There are moments, it would seem, that were created in cosmic theater where we are given strange and fantastic tests. In these times, we do not show who we are to God, for surely He must already know, but rather to ourselves.
TIMEPIECE
ONNOVEMBER 30IFLEW to New Jersey for my cable appearance, arriving at the Newark airport around 1A.M. I got up early the next morning for the show, taking a taxi across the New Jersey Turnpike into Manhattan. A young woman came out to greet me in the lobby.
“What’s with the big bag?” she asked.
I had brought my suitcase filled with clothes. “I brought a few extra outfits in case you wanted me to change what I was wearing.”
“You won’t be on long enough for it to really matter.”
I wondered what she meant by that as she led me to a crowded greenroom. After a while she returned for me and we stopped in the hallway as she introduced me to the show’s producer—a thin, Jim Carrey look-alike about my age.
“You’re the Christmas story guy,” he said. “Sorry we had to cut your segment.”
“What?”
“We have this really funny segment with this snore-cure product. We taped one of our cameramen sleeping last night. It’s really great.”
I wasn’t amused.
“Sorry, man. No one told you?”
“No. I just flew all the way from Salt Lake.”
He frowned. “We have a little time during the cooking segment. We could squeeze in a half minute. It would at least give you a chance to hold up your book.”
I did. It was a waste of time. The host asked me about my book as he stood behind a table sampling bourbon bonbons. I was gone with the commercial break.
As everyone ran off to prepare for the next segment, I unclipped my microphone.
“May I stay and watch the rest of the taping?” I asked the assistant.
“Why?” she asked curtly.
I handed her the microphone and walked out. I retrieved my suitcase and carried it to the lobby. “May I use your phone?” I asked the receptionist.
“Local, or long distance?”
“I just need to call a taxi.”
“All right,” she said grudgingly.
I waited in the parking lot for the cab. When I arrived at the hotel I went up to my room and called Keri. It was good to hear her voice.
“How’d it go?” she asked.
“Did you see it?”
“I couldn’t find it on TV.”
“It’s just as well. They pretty much canceled my segment.”
Uneasy silence. “Why?”
“They had some snore product.”
More silence.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m okay. Just being a good girl and staying down. How are you?”
“I’m pretty bummed. But there’s still People magazine.”
“Where are you calling from?”
“Newark. I fly to Atlanta in a couple of hours.”
“Call me from there.”
“All right. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I arrived in Atlanta late that afternoon. My first book signing was at a Waldenbooks in Duluth. The manager was bright and enthusiastic. She had not only read my book but had bought a half dozen copies for Christmas gifts. She did much to lift my spirits. I needed it.
The next day, Saturday, ten minutes to one, I arrived at another bookstore, this one at a mall in Alpharetta, Georgia. The store was quiet and there was only one employee visible, a young, dishwater blond woman, standing behind a cash register at the front counter. There was no table for signing books and no signs announcing my book signing. I approached the woman. “Hi, I’m Richard Paul Evans. I’m here for my book signing.”
She looked at me quizzically. “What signing?”
“The one I came from Salt Lake City for,” I replied.
“We don’t have a signing today,” she insisted.
“Is your manager here?”
“He just left. What book did you write?”
“It’s called The Christmas Box.”
“Never heard of it,” she said. “I don’t know if we sell it.”
“May I use your phone?”
“There’s one in the back room.”
I went to the back of the store, plying my way between the stacked boxes and wondering if my book was buried beneath the cardboard mountains. I called Mike at the distributor’s.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“In Georgia. I just arrived for my signing. They say they don’t have a signing today.”
“The manager said that?”
“The manager’s not here.”
“I’ll call the buyer,” he said. I gave him the store phone number and hung up. He called back about five minutes later.
“Your signing was set,” Mike said. “The buyer thinks the manager screwed up. That’s probably why he’s not there. He’s hiding.”
“Great.”
“Sorry. It happens. How did the cable show go?”
“Bad. They pretty much cut my segment.”
“Figures. We didn’t see any increase in sales.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
He sighed. “You’re not having a real good week. Especially with what happened to People magazine.”
My heart froze. “What happened to People ?”
“Oh,” he said, unaware that I didn’t know. “You didn’t hear. Your office was probably waiting for you to get back. People canceled your article.”
“Canceled?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“But why?”
“They don’t believe it. Seems no one in New York has heard of you.”
“Tell them to call the booksellers.”
“They did. They confirmed your story, but I guess they’d already made up their minds.”
I hung up the phone. I was numb. I walked back to the front counter. The woman was helping a customer. She turned toward me. “Hey, I found your books. They were under the counter. There’s only eleven of them.”
“Want me to sign them?”
“No,” she said, returning to her register. “You can just go.”
I left the store. It had begun to rain. I walked out to my rented Pontiac Grand Prix, put the keys in the ignition, then just sat inside while the rain pounded on the roof and hood. I was filled with tremendous despair—despair that evolved into anger. “God,” I said bitterly, “you’ve given me just enough rope to hang myself.”
What happened next I cannot adequately describe. Instantly a powerful, external force shaped words in my mind.
Why did you write this book? it asked.
I didn’t answer.
Did you do it for the money?
I thought for a moment. “I wrote the book for my daughters. I wasn’t even going to publish it. It was never about money. But now I’m broke.”
Did you do it for your pride?
This was more difficult to answer. “Not at first. I thought this book was helping people. But I don’t like looking like a fool.”
Do you believe that this book was given to you?
“Yes,” I replied.
Then I will do with this book as I will.
Reality sunk in. I realized my quest was really over and I had lost. I would pay dearly for dreaming. Yet some vestige of faith and trust in God, no doubt planted and nurtured by my parents in my youth, spoke back to that “voice” what might be the most difficult words in any language to speak: “Thy will be done.”
As I flew home that night all I could think about was Keri. She had believed in me when I shut down my business and invested our savings. How could I tell her that we were going to have to start all over? The doctor had told her to avoid stress, and here I was the carrier of the darkest news of all. How could I tell her? How would I tell her? The only thing I was certain of was that I would wait until morning.
I arrived in Salt Lake City around 2A.M. It had snowed while I was gone and the airport parking lot was concealed beneath a blanket of snow. It took me a half hour to find my car and another ten minutes to unbury it. It was nearly three by the time I arrived home. As I opened our bedroom door I could hear Keri’s breathing. I undressed in the hallway and stepped inside with the lights off, hoping not to wake her.
“Welcome home, honey,” she said sleepily.
“Hi.”
“You didn’t call. How’d it go in Atlanta?”
I stood at the edge of the bed. “Not too good.”
“What happened?”
“The bookstore manager forgot I was coming.” I hesitated. “Honey, I got a call from Mike Hurst. People magazine canceled. We’re going to lose a lot of money.”
The words hung in the quiet room and that short moment of silence seemed stretched into agonizing minutes. Then from the darkness came Keri’s soft voice. “But think of all the good you’ve done.”
This was a moment I will cherish for the rest of my life. In that dark moment in the middle of the night I climbed into bed thinking, I’m a lucky man.
