I'm not a writer, but a good friend encouraged me to follow through with
this idea. This story, though relatively simple and written in a few days 
time, embodies many of my thoughts and experiences and conversations this
summer. Parts are autobiographical, parts come from the experiences of
friends, all is sincere. 

Upon arriving at the office, she was greeted by the familiar chaos of harried bodies and flying papers. Normally she thrived on such a scene; she loved the feeling of accomplishment that came with efficient and expedient work. But lately, assignments that had used to excite her seemed less unique, less impacting.

"I'm so disorganized!" she muttered. She quickly flipped through the pile of curled post-its on her desk. "Call Sheldon Dirks. Revise column for archives. Lunch with Mary Black from Justice. Finish brief on Regula case...." The list seemed endless.

"Hey, Lucy?" Paul poked his head into her office. "There's a guy who called in this morning from The Legal Consortium who needs some information on our policy papers on Oversight." Before Lucy could answer, her phone rang shrilly. Lifting the receiver, she apologetically nodded at Paul, who casted a worried glance at her tense face and laid a bundle of papers on her desk. Absently she peeled two pink post-its from the pad on her desk and documented Paul's papers, then her call.

By seven that evening, Lucy was drained. Her apartment seemed even quieter and more remote than usual as she flipped on the switch. As the cold light buzzed overhead, she dumped her purse and briefcase in the corner and poured herself a glass of tap water. The water streamed loudly into the glass, emphasizing the stillness of her home. Exhausted, she flopped into her armchair. Her day seemed a blur. She had raced from task to task as dictated by her messy memos. "My life is a series of post-its!" she sighed.

The initial excitement and vision that had filled her upon arrival in this new city, at this new office, had worn down into a numbing drive. Deep in her heart, she feared there was nothing, no real accomplishment to her work. But she had already invested so much and all the signs had led her to this point in her office. She'd shared her dreams with her friends back home, had boasted of the effectiveness of her work. Suddenly, she was no longer as sure. In the past few months, her grand vision for systemic change had worn thin as she faced a constant barrage of obstacles -- deadlines and time-sucking worthless projects -- and as she became more acutely aware of the enormity of her task and the minimal impact of her work. But she shied away from this line of thought. As long as she wasn't aware of her limited prospects, she could handle the daily stress.

All the usual remedies for her state of mind teased at the corners of her mind. It was hard to stay focused on the big vision, one ought to create short term goals to keep moving. Take on a new and bigger project, get to know someone new at work, think "outside the box" for more creative solutions, go bar-hopping tomorrow night with her office buddies. Remember her goal. She had a goal. She knew it was eventually attainable. Perhaps she was just tired. She just needed a break, and then things would be fine again.

But somehow, she knew that wasn't it.

As she rubbed her dry eyes, she caught sight of another yellow post-it tucked into her miscellaneous folder. She groaned inwardly, and reached forward to grasp it with her fingertips. An unfamiliar handwriting greeted her eyes. "Matthew 11:28," she read aloud.

She recognized the note as a Bible verse from her Sunday School days. Though she'd spent those times flirting with the boys or writing silly notes with her girl friends, she now was intrigued. Where had the note come from and what was the verse?

Frowning thoughtfully, she rose and moved towards her bookcase. Pulling down her old Bible, she flipped open to the index, then to the book of Matthew. "Come unto me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

Skimming briefly through the chapter, she recalled the man Jesus whom she had not so diligently learned about as a girl. Slowly, she closed the volume onto her thumb. Jesus was a crusader too, she recalled. He'd fought for systemic changes, had come to change the hearts of the people. She wondered if he ever felt as tired as she did now, and if so, how on earth he could have the energy to offer the rest he did.

The following afternoon, Lucy caught a few moments in the bathroom. The girl in the mirror had large sad eyes and a tired smile. "Heavy laden," she thought. Just then, Sarah, one of her officemates, stepped in. "Hi, Lucy!" she greeted her friend.

Lucy smiled back. Sarah was such a lovely person. She never seemed impatient or tired or rushed. "Hi, Sarah," she returned.

"What are you doing tonight?" Sarah asked.

Lucy thought over her options. A number of the girls at the office were heading over to Club Zen after work. She could go home and take a bubble bath. "I'm not sure yet," she replied.

"Paul and I are going to church tonight for Friday night activities. There'll be some singing and then a talk by our pastor. Care to come?"

