No one sings songs about the tree.

Everyone needs a boost, but some are rooted to the ground.

Zacchaeus was a wee little man,
And a wee little man was he.
He climbed up in a sycamore tree
For the Lord he wanted to see.

And as the Savior passed that way
He looked up in the tree,
And he said, "Zacchaeus you come down, For I'm going to your house today!"
”For I'm going to your house today!”

— Children’s Sunday School Song

Messy reading corner. Image © Julie R. Neidlinger

The house was quiet, and I was curled up on my big, round chair tucked into the reading corner. Reaching for whatever was on top of the stack on the little table there, I found myself randomly opening up a large Bible to Luke. Maybe I was just tired at the end of the day, or tired from the past several years. It’s hard to know when you’re still in the timeline.

He tried to see who Jesus was, but Zacchaeus was a small man, and he couldn’t see Jesus because of the crowd. (Luke 19:3 GWT)

It can be very dangerous to play Bible lottery, asking God to show you something and then opening up and reading. In high school, the gal who led our church teen girls’ Wednesday night study and was famous for lacking in preparation often did so. That habit stopped the day her Bible flopped open to Song of Solomon 1:13.

But last night it worked, I think. At first, a few obvious things stuck out.

He tried to see who Jesus was. But he was a small person. He couldn’t see Jesus because of the crowd.

It’s not a question of wanting to stand out from the crowd, but of being trampled by it when you’re trying to see what’s important, I thought, noting that Jesus had time for small people who were insignificant. But there seemed to be something else I was missing.

I swear, I try to find funny stories to write about—usually requiring something embarrassing or initially dangerous to happen in real life before being reworked for a good laugh—or some interesting concept I’ve been mulling over. But regular readers may have noticed a general weariness in my writing the past couple of years. Weariness at being useful, but not necessary. Desperation for some kind of wonderful. Growing dissatisfaction with striving. And self-isolation to try and lessen all of it. A growing stack of failures, a topic I’ve long wrestled with, has not helped.

“Are you motivated by results?!” is the clarion call of the diet and fitness huckster, because yes, as it turns out, most humans tend to be. If you put in hard work and see the results you’d hoped for, it’s highly motivating to keep doing it.

But hard work and no results? Demotivating and demoralizing.

“I just need a win,” I’ve said while traversing the never-ending valleys over the years. “A real, honest-to-goodness win. Of any kind. In any area of my life. In my work, my art, my writing, my health, anything. Something.”

It’s not wise to say that too loudly in the crowd; someone will always have something to sell to those struggling to make it to the finish line. They have the pill, the book, the coaching session, the platitudes.

I came close to a win, sort of, in a really small way, with the book about the pipeline protest. I mean, I sold about 35 copies to people in the community. Sure, I took it to the Heritage Center bookstore, and they rejected a book of local history that contained an interview with a guy who actually worked there in the building, but the local Barnes & Noble took a few copies. It was on the bottom, dusty shelf, but it’s still a shelf in a bookstore, albeit placed next to a book about the Minnesota Vikings, the kings of the near-misses and losers.

I have to count that as a win.

But that’s it, really.

The children’s mystery series books (and supplemental materials) have been a runaway hit among about five close friends and family members, if I let them know a new book exists and, for some, give them coupons for free downloads. I’ve reached out to various organizations, listed it on various book sites, ebook sites, in ebook library apps, bought ads, reached out for interviews—nothing. Cold selling and the subsequent rejection aren’t new to me, but at this point, I don’t know if I can even talk about my work without apologizing that it exists. Literally, this is the sales pitch I have now:

“Hey, I’m interested in your work.”

“You shouldn’t be. Most people aren’t. Here, just take it for free.”

It’s worse when the rejection is stealth.

This year, I attempted to enter various vendor markets and sell wholesale to several state and local locations and organizations, and discovered that the gentle art of communicating acceptance or rejection to people is dead. Whether I reached out via email, in person, dropped off samples, or with applications, the result is the same: no response.

