changes to concern. “PTSD?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  “Oh, man. You think he’s gonna be okay?”

  This question resonates for Paul too. Worry sweeps over him as the images start rushing back in his own mind. The machine-gun fire. The whoosh of mortars. The blood. The open wounds. The bodies. The Humvees with a side blown out from an IED planted on the road. Once they begin playing, he can’t find the off switch. Finally, he confesses, “I don’t know. I hope so. I just think it’s hard to see God’s plan in the middle of a war. His will just seems to get muddy or . . .”

  Gary nods. As both a veteran and a Christian, daily navigating his own life of faith in a sea of journalism and secularism, he understands. “Yeah. You know I get all that. So I’m in. How can I help?”

  “He’s got to talk to someone right away. Sooner rather than later. Someone professional, I mean. I told him I’d ask around. See what I can do. He’s a good guy, Gary. A war hero. We got close. I really want to help him. Do you know anyone?”

  “Why can’t he just go to the VA?” Gary starts with the obvious question first.

  “He’s kinda got a classified job now. It could be a real problem if people think he’s . . . well, you know . . .”

  “Wow. Okay. Yeah, I know someone at the Christian counseling center that I can call. She’s good. Like really good. I went to see her when Ann left me.”

  Paul is shocked by Gary’s confession but works to not show it on his face. “Oh yeah? I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. When was this?”

  Gary offers a slight reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Last year. Happened last year. I didn’t advertise it, and you were gone for most of that time. But I was in bad shape, in real trouble.”

  While Paul hates to hear the news, it also connects another dot to his comfort level with Gary. “You never said anything. Nothing. You seemed fine. Like you were fine. Were you?”

  “That’s the thing, man,” Gary says. “There aren’t always obvious signs when someone’s in trouble. Especially with us guys. We want to hide and act like everything’s all good. Like we can handle anything alone while the world is burning down around us. So that’s why it’s really good that your friend is talking and reaching out. That’s the key, Paul. Can I ask his name?”

  “Matt. His name is Matt.”

  Gary nods. “Anyway, the counselor we went to was good. Her specialty is marriage, but I’m sure they have Christian counselors who work with vets. They must. Let me ask and get back to you with a name. Okay?”

  Paul is really glad he came in to work even though he wasn’t supposed to. “Thanks. I really appreciate your help. I’m worried about him.”

  “I get it. I’ll do it today and get back with you.”

  “Thanks, Gary. You’re the best.”

  Gary starts to walk away but then turns back around. “You sure you’re good?”

  Answering far too quickly and avoiding the glaring truth, Paul feigns confidence. “Yeah . . . yeah, man. Thanks for asking. I’m good. All good.”

  Gary completely changes direction. “So what’s the story?”

  “What? How do you mean?” Paul doesn’t follow the shift.

  “The one you mentioned you’re working on now. You know, when you’re not supposed to be working.” His boss smirks with a sort of I-give-up face.

  Paul smiles, relieved at this line of questioning and Gary’s apparent acceptance of him taking on this self-imposed assignment. “Oh, yeah. Well, you’re not gonna believe it, but I just completed the first day of an important interview.”

  “Okay, you going to tell me who it’s with? Or is that just too much information for your boss to know?”

  His mind reels in how to present this scenario. If he can trust anyone, it’s Gary, so he just blurts out, “With God. I’m interviewing God.”

  His boss takes a step back, staring. “Really? God?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  Gary breaks into a smile. “I love it! What a great idea! Really creative.”

  Clearly, Gary is assuming the story is fictional. But Paul decides to just press on. “Oh yeah? So you like it? ’Cause I’m having some second thoughts
,” he confesses, knowing the truth but not divulging more.

  “No, no. I love it. Is this for your blog? Or could this be something even bigger?” Gary starts to envision the response of their readers.

  “I . . . I really don’t know. Not certain. What do you mean by bigger?”

  Gary continues building the concept like a great editor should. “The print edition runs column four, human interest stories, every Thursday. What about that?”

  Paul is the one who’s shocked now. “The front page of the paper? You’re kidding, right?”

  Gary decides to let the entire fishbowl in on the idea, proclaiming loudly, “Don’t you think it’s about time that God makes the front page?”

