The Catholic Writers Guild

“I painted not what I was looking for, but what I found.” – Pablo Picasso, artist

I parked my black Toyota Highlander on the street in front of my house; my wife’s car and one daughter’s car already filled our driveway. I opened my car door, stepped out and saw them about two houses away. Both young men wore dark slacks, a white dress shirt and a tie. They were clean-shaven with relatively short hair. I could make out the nametags on their chests. They each had a backpack. My quick assessment: Either Jehovah’s Witnesses or Mormons on their two-year mission. My hometown’s streets always seem to serve as a mission field for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, so my first guess was Mormons.

I closed the car door, pressed the lock button my key fob and quickly headed for my house. I wanted to get inside before they strolled any closer. On that particular day, I wasn’t looking for any materials explaining the Mormon faith; I wasn’t in a mood to listen to these two probably fine young men evangelize.

I walked into the house, petted our slow-moving 14-year-old dog, then figured the “coast was clear” to walk out to the mailbox. Halfway down the front steps, I glanced up to the left, toward the corner of our front yard, and there they were. Dang! Ambling along the sidewalk right toward me, those two young men were looking right at me. I know that because when, in an absent-minded moment, I glanced their direction and our eyes met. Like any well-trained missionary, the taller lad seized the moment.

“Hello, sir,” he said just a split-second after I tried to look away with indifference. “Would you like to take one of our cards today?”

His words didn’t pierce in a threatening way, didn’t overwhelm in an intimidating way, didn’t annoy in a disturbing way. I had absolutely no motivation to be rude or insulting or dismissive. Yet that’s exactly where I ventured. “No, fellas,” I said as I turned toward my front door, “not today.” Within seconds – probably even before they had reached as far as my mailbox – I was inside the house and the door was closed behind me.

“We must offer ourselves to God like a clean, smooth canvas and not worry ourselves about what God may choose to paint on it, but at each moment, feel only the stroke of His brush.” – Father Jean Pierre de Caussade, Jesuit priest

As soon as the door closed behind me, I began to mentally flog myself. “You could have been polite and taken a card. That’s all he asked. And even if he wanted to engage in a conversation, what would have been wrong with that? Maybe that would have been an opportunity for you to ask a couple of key questions, explain the depth of your Catholic faith to them, perhaps plant a seed in their minds. But no matter what might have developed, why weren’t you just nice? How would it have changed your life or even your day?”

In my mind and my heart, nothing is more important than my God and living with my faith as the central component. Prayer is my “daily bread.” The Eucharist is a staple in my diet. I am delighted to pray with others, worship with others, share my Catholic beliefs and the hope that fills my heart – but usually just when I have some control of the situation. I comfortably pray with the men in my prayer group. I explain my faith in things I write; I witness to my experiences with God in prearranged retreat talks or presentations to groups.

I know my own stories. Yet I feel unprepared, inadequate, apprehensive when I think about talking like an apologist, someone tasked with defending the faith against the questions of someone who is supremely schooled and confident in a different faith.

“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” — E. M. Forster, novelist

My life doesn’t look a whole lot like I expected when I was a senior in high school or when I graduated from college. What I write, where I work, where I live, how I look, how I feel physically and mentally, the people I consider my closest friends, where I worship – precious little of that looks anything like the plans I had or the visions I entertained 30 years ago, 20 years ago, even 10 years ago. Even though I consider myself flexible in small matters, I never have enjoyed changes that resemble anything major; I have had to adopt greater flexibility for those bigger about-face moments. I might not always embrace a new direction of my life immediately, but I eventually warm up to it.

I recognize that God likes to call me to follow unexpected paths, even to challenge me. I generally accept those challenges with that whole “Thy will be done” attitude. Sometimes, however, I’m a little slow to recognize the moment of the call.

Mike Eisenbath

Mike Eisenbath has been married to Donna for 30 years; they have four adult children and two grandsons. He was an award-winning sportswriter for 23 years, including 18 at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch with duties that included covering the St. Louis Cardinals and Major League Baseball. Severe depression forced him out of that career. He continues to write, with a monthly column in the St. Louis Review, his www.eisenbath.com website and several other Catholic websites featuring reflections on topics such as his faith and mental illness. Mike is a frequent speaker and radio guest involving those subjects. Among his three books is Hence My Eyes Are Turned Toward You: Confronting Depression With Faith and the Prayer of Jehoshaphat. He also is in formation with the Secular Carmelites.