RUST ON MY SOUL (10th in Series of Novel)

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INTRODUCTION (Repeated for those new to the series)

In an old loose leaf notebook, Thomas Kettering wrote when there was a cry from his heart. He wrote when his inner longing spilled over into the reality of his days. He did not write every day, only when he felt he must. How often he wrote or when is not important. The journey is what counts, for it is a diary about all of us, to all of us. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” and even a stumble is a step.

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Morning

My boss is old school. His style of speech is like some ancient rusting machine gun, erratic but rapid, loud, and by sheer dint of repetition, effective.

He remembers what he did to succeed.

“It will work, D.I.” My charts were color-coordinated, my presentation well-rehearsed, my examples many and right to the point.

“No,” he pointed to the wall. There, framed, was a single sentence that perfectly spelled out his philosophy’’

I LISTEN TO NEW IDEAS BUT I PREFER THE TRIED AND TRUE.

I am paid well to do my job and endure this kind of frustration I earn every cent of it.

If I could order a new boss from a catalogue, what would the order designate?

Would he be young and energetic? But would I then feel threatened?

Would he be open-minded and enthusiastic toward every idea I brought him? But would this bore me and make me wonder who should be boss?

D.I…lurched forward as he spoke. He is never really relaxed.

“Your proposal has its good points, but you have a tendency to go off the deep end. You ought to know by now what my reaction would be to this sort of thing.”

“Thanks, but I had to give it a good try. I owe that to both of us. Is that all” He was already on the pone as I left his office.

 
I took my carefully prepared charts and filed them away. There will be another day, another year. A different package but the same idea. I never give up. I’ll be back, D.I. I’ll be back.

Evening

Vanity has become a chip on my shoulder, a hole in my head and a thorn in my side. I demand praise and refuse criticism.

Sam Gregory describes me perfectly, “He walks with himself along the broad space of his thought. He silently utters his own praises.”

 
I’m no illiterate. I’ve read enough and remembered enough to be better than I am. But I’m not ready to be humble and I don’t really believe the meek will inherit the earth. What I want is God’s blessings but not His admonitions.

Afternoon

I haven’t written anything in several days and it’s Sunday again. We’ve surprised ourselves and been fairly regular churchgoers. So, how has it been? Worse!

When I readied myself for church this morning my preparation was magnificent. I filled my stomach with hot coffee and pancakes, my mind with world affairs, football statistics and the comics, and the receptivity of my soul by bawling out Nancy and the kids for being so slow.

That’s why I had such a fine spiritual experience, that’s why I gave with joy when the offering plate came by, that’s why I’m spilling over with sarcasm.

I’m soul deep in weariness, a crying clown in the circus of life. “Toot!” goes the clown and waves a flag that reads, “To hell with it all.”

“Toot!” If the audience of my peers could see me they would gasp in amazement, for they perceive me, I think, as a giant in the circus, all strong and tall and muscular of mind and spirit. “That Thomas Kettering can handle anything.” That’s what they think.

“Toot!” goes the clown and waves another flag, “I wish it were so.” I only wish it were so.

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