  Paul has been trying to keep this entire conversation just above a whisper, so now he’s scanning the room for the burning looks on his coworkers’ faces. His lethal combination of youthful exuberance for assignments like being embedded in Afghanistan to his obvious up-and-coming writing talent has made him a target for jealousy and backstabbing. Add to the fact that they also all know he’s a Christian who writes solely from that paradigm. Being fully aware of his lack of popularity among the staff, Paul now imagines that for most of them, Gary’s outburst just took his image from mildly crazy to dangerously insane.

  Gary reads Paul’s face and lowers his voice. “Do you disagree? Any problem with that idea?”

  Paul decides to parade out the elephant in the room. “You don’t think that might cause some resentment around here? You know, because it’s me?”

  Gary, thinking just like a boss who doesn’t have to deal directly with the same peer approval—or disapproval—shoots back, “No, no, no.” Paul is oddly relieved by the quick response—until Gary finishes his thought: “I’m pretty sure they all already resent you.”

  Gary laughs, so Paul smiles and quips, “Oh, that’s rich. Got me. Thanks a lot, man.”

  “So how many words, Paul? What’s the goal?”

  Not at all ready for that question, especially since he knows how the first interview didn’t provide enough substance for him to start crafting an actual story, he answers, “Not sure. I don’t know yet.”

  Gary is now in full-on creative mode, the whole reason he got into this business to begin with but oddly doesn’t get to do much anymore. “Okay, okay. I was just brainstorming about the front page. But this could be really good. This could be great. Draw some attention. Create a conversation. Politics and religion. Everyone is so focused and divided on the former. Let’s invoke a story on the latter. Let me think on this. Keep me updated on your progress. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. No problem.”

  Gary smiles, offers a couple of quick, hard knuckle raps on the desk, obviously quite pumped with this new idea.

  Paul wonders how in the world they went from why-are-you-here-when-you-aren’t-supposed-to-be-working all the way to update-me-on-this-new-front-page-story-you’re-writing-about-God. As his boss turns to walk away, he hears him say to himself, “An interview with God. Ha! Very cool idea. Very cool.”

  What just happened? Paul’s mind keeps repeating that question. Strangely freed up to work now, he looks at his desk as if he can’t quite figure out what to do next. He picks up his cell and makes a call.

  After only one ring, it goes straight to voicemail. “Hi! This is Sarah. Leave me a message and have a blessed day!” Beeeeeeep.

  Paul knows that means she grabbed her phone, saw the caller ID, and hit silent. “Hey, it’s me. Sorry about this morning. I do want to talk. I think we can fix this. I can be better, and . . . well, yeah, that’s it. Just call me. Please call me, Sarah.” He moves the phone away and stares for a moment at her name and picture on the ID, wondering if there is anything else he should say. Uncertain, he ends the call.

  Drifting away in thought for a moment, he then punches the recording app and pulls up the God file. Time to see if any of the conversation makes sense at all.

  He plugs in his earbuds and positions them to give a listen. Using his finger to scroll forward a bit, he stops and hears, “Is God love? Are You love?”

  “To quote another Paul in his letter to the Corinthians, ‘Love doesn’t boast.’ But yes, absolutely.”

  “What is two thousand four hundred and twenty-seven times six hundred forty-eight?”

  “One million, five hundred seventy-two thousand, six hundred and ninety-six . . . If you’d like to check me on your phone calculator, I’ll wait.”

  Paul hits stop on the app. Deciding to make absolutely sure, he scrolls back, swipes the screen over to his calculator, punches in the math problem, and hits the equal sign. He goes back and hits play to listen once more.

  “What is two thousand four hundred and twenty-seven times six hundred forty-eight?”

  “One million, five hundred seventy-two thousand, six hundred and ninety-six.”

  He looks back to the calculator. The read-out shows 1,572,696.00.

  The immediacy of God’s answer following the random numbers he had just pulled out of nowhere gives Paul a momentary case of goose bumps. Before allowing his mind to be completely blown, he decides he needs to start preparing for the next day’s interview.

  Focus has not been a strong suit lately, as the morning bike commute had proven, but in a moment of clarity following his conversation with Gary, Paul senses for the first time in a very long while, that he should consider an intentional decision to fix his physical, mental, and spiritual “eyes” on the real priorities at hand. His full attention placed on what he had been ignoring inside his own heart would be the first step to true healing of all that was wrong with life.