What do you do with that kind of result?

“Not only do we not like it or want it, but we don’t even want to dwell on it long enough to tell you that.”

I don’t know. I’m just guessing on that one.

No response is not a new thing, but it always surprises me in the professional realm because it feels like an accepted form of ghosting, which is always dehumanizing. Whatever else business is, it’s made of persons and should be personal. In the current culture of AI and social media dehumanization, it’s even more critical than ever to be personal.

Years ago, after the bakery I worked in closed down, I applied for a job at a place in town called KAT Communications. I brought in my portfolio of art and design work, including a large, hardcover full-color history book I’d done for the Hampden Centennial. I knew I didn’t use the standard Adobe design software for my work, but I was a fast learner, had some Adobe experience, and had started and finished projects on my own, handling the writing, layout, design, art—everything. When the two men interviewing me found out what I had used to make my portfolio, they literally laughed at me.

I must have had a funny look on my face, which I’m told I often do and has ruled out any future as a poker player—or maybe it was the Christian overtones of the company at the time—but they stopped laughing and tried to regain some professionalism by thanking me for coming in, telling me they’d get back to me about their decision.

I waited for many weeks, but heard nothing. I finally called one of the men.

“Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t anyone get back to you?”

“No.”

“Yeah, we filled that position for graphic designer. But, um, we have a spot for a front desk gal for a few hours a week if you’re interested?”

You can’t make rent on a few hours a week.

I’ve never forgotten that moment, and have tried, out of learned experience, to not ghost people reaching out in a place of vulnerability. I may consider my response before replying, allowing for a reasonable amount of time, but I try not to ignore them if possible.¹ It’s bad enough to lose, but to sit in limbo wondering if you’ve lost is really awful. You’re hoping for a win, but you’re not even sure if what you’re sitting on is a win or a loss. It could be the best of times or the worst of times, but because you don’t know, it’s both.

A few weeks back, I watched a video in which a neuroscientist discussed how it was vital for him to give his graduate students legitimate opportunities to have small wins. Their workload was high, and it would be a steady uphill climb to achieve their goal. The mental and emotional drain would be overwhelming. The only way to keep them going wasn’t sideline cheering, pick-me-up platitudes, or brutal psychological whipping and gaslighting until morale improved, but to make it possible for them to get a win in their work along the way. They needed a taste of victory.

Not a participation ribbon. A real win.

A win you’ve earned, from your own work, is fuel for the engine.

My sister has two businesses, one of which is doing very well, and the other, I think, is starting to take off. I want her to win so badly, if only so I can see someone in my orbit get a win. When my friend finally got the job he deserved, I got to at least ride the coattails of that joy and got a kind of second-hand win.

So, what is a win?

Wins are not about simply completing projects, mind you, unless you have a problem with seeing things through to the end and your win is literally defined as finishing something. I always have more ideas than finished projects, but over the years, I’ve seen many ideas through from start to finish. Books, art projects, product lines, art shows—I can say I’ve finished things.

Completion is nothing more than proof you can finish, that you can do the work, but that’s it. A win that matters in the way I’m describing must be felt by the person going for the win. It has some kind of tangible or measurable impact. The work and effort must be exchanged for what has value in the realm of that win.

For my art and writing (and all the other stuff) that I’m trying to make a living from, it means sales, hires, commissions, or subscriptions. Compliments cannot pay bills. I am told that I ought not look to others for validation. That’s lovely, but if you’re trying to make an income, it doesn’t help if the money flow is coming from inside the house. You must necessarily look outward, and a sale is a form of validation.

So as I was holding the Bible on my lap, head dropped down, I thanked God for showing me that passage again, helping me to hear it anew, but I also admitted that it might not take root.

It’s all well and good, and I believe it for others, but I don’t see it for me, I admitted. You gave me skills and talents and I’ve tried all my life to use them for you but I think it’s all straw and chaff.

