The limo ride lasted forever as my thoughts churned and stormed. In that brief TV interview was there one command of Christ’s that I had NOT broken? I doubt it: Peacemaker . . . Check. Merciful . . . Check.
Pure in heart . . . Check. Meek . . . Check. Somehow I managed to hit them all. Persecuted for righteousness? Too bad there was nothing about being persecuted for stupidity . . . Check.

And salt and light? Call me a pessimist, but cussing someone out on national TV probably wasn’t the best example of Christian behavior. I glanced up and quickly called to the driver, “Here it is! Stop here!”
He hit the brakes. Before we even stopped, I threw open the door and climbed out.

“Mr. Steel,” the driver shouted as I started up the hill into Annie’s and my park. “Mr. Steel, should I wait here?”

“Yes . . . no . . . I don’t care!”

I arrived at the peninsula of shrubs and trees, then followed them around until I came to the overgrown path. I pushed my way through the oleander branches, one or two slapping me in the face, burning and stinging my eyes. But I didn’t care. My eyes were already burning and stinging. I continued down my mental check list, bemoaning each of my failures. But it wasn’t just self-criticism, not even my usual self-pity. Not this time. This time it was a cold, hard, undeniable fact. Not only had I failed in every area of my private life, I had also failed publicly–humiliating both myself and my God.

“I’m sorry!” I whispered hoarsely, “I’m so sorry . . .”

Of course there was no answer. Nothing except another branch to the eye. I broke through the undergrowth and came to the clearing – panting for breath. Directly in front of me, stood Annie’s tree. I wiped my face, the sweat and tears stinging the welts. How could I travel so far to be right back where I started? Just a week ago I’d been sitting in the car outside Annie’s place, aching over how defeated I was. I gave a scoffing laugh. Defeated? Compared to now, I hadn’t known the first thing about the word! And yet, what had Annie said? That defeated was a good place to be – that it meant my hands were open and outstretched?
Well, she couldn’t have been more wrong. My hands had been outstretched all week, begging, pleading, cajoling for help. But it made no difference. God had made impossible demands and He had given no hint on how to obey them. On the contrary, He’d actually allowed me to fail even more miserably.

Through clenched teeth I whispered, “What do you want from me?”
No answer. I stepped closer to the tree. “What!”

Silence.

I was starting to tremble. Not in fear or weakness. But rage. Simmering, roiling rage. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!” I shouted. “WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT!?”

Nothing.

“I BELIEVE IN YOU!”

“So do the demons, Toad.” Annie’s words went down no better now than when I’d first heard them.
“I’ve sacrificed everything!” I seethed. “Everything, and still I fail! And still I break your commands!”
“It’s not about breaking His commands, it’s about breaking His heart.”

“WHAT DOES THAT MEAN!?”

There was no answer. The tears flowed faster. I swiped at them angrily. But they kept coming. I closed my eyes, then reopened them. The tree wavered in the moisture. So did the branches . . . and the little green buds that would become their fruit. ‘. . . apart from me you can do nothing.’
But how could I do that? How could I become a part of Him? I believed in Him. I believed in Him just as surely as I believed in gravity. I believed in Him, but I was not part of Him. I worshipped. I obeyed. But I was not connected. Not really. And according to Annie, according to Christ, that’s where the fruit came . . . from the connection.

“Just stay connected, she had said. “Just fall in love with God and He’ll do the rest.”

But how? I couldn’t even do that. I took a ragged breath. How do you get connected to someone you’ve obeyed your whole life but haven’t known?

My chest started to heave. I fought to swallow back a sob, but it escaped. And then another. Deep, jagged. The helpless sobs of a child. “Please . . .” I shoved my fist into my mouth, whispering fiercely. “Help me!”

There was still no answer.

Slowly, unconsciously, I sank to my knees. “Please . . . please . . .”

I lowered my head to the grass, hunched over. Helpless, sobbing, the veins in my face ready to explode. Yet, even now I was unable to connect with Him, with the God I claimed to know. And there I remained. Broken. Crying like a baby. I had reached exhaustion. I rolled onto my side, still curled into a little ball. And there I lay, completely spent. How long did I stay like that? I don’t know. But there was never an answer. Nothing.

Finally, I began to stir. I raised my head toward the tree. It remained as staunch and silent as ever.
Slowly, I struggled back to my knees. Then, with some effort, rose to my feet. Had I experienced any great revelation? Not a thing. Nothing but emptiness. An emptiness that came from being poured out. But that wasn’t entirely bad. Because with that ‘pouring out’ came a release of any expectation. And with that release . . . freedom. There was no longer any self-criticism, no longer any self-loathing, or self-pity. For the time being I was actually free of my self. It was the freedom of being completely empty, the freedom of being a total failure.

And yet . . . a total failure who knew he was loved . . . regardless of his failures.

Yes, it would have been nice to see a burning bush, or to have the sky split apart with the shout of angels. I would have even settled for a “still small voice.” But what I heard and saw and felt . . . was nothing.
Nothing, except the knowledge that I had totally emptied myself before my Creator and had asked for His help. Nothing, except the knowledge that I couldn’t even connect to His love without His help.
Some way, I don’t even remember how, I found myself back at the limo. Broken and spent, I climbed into the back and mumbled something about heading for home. I didn’t even notice the TV playing until we were headed down the road. On it was, what else, but preacher boy. I could only shake my head in amazement. But I didn’t turn it off. I didn’t have the strength. Instead, I leaned back into the seat and listened. Listened and realized that God was indeed answering my prayer. In this overweight, double-chinned, polyester-suit of a man, God was already giving me His answer.

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find;
knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone
who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who
knocks, the door will be opened.
"Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him
a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake?
If you, then, though you are e-vil, know how to give good
gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in
heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!

I wasn’t asking for bread or fish. I was asking for something far greater. And, I knew. From that moment on, I knew that I was now empty enough to receive it.