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It is inexplicable how life throws us curves, or to be more precise, how wives affect our lives.
In a fine penthouse apartment high over a sprawling metropolis of commerce, Nigel looks out over the cityscape through a very wide plate glass window over the rim of a mug of hot chocolate. It is early in the morning, far before the time his wife normally gets up, and he is still in his rather expensive dressing gown.
It is a pleasant thing for him to see the sun rise over what would be the horizon if such a thing could be seen through the sea of high-rise apartment buildings. The rays of the early morning sun still glitter of the myriad glass and steel walls laid out around him, which makes for a pretty effect and in some manner makes up for the total lack of nature. Nigel would have preferred seeing the dawning sunlight filtered through a million small leaves while he is standing under a tree or some such, but his wife insisted upon this vantage point and he feels, due to the vows he has taken, to oblige her.
Nigel takes another sip from his mug. Life is full of compromises but perhaps he has compromised a bit too much in favor of his wife's desires. He doesn't remember exactly what he promised to do when he got married, what man ever does, but he is reasonably sure that it didn't include giving in to his wife so often. His present circumstances, right down to the color and cut of his dressing gown, are something of an homage to his wife's preferences. She had presented this as a holiday gift to him without really asking if he wanted such a thing or how he would like such a thing to look. This is often how things happen around Nigel: outside forces dictate the circumstances of his life.
There are a few things about which Nigel had chosen not to give in. His wife would have likely wanted him to have some highly caffinated "mocha"-ish drink in his mug as fitted his station, but he gets up early enough to enjoy simple plain chocolate before she can lodge any protest. He is also up and out of bed long before what his wife would consider to be proper for his station. He normally stays up late at cocktail parties, making deals and ordering the known universe, for which which the man has some aptitude but little real interest. Like his dressing gown, the life that provides for this penthouse perch and its thousand diamond windows was chosen by seemingly everyone but himself.
Nigel is a man of high finance. As he takes another drink of his chocolate, he realizes once again that he would rather be doing something else that was more personally fulfilling. He tries to stop thinking such thoughts before he comes to the conclusion that he hasn't a clue what would constitute "fulfillment" in his life and that he doesn't talk about such things in his wife's presence as she would manage to convince him that his own desires were pretty selfish. He became a captain of industry because his wife wanted to be the wife of such a man and he loved her that much.
I suppose that would be "cute" or even "endearing" to some if it didn't bother Nigel so much. Surely the concept of sacrifice doesn't require the complete abdication of one person's soul for the pleasures of another. I mean to say that the seemingly mile-long rack of sparkling dresses and gowns, all with matching jewelry and shoes, looks a bit excessive beside his handful of finely tailored suits. Nigel doesn't even like suits and as the chairman of a few successful corporations, he should have the option of appearing at board meetings dressed in boxer shorts if he pleases. I suppose he refrains in deference to his wife, her social standing and tender ego.
He looks down into the brown tastiness in his mug and once again prays the desperate prayer of the perpetually stuck. He made a committment years ago to his wife's happiness, which got him to where he now stands, but he can't help but wonder if there is something more that he is neglecting, an inborn need that was repressed in favor of the interests of someone else. Sadly, no one seems to be returning that favor by being thoughtful to Nigel's needs, but I am told that this is a world where you are expected to "look out for number one" and one should expect nothing less of Nigel's wife.
The prayer is the typical unspecified cry for help, barely uttered in the cracks of trying to serve others. I want something else, if it pleases you, God. If it is not any trouble. It seems a rather pathetic sort of prayer to me, but it contained what desire Nigel had left from the demands of the life into which his wife had pushed him.
I really cannot say exactly how God works. I am not even comfortable approaching the subject in this fictional account where I can treat God like a character. What I can report on the results of prayers is just what happened next in the life of Nigel and how his life changed because of it. It seems, from the evidence that I will present, that God does listen to sincere prayers and that he does care about the happiness of Nigel.
There was a knock on the penthouse entry door. Actually, it was more of a pounding. Not the pounding of an irrate landlord looking for a few months of back-rent, but the pounding of a determined person on a schedule. This was somewhat surprising as getting oneself to the door of people who live in penthouses is always thwarted by any number of doormen who would have rung up Nigel to say that someone wanted to come up. Of course, such a thing did not happen at this early hour and any casual visitor shouldn't have made it passed the security desk in the ground floor lobby. However, with another sharp rapping at the door, Nigel found himself not unpleasantly confused about someone who managed to evade building security and responded with the simple act of opening the door.
It was a man, obviously of some means. His clothing was ornate and luxurious, but seemed to be out of some centuries-old adventure book. The man bowed with a bit of unpracticed flourish and announced himself as Ishmael. Nigel had no idea what protocol there was for such a greeting, so he simple shook hands.
"I am a mate on the sailing ship Salvation and I am send to collect you." It was spoken with a peculiar accent that Nigel had no way of placing, it being from a land far away and distant in the past. Ishmael just stood there, vaguely fidgeting for a moment or two. He reached into some hidden pocket of his vestments and produced a small pocketwatch which he consulted with a scowl. "We must leave. Perhaps you should get dressed."
There is a whole body of knowledge surrounding how best to dress for certain occassions. Nigel's wife must have read a full library on the subject for she certainly had an opinion on all such matters which never seemed to approve of her husband's personal clothing choices. Even now, she was trying to redress him, though I am quite sure whatever reference she utilized had no guidance for a journey on sailing ships with inscrutable sailors. She was still yawning. "Nigel, what are you getting us into?"
He had managed to evade an English riding suit that his wife had proposed, and had put on some old work clothes from his days before the executive suite. "The man said that we must be off quickly. Perhaps he wants to beat the traffic."
The bed was a tumble and her clothes were everywhere. As she didn't know where they were going or what they would be doing, she was stuffing all that she could into a largish suitcase with those darling little wheels on an edge. "I really wish you would tell me what this was all about..."
Under normal circumstances, Nigel would have taken the time to tell her about dreams he had seen, prayers he had offered, hopes he chose to share with no one in the board-room. He would have laid it all out before his wife and they would have agreed to a course of action together and made goals toward attaining their joint decision. This was not going to happen this time. She would never understand any of this and would find some way to stay right where she was and keep Nigel doing exactly what he was doing. Rather than chance things, the man simply leveled his eyes on her, like he did to so many business men who attempted to alter his executive decisions. "We are leaving," was all he offered.
She was going to cross him. Just as much as he could command a board of directors, she could manipulate him into doing what she wanted. He had been nothing when they had met and she had groomed him for the life they now shared. She knew that he was devoted to her and that was a convenient wedge to seperate him from whatever insanity had possessed him this particular morning. She had intervened in silly ideas a thousand times and won the day, but she was not fully awake yet and she had a slight distracting headache. "Nigel, can't we talk about this later?" She rubbed her temples in that way that says the adults are not prepared to deal with childish things. "How about after lunch at the club?"
He had already zipped up the bag and was wrestling with the convenient pulling handle that never extends or retracts as easily as is shown in advertisements. "Get your coat. It is cold outside."
God was at work here and Nigel wasn't going to let his wife ruin things.