An old-school screenwriter I knew who seemed to come straight out of central casting had the same answer whenever someone asked him if he ever worried about writer’s block. He would shrug his shoulders and say, “The well fills up every morning.”
As I was waiting for my personal wellspring to percolate to the surface for this column, while simultaneously experiencing a bit of a drought, I prayed for inspiration. You can categorize this as God always giving us what we need, rather than what we want.
I certainly did not want the bumper torn off my car at Dodger Stadium on a Monday, and to have another car break down in our church parking lot the following Saturday. You know you are either doing things really right or really wrong when the one car you have left — the “good” car — has a quarter of a million miles on it.
Now these are certainly First World problems. I have three cars. One of them, the one now undriveable, with duct tape holding its front bumper on for dear life as we wait for an insurance settlement, is for my daughter and her son. The 27-year-old car that broke down in the parking lot is my commuter car, and finally, the fully operational vehicle is a van with enough miles on it to get us to the moon. So, whereas I may be a man of means in many parts of the world, putting gas in all these cars, paying the insurance on them, and doing the maintenance is not an insignificant financial burden — as anyone living in California knows far too well.
I was still without any idea for a column on Saturday, when my grandson’s kindergarten class was going to be attending our parish’s vigil Mass. My daughter was working, my wife was down for the count with a medical situation, so I drove my grandson to church in the van and our daughter met us there. So far so good. It was a beautiful Mass, my daughter and grandson brought up the gifts, and after Mass, they stayed for a little school get-together, and I left and went to hit a bucket of golf balls.
When I returned home, my daughter and grandson were nowhere to be seen. I first thought the school get-together must be a rousing success. But when my wife met me at the door with a not-too-friendly question of why I did not answer my phone, it did not take a rocket scientist to realize something was afoot. In my own defense, I turned my phone off before entering church, but forgot to turn it back on while I was working on my slice at the driving range.
I was dutifully informed that my daughter and grandson were stranded in the church parking lot because the 27-year-old car would not start. I huffed and puffed and stormed back to church. I tried to start the car. Nothing. I opened the hood as if I knew enough about the workings of the internal combustion engine to make a difference. And all the while the car’s alarm system kept going off, as if mocking me, and certainly increasing my anger and frustration. I was only about an hour removed from attending Mass, watching my little grandson stoically present the gifts to our priest, and receiving the Eucharist myself, yet I exploded in a fit of anger over the sequence of unfortunate events I was being subjected to. After some more gnashing of teeth and stupid Irish demonstrations of frustration, the tow truck arrived, and we all arrived home safely.
Then came Sunday, and cooler heads prevailed. All the previous week, our grandson had wanted us to say a rosary, mostly out of his natural curiosity. We had previously agreed we would say one after dinner on Sunday. I have the Father Patrick Peyton rosary app on my phone and thought it would help keep a 6-year-old engaged if we used it. The app contains Peyton’s lilting Irish brogue, which in and of itself is soothing. It also includes brief meditations on the decades from this remarkable priest.
When he began to speak about how we need to ask for patience, I could feel the eyes of both my wife and daughter searing a hole in my head.
I felt 2 feet small. I thought about the prayer I had deposited for inspiration and how God came through, via my beautiful grandson and the attempt to get 30,000 more miles out of a 27-year-old car. I thought of one of my favorite lines from Shakespeare that would have served me well in that parking lot. When Romeo comes whining and weeping to Father Lawrence about how terrible things are, the priest reads him the riot act: “A pack of blessings lie upon your back!”
I am blessed beyond my ability to comprehend. I have a confession to go to for sure, and then back to the business of being the work in progress that I am.
Dear Lord, thanks for the column.