Lucy paused. In the past, she had always turned Sarah and Paul down when they asked. Furthermore, in this state of fatigue, the very prospect of forcing herself to be cheerful among people she didn't know very well would normally have exhausted her in itself. But today, the verse from last night beckoned. "I will give you rest," Jesus had promised.

"Actually, I would," she said, with a firmness that surprised herself. "Thank you."

Paul and Sarah were wonderful as the threesome walked towards the church that evening. They kept up a steady stream of light-hearted conversation, laughing and teasing with Lucy. As they neared the entrance, Sarah linked arms with Lucy and smiled, "I'm so glad you came tonight."

Lucy smiled in return. She was glad, too. She found herself looking forward to the evening with a new warmness.

A friendly girl greeted the three at the door and another usher led them to a pew. Lucy sat between Paul and Sarah and looked over her program. In a few minutes, a young man stepped to the podium. "Welcome to Friday Fellowship," he greeted the group, "Let me pray for us before we begin.

"Dear Father, You are glorious. We thank you for holding us close to you, we thank you for supporting us through our busy week. Thanks for this time to enjoy your greatness in worship. Thank you for your Son whom you sent to die for us. Amen."

The drummer started up with a series of beats, and the band on stage began playing. The lyrics to the song were placed on the overhead projector and the audience began to sing. Lucy found herself clapping along with Paul and Sarah and following the vocal cues of the man on stage. "Praise! the Lord! Give thanks unto the Lord!!!"

After a time, the music settled into a more reflective tone. The young man on stage prayed again, "Dear Lord, prepare our hearts for your word tonight."

Sarah squeezed Lucy's hand as the next song sheet was placed overhead. The keyboard's smoother voice led the audience to the first lines, "Give me one pure and holy passion. Give me one magnificent obsession. Lord please give to me one glorious ambition for my life. To know and follow hard after You."

The faces of the people around Lucy blurred as her eyes filled with tears. Who was this Lord who had the power to grant holy passion and glorious ambition? Who were these radiant and loving people all around her? She stole a glance at her two friends. Sarah's eyes were closed, but her pale cheeks glowed as she lifted her voice in song. Paul had his head bowed, but he too was singing strongly.

What was her passion? Her ambition? She could no longer remember. It had been sliced and squeezed and seasoned by so many factors since she'd arrived in the city. But clearly, Paul and Sarah, and all these people here at the church, subscribed to some vision -- one clear vision -- that allowed them their perpetual peace and sincerity.

After the service, she stepped outside for a few moments of reflection. Sarah had offered to accompany her, but Lucy had assured her she just needed some time alone. As she walked along the waterfront, she stared out at the soft grey waves. The sermon tonight had stirred her more than she had expected. "How much longer will you live in the security of your own plans? Live a life of risk for Jesus!" Clearly the message had been directed towards Christians, but nevertheless, Lucy was intrigued by his call to a risky life. She had thought coming here all alone to this city was risky living, but according to the sermon, there was still security in following a beaten prescription to success.

She sat gently on a wooden bench and opened up her briefcase. Her endless stack of pastel post-it notes greeted her, but the verse from Matthew at the top softened its menace. Slowly, almost lovingly, she peeled the verse from the pile and stuck it on her evening program. Tucking the program away into her purse, she lifted the remaining post-its from her briefcase. She saved everything! There were notes to call people, reminders to pick up her dry-cleaning, but mostly business information -- people she had met, articles to write, even grand ideas she'd been struck with and had jotted down for future pondering. One by one, she stuck them onto the bench all around her.

Yes, in a way, these notes were her security. They were the haphazard records of what she held to be her significant life the past few years -- their sheer volume as testimony to her accomplishments had been oddly reassuring in the past. But not now.

She stood abruptly and gazed again back out over the waters. "Dear Jesus," she prayed towards the heavens, "I don't know you yet, but I want to. Make it my ambition to know your gentle yoke."

As she turned from the waves to head back inside, she felt as though taut puppet strings she hadn't know existed had been cut. She was free to follow this beautiful man Jesus. "Sarah! Paul!" she called to her friends, and raced towards the laughing group trickling out of the church ahead.

Behind her, the pale post-its fluttered as the breeze teased them. First hesitantly, then with growing boldness, they blew off the bench and scattered away in the wind.