  And right now, that was pretty much everything. Or so it felt.

  Chapter Four

  God Session Two Faith and Fear Amidst Bad Actors

  Near the end of the day, Paul hears the familiar dialogue around the cubicles. People are making plans for their evening—dinners, workouts, and meet-ups, all the usual things Paul used to do at the end of his workday. Everyone starts packing up belongings and leaving, and he realizes he should start his biking commute home.

  Out on the bustling streets of Brooklyn, the city glows in pale orange tones with the occasional glare as the sun begins its retreat behind the skyline. Paul’s mind goes to the phone call he received earlier in the day, and to Gary’s strange turnabout and acceptance of his interview-with-God idea. Thinking about Sarah, his heart hurts. Will she be home or still gone? If she’s home, will we talk? Where will the conversation go? How do I—can I—take us to a better, healthier place?

  As he reaches their apartment building, butterflies fill his stomach. Not the good kind, but the I’m-not-sure-how-this-will-go feeling. Paul hops off his bike and starts his daily ritual of carrying it into the building. He stops at their mailbox in the hall, pulls out the key, and grabs the various envelopes and flyers inside. The bike seems heavier than usual as he takes it up the stairs.

  When he opens the door, the first thing he notices is the darkness. No one is home. He looks around, seeing nothing but their usual disarray. No signs of life here this evening. As he hangs up the bike and removes his helmet, he calls out just in case, “Hello? Sarah? . . . Sarah?”

  Silence.

  He walks into the kitchen, then tosses the mail onto the table with all the other things they have left there for too long. Several envelopes are obviously utility bills, which he glances at before whipping them into the trashcan. His reaction surprises him, but such is a sign of just how fed up he is with life constantly demanding and costing him everything. I might get them back out later, but I might not too. For now, that felt really good.

  Paul opens the refrigerator and scans the contents like a hawk searching for field mice. To the frustration of his appetite, he sees mostly empty shelves. A half-quart of milk, a bottle of Sarah’s lo-cal salad dressing, a pile of fast-food ketchup packets, and a plastic container of something that is now unrecognizable and potentially life-threatening.

  He grabs the milk, then o
pens a cabinet as he whispers a silent prayer for a box of cereal to materialize, just in case there’s not actually one in there already. Shaking the lone box, he can tell it contains just enough for one heaping meal. Armed with a bowl, he sits at the table and prepares the quintessential dinner for any man flying solo, pouring milk over the small circles of slightly stale baked oats.

  He shovels the cereal into his mouth with one hand and grabs his Bible with the other. From day one together, they have kept at least one copy on the table for easy access to accommodate daily reading or reference from a discussion or a podcast they listened to. Psalms has always been his go-to book when he isn’t sure where to turn or what to read, so he opens to somewhere near the middle, landing on Psalm 40. He reads . . .

  “I waited patiently for the Lord;

  he turned to me and heard my cry.

  He lifted me out of the slimy pit,

  out of the mud and mire;

  he set my feet on a rock

  and gave me a firm place to stand.”

  Waited patiently . . . out of the slimy pit . . . a firm place to stand. These phrases are comforting and annoying at the same time—comforting because of their familiarity, but annoying because patience and security from any source have been elusive for far too long.

  Paul realizes his hands are shaking, his emotions raw, his thoughts erratic. All alone with only his regret, pain, and loneliness, with negative and unwanted feelings seemingly sitting around the table staring him down, he feels frustration and anger build to a boiling point. The heat of the moment is now an explosion within.

  His eyes dart around the room and rest on Sarah’s favorite keepsake, a wedding gift from her grandmother—an antique jadeite tea set that has been in her family for many years, sitting within reach on the table. In an uncharacteristic fit of rage, Paul grabs one of the dainty cups and smashes it full-force onto the table. The pieces shatter and fly all over the kitchen.

  As the moment passes, a strange sense of relief and horror wash over him simultaneously. It felt good to take his feelings out on something of Sarah’s, but he also knows how much it will hurt her when she discovers he broke it intentionally in an angry outburst. The missing cup will simply appear like spite and Paul knows it. Regret goads him as the questions of What did I just do? and Why did I just do that? come flooding in.