In Love's Service

I was a stockbroker.  Started right out of college after selling the family business, which was an auto repair shop.  Needing money, I looked at a newspaper article describing the highest paid professionals whose position did not require a college degree to be hired, and number one was stockbroker.  
    At first, the industry was painful and somewhat disconcerting.  While training, I was required to awake from my slumber in the very early hours, work feverishly until well after the bell closed the markets, while only earning $250 a week.  That routine and paycheck did not remain for long.
    My first check over $10,000.00 went straight into a Rolex watch.  The next checks supplied all of my dreams and desires.  One morning, I made $50,000 within the first hour of trading on the New York Stock Exchange.  By the age of 27, I was a millionaire.  Fast money to the extreme.  Most days, I arrived at the office in the morning hours and left after my trades and calls to clients were complete, and after a little while, work was not feverish anymore, but a thrill.  Every time I picked up the phone, money was printed; who could say that it isn't a thrill?
    The office I occupied overlooked Grand Central Station from across the avenue.  My business partner and I saw to it our space was justified by the income we made for the investment bank we represented.  We had the largest office in the building.  Large enough to play a miniature game of whiffle ball, which we did on many occasions.  
    Shady deals and brown bagged offers was the name of the game.  I do not believe an honest dollar was made by myself or the bank I represented, although "dishonesty" did not necessarily mean "illegally."
    Rigged offerings and synthetic paper flooded the boardroom where the deals were sold and pushed off to investors.  I once described it as a telemarketing office but with men wearing $2000 dollar suits and handmade ties.
    The atmosphere is electric, exciting, and addictive.  To feel the close, trade the markets, and gamble a future can be exhilarating for the adrenaline junkie, and I was one of them.  Never to jump out of a perfectly good airplane nor walk a tight-rope unsecured between two structures; I did it every day from the hours of 9 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.
    My motto: "I do not see black or white, just shades of grey and green."
    After work play time was dealt with very seriously; its routine was just as practiced as work itself.  For the wall streeter, there is an unwritten rule specifying you must play harder than you work.  Next to my office was an opulent steakhouse where the whistle was wet every day.  After several drinks and several hundred dollars later, I would venture out into the city to hobnob with the "ites" and see what else I could conquer for the day.  This in itself was a full-time job.
    A limo drove me everywhere.  It was quite overboard, I was even able to admit back then, but at the time, I really believed the limousine was absolutely necessary.  What better way to arrive to a posh club or, better yet, to a trendy bar, than in your own limousine?  
    Work.  
    Money.  
    Booze.  
    Women.  
    The four horsemen to my own personal apocalypse.
The room turned dark and a bed appeared on the far side of the room, which appeared larger for some reason.  In the bed lay the Russian, her husband, and to my surprise, me.  She turned to me and motioned to the door.  I saw myself arise and leave the room, she followed me to the door, and latched it as I left.  
    I heard myself come close to the door and attempt to open it, but the door would not budge.  Inside of my heart, there was a huge tug of war taking place, and it felt as if my heart was separating at the seams.
    "What is going on here!  Am I really seeing this?  Am I crazy?"
    "The truth is she is going to leave you.  If she can not be faithful to a husband that is providing her every material need, how will she remain faithful to you if her emotional need is not constantly being met?"
    "Wha...I don't..."
    "Let me explain something to you.  Look at what you expect out of love.  Do not miss what happens between the fairy tale beginning and the reconciliation of our soul with the heavens.  In that large gap unoccupied by the imaginative minds of Hollywood and the like, are the transitions, trials, tribulations, joys, sorrows, happenstance, coincidence, and serendipity of life that mold and shape all of us, especially in a mutual relationship."
    "Why are you telling me all of this?  How does it concern you?"
    "Have you ever read the Bible?"
    "Of course, I am a Christian."
    "Really?  I would have never guessed.  The prophet Jeremiah wrote in his Biblical writings that he was instructed to 'go to the Potter's house where God will speak to him.  In this vision, he looked upon a potter at the wheel, working a piece of clay.  When the finished product had not turned out the way the creator had hoped, the clay was pounded back into a lump again and reworked.  I am sure if the Lord continued to show Jeremiah the vision, the potter would have finally created the masterpiece he imagined, set it to rest, and filled the jar with the content matching the purpose.    
    "Our life, our being, is represented by the clay being worked at the wheel of the potter.  As the creator gazes upon his future masterpiece, he realizes much work is needed, the clay must be forcibly molded and shaped to reach the point when what is on the wheel is an exact replica of the image in his mind."
    I sat there amazed; surprisingly, I was actually listening to this man's words, because the story rung a bell with me.  The memories of sitting through countless sermons as an child and adolescent reminded me of this particular story.
    "Before you continue, my friend, may I ask why you are telling me this?  I do remember this story of the potter's wheel in the book of Jeremiah, but how does it apply to this?" asking while pointing around the room.
    He sat astute and with a daring glare in his eye, he gently, firmly, and resolutely stated, "My dear friend.  Can you not see yet?  This is the Potter's house."