God Is a Valet - Why Rejection May Be Part Of His Plan For You

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I used to work as a parking valet for a family cafeteria in the city of Chicago. Often I joked that part of my job was to preclude 2-year-olds from running into the street. "How much is a 2-year-old's life worth these days? A dollar tip, at least!" Despite not having kids of my own, I can proudly claim membership in that mythological settlement that it takes to raise one.

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Once, while parking a car, a sermon by Joel Osteen was playing on the stereo. Though I've had more than my share of Evangelical sales pitches for one lifetime, his words on the topic Your Life Is Divinely Orchestrated resonated within me; perhaps, in part, because I'm a composer.

Osteen's thesis was that God gives us not only the right friends, but also the right enemies. He lays obstacles in our path--in the form of rejections, betrayals and other ass-whoopins--to keep us on the path to our destiny.

I had an epiphany: maybe rejection is an respond to the prayer, "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil." A Blessing in Disguise, as some population call it; or, Dodging a Bullet.

I further mused that life is a maze of hallways and doors. Some doors are locked. Others are open and we're appealing about what lies beyond; but the doors close before we can cross the threshold. Sometimes our friends, co-workers and even the girl of our dreams are partying hard behind one of those doors, and we want so badly to join them. And even though our names are on the guest list and we know all of the population inside, the bouncer won't let us in.

This got me to wondering about: the many schools I haven't gotten into (Juilliard, Nyu, Northwestern, Columbia College, to name a few); the many work places from which I've been turned away (in many of which I could have thrived); the many collective circles into which I didn't fit--because I was too handsome or too swarthy or too outgoing or too shy or too religious or too skeptical or too liberal or too individualistic (even for liberals), or because I drank too much or not at all (now), or because I had a "weird" sense of humor and I wouldn't laugh at the pack leader's lame jokes; and the many beautiful women who wouldn't give me the time of day for all of the above reasons.

Of course, there is plentifulness of room for revision on my part. I can improve my collective skills, so as to attract best women. I can learn to store myself more effectively, so as to originate best job opportunities. And I can get plastic surgery to dull my handsomeness and brighten my complexion.

I, too, have denied myself opportunities for work and pleasure, naturally because of my own untreated character defects. Part of my destiny, it seems, is to respond and arrest my own shortcomings. This presupposes that I am aware of these flaws, in the first place.

And that brings me back to the overly adventuresome 2-year-olds. Every time the toddlers would strike for home away from their parents toward the street, on the sidewalk in front of the cafeteria where I worked, I would step in front of the microscopic rascals. They would then look up at me with such beautiful blurring and wonder. Sometimes they would try to get colse to me, and I would make a game out of continuing to step in front of them; until their parents realized that, but for the grace of a valet, they might have lost their child.

I am, seemingly, blind to many of the concluded doors into which I run, big nose first (another conjecture for plastic surgery); which leads me to conclude that, often, I clearly don't know what's good for me. I am a 2-year-old; and God is a valet.

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