Crazy Duncan and the Missed Zoom Call

I’m one of those people who believe that if you’re not early, you’re late—unless it’s to a party; nobody likes the first arrivals. That day, I had a very important Zoom meeting with a book agent to discuss Eels of Catawissa, and there was no way in hell I was going to miss it. This was the agent I wanted to represent my book.

The morning of the virtual appointment, before going to work, I set up my laptop on the kitchen bar—the internet at my office can be spotty. I made sure the signal was strong and logged onto the blank black screen that was soon to be my book-publishing destiny. I logged out and back in twice more just to make sure all was well. Then I left my laptop open, plugged in, and went to work.

The meeting with the book agent was set for 3 p.m. I normally take my break from 12 to 2:30 (I know…), but that day I extended it until 3:30, giving me plenty of time on either end of the 20-minute appointment to get home, set up the connection, and leave time afterward to celebrate when the agent told me, “I read your first three chapters and they’re absolutely fabulous. It would be an honor to represent your work, Ben.”

Did I mention that at the time I had no concept of reality when it came to the traditional publishing process?

I had my book pitch down, so I didn’t feel the need for more practice. After seeing my morning patients, I still had three hours before my meeting—plenty of time for a quick workout.

My gym is a hole in the wall, but I love it. I’ve come to know, or at least be acquainted with, the odd, eccentric people who hang around in the parking lot. There’s the guy who sits on the bench and breaks open a watermelon with his bare hands, shoveling mouthfuls of unripe melon into his mouth and casting the rinds all over the sidewalk. There’s the stockbroker guy who always leans against the brick wall. When he’s not spitting out schizophrenic commands on his phone, he’s talking your ear off about his new diet or workout routine—I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him inside the gym. And then there’s the guy who lives in his car in the alleyway behind the gym, always tinkering with the plastic bags that cover the broken side windows of his beat-up Chevy Lumina.

Duncan—one of those names where you’re not sure if it’s his first or last—reminds me of Tom Hanks in Cast Away: matted beard, disheveled hair, and bleary, insanity-filled eyes.

When I left the gym that day, he was in an especially spicy mood—screaming profanities and banging a plastic grocery bag of what looked like apples on the inside of his open hood.

“What’s up, Duncan?”

He squinted his glossy red eyes. “What does it look like… fuck’n car won’t start.”

I couldn’t help myself. “Has it ever started?”

Duncan didn’t appreciate my attempt to lighten the mood. He prattled on about all the problems in his life—most self-inflicted. I looked at the motor, but I’m a chiropractor, not a mechanic. I fiddled with the crusty belts, hoses, and battery terminals while instructing him when to turn over the motor. With no success, we both flopped onto the curb, and I listened to him rant. In my head, I said a simple prayer: Lord, please help Duncan.

It was hot, and it wasn’t helping either of our moods. After what seemed like only ten minutes, I asked Duncan if he wanted something cold to drink. He shrugged, so I walked the short distance to the grocery store adjacent to my gym. I bought Duncan a Gatorade and myself a nitro cold brew—my fourth coffee of the day.

When I handed Duncan the bottle of orange fluid shaped like a pineapple, he didn’t even say thanks. I felt a pang of resentment—here I was, taking time out of my busy day to help… oh, shit! What time was it? I looked at my watch—five minutes until my appointment, and I was ten minutes from home.

I ran to my truck and nearly clipped two people and a grocery cart as I tore through the parking lot. “That idiot, Duncan!”

I dashed through my garage into the kitchen, and the Zoom screen was still black. I refreshed it—black again. Your host has not started the meeting.

What the hell? She couldn’t wait five minutes?

When I switched to Gmail to message the agent, I saw an email from her sitting in my inbox.

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Christians believe that God is all-powerful—that He can do anything at any time, be everywhere at once, and coordinate every single human interaction for all eternity. But some Christians say, “Yes, God can do all things… but does He?” Did God spin the cosmos into existence and now keeps it rolling between some loosely fitted guardrails? Or does He involve Himself in every single interaction between every single human being on earth?