“I don’t have any shortage of ideas,” I’d told my friend matter-of-factly earlier in the day when, after discussing what I’m considering to be one last hurrah before I just get a job cleaning or something, I basically said I was about to seriously give up. “I can’t even talk about my work to other people to sell it anymore. I have no confidence left in it.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” my friend said.

And that is correct; there’s nothing really to say. Because sometimes saying things causes more damage.

I’ve ghostwritten in whole or in part about 16 books in the past six years, but three books ago, it broke me. Listening to hours of audio full of multi-level marketing messages of hustle, success is through hard work and in your power (which means failure is due to laziness and your fault), don’t keep anyone around who will bring you down, some slams about fat people—all those things that were said laid me to waste. I swear to you I tried to write that book with as much human warmth and kindness as I could, but I fear, hearing those things for so many hours, that I was permanently damaged. Every concept was a knife to a soft spot. Every private fear and dread and guilt and blame was put to words by the client, and it was clear that every failure was because I was lazy and less-than.

“I’ve been doing this stuff for decades and I have to face facts. People generally don’t like what I create,” I admitted to my friend. “My stuff doesn’t work in this day and age. I don’t have the personality or conscience to sell my soul on social media and get thousands of followers and readers. And I just don’t have the energy or desire to try anymore. It feels like I’m the guy handing his talents back to God and saying ‘these were wasted on me’ and that’s that.”

God is fully aware of all these things, of course, so this was not a surprising admission for Him to hear.

I kept reading that verse about Zacchaeus over and over. Serious theologians will now want to cease reading or put away their eisegesis knives, because I’m going to tell you how that verse processed for me in that moment.

He tried to see who Jesus was, but Zacchaeus was a small man, and he couldn’t see Jesus because of the crowd. So Zacchaeus ran ahead and climbed a fig tree to see Jesus, who was coming that way. (Luke 19:3-4 GWT)

I so badly want to be Zacchaeus, that small person who ran ahead of the crowd and climbed the tree and not only got to see Jesus, but was singled out by him, got to meet him, and was changed by him with a mind-blowing transformative testimony (that would probably be a book deal today). The small person who wasn’t part of the crowd but found a way to not let that hold him down. The unimportant and physically lacking person who was so driven that nothing would stop him from accomplishing his goal that day. He had a complete heart change and went on to change the world around him.

You could write endless sermons about Zacchaeus.

But I think I might just be the tree.

Of all the platitudes out there that I tell myself the most, it is: be happy if you can make an impact on even just one person’s life.

Sounds good, feels terrible.

Zacchaeus needed the tree. There’s no word on what the tree needed or how long it lasted after Zacchaeus had used it as a platform. We aren’t told how many figs it produced for others to take home and turn into something delicious. We don’t know if it was cut down for firewood or to build a house. It was just a device in one brief chunk of scripture to further the action of someone else.

Jack Nicholson’s best film role, in my opinion, was as Warren R. Schmidt in About Schmidt. It’s the story of a retired actuary who doesn’t like his life and is trying to find meaning and value now that he has lost his identity as a husband and office worker. He feels keenly that his years are waning, and his life hasn’t amounted to anything spectacular. As a sidenote, he begins supporting a 6-year-old Tanzanian named Ndugu Umbo through an organization called ChildReach, and writes letters to him that become expressions of his frustrations.

By the end, after a dismal attempt to connect with his daughter, Warren ends up back home, alone, dejected. He picks up a letter that came in the mail, written by a nun who works at Ndugu’s school. He reads it, and looks at the painting Ndugu made for him, depicting him and Ndugu holding hands, like father and son.

What I love about this moment is that he finally realizes his life had meaning and purpose, and that he had changed a life. It’s a scene that often comes to mind when I’m trying to find value in existence on tough days, that surely out there, someone’s life was changed because of me.

But even so, that doesn’t pay the bills, we don’t know what the tree thought about Zacchaeus using him to springboard his life, and so it goes. The search for significance is out-shouted by a lot of things.

1. Unless you are a weirdo who won’t stop emailing or messaging me.