[originally published on September 3, 2012]
Last evening, I drove to the hospital to spend the night with my father. We had received reports of severe agitation, and it was thought that if a family member spent the night with him, perhaps he would calm down. I volunteered last night; ever since my sobriety began, I have noticed a calmness with Dad when we are together. Perhaps it is because he has seen the worst of me, has ridden out the storm, and although he has always loved me, he now likes and appreciates me as well. Whatever the case, I assigned myself to the task of spending the night with Dad.
The result was not good. Dad continued to be agitated, kicking his covers off, tugging at his wires. When the nurses came in, he was quite good for them, but with me, he was, in his delirium, aggressive and gruff. I realized at about 2:00 a.m. this morning that I was doing more harm than good, that by having a familiar face there against whom he could vent his frustration, Dad was actually more agitated. And so I left, drove back to Mom's house--the house in which I grew up--and wept.
It has been a weird couple of months. Almost eight weeks ago, on a Thursday night, July 19, 2012, I received a phone call informing me that I was laid off from my day job. I fell apart. I sat alone in my rental house in Los Angeles, fighting back a quiet, smoldering rage against God. My wife was out of town, unable to buffer the shockwaves of the stress, so it was all my own pity party as I crouched on my office floor and wondered what I would do next.
This moment, I later realized, was what Christian writer John Eldredge calls a Divine Thwart, that moment when God or the Universe tears down a false self we have built so something better can be put in its place. For more on this concept of Divine Thwarts, check out Eldredge's book Wild At Heart; even if Christ is not the God of your understanding, you will find some powerful wisdom in his words.
But a good friend of mine likes to say that God is the master of the last-minute delivery system. I've always seen this delivery system preceded by a Divine Thwart, and July 19 was no exception. About an hour into my Divine Thwart and my subsequent antithesis of meditation, the phone rang again. This time, it was good news. It was Balboa Press, informing me that I had won first place in their fiction contest, and that I would receive a publishing package through which I could now share my labor of love, the novel Pitch, with the masses.
Shandean Digression I: In August 1990, I was falling apart. I had lived in Emporia, Kansas, the primary setting of the novel Pitch, for all of seven years, and after finally earning my Bachelor's degree at Emporia State and then kicking around town wasting precious days, I was without resources, without a job, and without a plan. Despondent and desperate, I picked up the phone to call my father, to beg for money. I dialed, the phone rang, Dad picked up ... and I began to explain my plight.
"Dad," I said. "I have a bit of a problem ..." Just then, there was a beep in my ear. Someone else was trying to call through on the line through the call-waiting feature. "Hold on a minute, Dad," I said, and then I switched over to the new call.
"Is Matthew Krause there?" a rich male voice said. "This is Dr. Brondell, from the English department at Kansas State University." I vaguely remembered Dr. Brondell and said hello. "Last January," he continued, "you applied for graduate school at K-State."
I remembered Dr. Brondell then. Yes, I had been on the K-State campus in Manhattan, Kansas, the previous January. I was in Manhattan, Kansas, because I had tickets to a Motley Crue concert at Bramlage Coliseum, and as my friends and I had arrived quite early that afternoon I decided to explore the campus. On a whim, I wandered into the English department, met Dr. Brondell, and wound up applying for graduate school. Within a couple of weeks, I received a letter of acceptance, but because I had no money, I was unable to enroll.
"Here's the deal, Matt," Dr. Brondell said. "We had a graduate teaching assistant drop out at the last minute. If you're still interested in coming to K-State, we can plug you right in as a GTA." What this meant, I learned, is that I would teach Composition I and II, my tuition would be paid for three years, and I would receive a monthly stipend. Just like that, in a moment of directionlessness, God had come through ... at the last minute.
Dr. Brondell said they needed me the very next day for orientation, of course, which meant that I would have to get up to the K-State campus right away. As such, when I ended the call and switched back to my father, I said, "Here's the problem, Dad. I need help moving to Manhattan ..."
Shandean Digression II: On November 13, 2000, I was again at the end of yet another Divine Thwart. My wife and I had been living in Los Angeles for two years, and although I had been kicking around from temp job to temp job, I had not yet found my niche. I had written some screenplays, and they had been received fairly well by those producers I could get to read them, but there had been no bites, even though two of my scripts had placed in the quarterfinals and semifinals consecutively for the Nicholl Fellowship.
November 13 was a Monday. The previous Friday, November 10, my temp job at Warner Music Group had ended. I had contacted the temp agencies where I was signed up, but they had no work for me, and so after my wife left for work that morning, I was alone in our tiny rental, weighing my options. A man ties up so much of himself in his ability to generate income; it is, in this society, his grand and perhaps erroneous demonstration of masculinity. As such, when a man is without work, he can become afraid, terrified, feels as if he is less than a man, feels judged by his peers and especially his woman.
I remember sitting on the sofa next to our north window, which looked out onto residential Hermosa Beach and the bird-of-paradise flowers growing in our front yard. I folded my hands. I prayed for guidance. I paid lip service to the ubiquitous "Thy will not mine be done."
And the phone rang. It was a man named Casey Wolfe, who was in creative development at Disney. Apparently, my screenplay, Play Action, was a finalist for the 2001 Walt Disney Pictures/ABC Television Screenwriting Fellowship. Casey and I set up an interview, and ... well, the rest is history. I became one of nine Disney Fellows for 2001, which not only paid the bills for a year but also gave me that year to focus on what I loved most--writing.
Looking back at both of those last-minute deliveries from God or the Universe, I am struck by something. In both instances, writing was involved. At K-State, the last-minute delivery was a call to teach writing, and at Disney it was to actually do writing. And in the case of the last-minute delivery last July, again I am called to write, this time to see my novel published. If these moments are what some believers call God shots, and I have no reason to doubt this, what does it mean?
My ego wants to believe that God wishes upon me incredible success as a writer, but that is arrogant and presumptive. But I do believe that my ability to write and my passion to do so are gifts from God, and whenever I veer from that path for far too long, some inexplicable force thwarts my journey and sets me back to writing again. To what end? Only God or the Universe knows, but for the moment, that is where it is.
When I began working with Balboa Press on the manifestation of this manuscript, someone from marketing mentioned the significance of the title, Pitch, because of author Mike Dooley's use of pitching and baseball analogy to describe our engagement with the Universe. Dooley posits that we have endless innings to pitch our ideas to the Universe, and the Universe, or God, decides which ones to hit out of the park.
I like that idea. And to be honest, the title Pitch is something of an accident. Originally, since the novel is about a character haunted by past demons, I entitled it By Demons Driven. But then I realized that I myself did not want to live a life driven by my demons but rather by the better angels of my nature. Unfortunately, that "better angels" title has been used (and overused) already, so I decided that because the central character of the novel is a pitcher, I would simplify the title to Pitch.
Today, the galleys are in their final stages. Pitch, my first pitch into the publishing world, will be arriving soon. Meanwhile, my father, who has been an inspiration and a source of strength, the kindest and most supportive man I know, a man who has ridden out my storms when the demons drove the truck and still stood to protect me when those demons needed casting out ... now that man lies sick, on the razor edge between life and death, and I am here. I know this is not permanent. I know this strange and painful stress will end. But I am here. And that's all there is.
Meanwhile, my pitch is out there. It is heading toward your home plate soon. I hope it finds you well. As for me, no Divine Thwart is permanent. The Universe's UPS trucks are already on the move again ...
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