I’m part of the latter camp. When it comes to matters of eternity and prayer, I don’t believe in coincidences.

I believe that God is all-powerful and could run eternity all by Himself—easily. But I also believe He chooses to work through people and our prayers to accomplish His will. Sometimes He won’t act unless we do. It’s His design. We’re all connected—a communion of one family. This is how it works.

I believe that God knows me better and loves me more than I know or love myself. That gives me peace when I pray, May Your will be done. His will for me is always better than my will for myself. Experience has shown me that when my life is a mess and I pray for His will to be done—not mine—I come out of a bad situation better than I had hoped. I believe this might be why St. Paul said we are to “delight in our suffering”—because God is asking us to trust Him and His will for us, even when life feels unbearable and it seems like He’s not answering our prayers.

Several years ago, I struggled through a two-year bout of severe depression. I prayed for God’s will to be done in my life and cried out to Him, “Don’t You want me to feel better—to be happy?” But the anger, malaise, and hopelessness dragged on like a boat anchor in the mud.

If one of my Christian friends had said, “You just need to pray more, Ben,” I might have thought about pulling their shirt over their head and punching them in the face: “I am! You have no fucking idea what this is like if you’re saying that!”

Some might say, “See? Prayer doesn’t work.”

No—this was just a case of my will not aligning with His. Those two years of heartbreaking depression taught me a lot. They refined my faith and gave me a more loving heart for others. God’s will was not to make all my pain go away—it was to make me a better man. I was humbled and made anew through that fire, and now I wouldn’t trade that season for anything.

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Back to Duncan and the missed Zoom call. I’ve come to realize that what Duncan needed was not a miraculous miracle of internal combustion. If I had gotten his car started, I wouldn’t have prayed for him. Maybe I was supposed to miss that appointment with the book agent. If Duncan is my brother—connected to me as part of this one human family—then my simple prayer for him was far more powerful in the eternal realm than getting his car to start.

You will be put in situations and meetings with people that are divinely inspired. I’ve had countless encounters with people like Duncan:

• The young guy bagging your groceries with sagging posture and a bent neck, never lifting his head to look you in the eyes.

• The tough-guy gangster with the teardrop tattoo glaring at you like he wants to kick your ass.

• The talkative loudmouth on the airplane you briefly imagine strangling.

• The barista at Starbucks with mascara lines running down her cheeks.

• The woman at the gas station with two screaming kids in the back seat of her rusty car with out-of-state plates—you just know she’s going through hell.

You were placed in these people’s lives for a reason. That reason is to pray for them—and to be kind. Smile, make eye contact, give everyone you meet a gentle nod. Most people just want to be acknowledged, and all people need your prayers.

When you pray for someone, you don’t have to know their name—God knows. You don’t have to know what they’re struggling with—God knows. You don’t have to say a long, elaborate prayer—a simple one will do: Lord, I pray for that man. Bless him. May Your will be done in his life. Amen. If God knows what’s best for you better than you know what’s best for you, He certainly knows what’s best for “that man.” It’s the act of prayer that counts—your intention—not your exact words.

I clicked on the bold-lettered email from the book agent: “Zoom Call.”

I’m so sorry, I’m going to need to reschedule.

A rush of relief flooded over me—I hadn’t missed the meeting; she had! I typed back, No problem. These things happen for a reason. What works for you to reschedule?

The following week, the 20-minute meeting with the agent lasted all of five minutes, and she hadn’t even read the sample chapters I sent her. In the end, she said, “It’s not a good fit for our agency.”

Maybe it’s not God’s will for my book to be published. Maybe I just need to be patient. Either way, I’m good with it—because I trust His will more than my own.

So, it’s back to pounding the keyboard for me. But if you think of it, say a prayer for me.