Jehovah’s Witness Protection Program

It must be springtime—as I was returning home from the Post Office this morning, there was a thin-boned, impeccably-dressed, elderly woman standing at my door as if she knew I would be home at any moment. She’d been just about to knock, pretending she hadn’t seen me coming and didn’t know that I lived behind that door.

“Oh!” She pretended to be shocked that I was standing before her in the flesh. I was afraid she might have a heart attack or something.

“Yes?” I asked, just to assure her I wasn’t a ghost.

“Good morning.” She was about to go into her spiel without taking a breath, just as she’d been trained to do. But I wasn’t having it.

“Yes, it is a good morning. How are—”

“I’m just going around talking to people about yesterday’s tragedy in Virginia. Have you heard about it? These are horrible times we’re living in, aren’t they.” She was shaking her head sorrowfully. “I mean, who knows but the next monster is living right her among us?”

I resisted the urge to say how appalled I was at her gall, the audacity she had to exploit those deaths. “I can assure you that he is.” I smiled winningly.

“Yes.” She smiled, with just a trace of uncertainty in her expression. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right.”

“Can I help you with something? It’s not really a good time for me.”

“When would be a good time?”

“Well, never really. I’m not big on religious discussion.”

“Well, perhaps I can leave you this pamphlet then.”

“I’ve had dozens of those over the years and I’ve never read one. You should save it for someone who can appreciate what you have to say.”

Disappointed (or angry?), she put it back in her purse.

“But you have a good day anyway,” I said.

“Hmm?”

“I wish you well in your day’s work.” I was putting the key in the front door and turning the knob, opening the door as I started to step inside.

“Oh. Yes. Well, thank you.”

And that ended my two minutes today with the lady from the Jehovah’s Witness Protection program. I have nothing against the JWs. I’m sure they’re mostly good (though somewhat misguided), well-intentioned folk who think the majority of us are going to hell on a slow-moving train.

But why do they keep showing up at my door? When I was younger, I actually would stand and listen to them. Back then, they sent good-looking young women to my door. I think they’ve kept up with my aging process through their super-spy software and figure I’d be more likely to talk to an older woman now. Not true. I’m not really likely to talk to any of them. Sometimes, in the past, I would invite them in, offer them a cup of tea, and debate the existence of God with them or discuss whether Jesus would actually like the idea of people going door-to-door and using his name to discuss the ravages of war in the Middle East or the immorality of certain political figures or people “living in sin.”

Now, I just politely say I don’t have time. And still they stand there. And stand there. And smile. And wait for me to miraculously open my heart and mind to their message. Maybe I just don’t get it. Maybe I’m too harsh.

But it got me thinking: when does anything good ever come to your door? Think about it. Vacuum salesmen (always men, never women), urchins collecting beer bottles, people looking for money for one debatably good cause or another (some I always give to, others not so much). Or someone might knock on your door to tell you your house is on fire or someone next door has been stabbed and needs you to call 911. Or some longlost, anonymous relative might show up looking for shelter. Or, if you’ve lived a life of promiscuity, some young person might show up calling you “daddy” when you had no idea when you left Buchans seventeen years ago that, well, I digress…. I hope the nice JW lady doesn’t read that last thought tonight when she’s searching me on her super spyware.

All I’m saying is that the cliché is wrong: opportunity, most definitively, NEVER knocks. All good things do NOT come to those who wait. That which comes to my door generally wants something from me.

If I want opportunity I have to go find it. Make it. Hunt it down. Make something of it. Myself. It never comes to me of its own volition. If I want to win the lottery, I’d better buy a ticket. If I want to win Canadian Idol, I’d better audition.

Another way of saying it is that the Lord helps those who help themselves.

I suppose the Jehovah’s people kind of see it that way too. After all, they want recruits or converts; they want to make the numbers strong and, less cynically, I suppose they want to spread The Word. Just because I don’t particularly enjoy their version of The Word doesn’t mean they don’t see me as one big walking opportunity.

But I’m getting a little tired of being put on the defensive, of always having to say “No thank you” to people I don’t even have a relationship with. It all gets a little negative, creating bad karma (if you believe that sort of thing, which I sort of do. Consider karma to be a god. Or God is Karma. Whichever and maybe neither).

I mean, how many times are you just going along, having a great day and minding your own business, and then someone walks up to you, puts their hand on your sleeve and asks “Have you found Jesus?” or “Can you spare fifty bucks for a phone call?” or “Would you please do our survey because, well, you don’t know us, but you do owe us some of your time.” And you’re forced out of your happy place into another, relatively darker place.

The first time is probably not so bad. You might even fish in your pocket for a dollar so that a homeless man can buy a smoke or a sandwich. You might even smile and say “Yes, thank you, I have” to the woman who asks if you’ve found Jesus. (I once said I didn’t know he was missing and I sure hope they do find him because we could sure use him right now. Then I tipped my baseball cap and kept going.) But after the third or fourth or fifth time that day, you might finally blow a gasket. Or you might just find yourself inexplicably in a bit of a down mood, not really knowing why, which of course might carry over into the next discussion you have with some unsuspecting person who’s also had to deal with the fire brigade’s annual ball, the girl scouts’ cookies, and a seniors’ walkathon all in one day. They’re all good causes, but you can’t really say yes to all of them.

Of course saying “yes” puts you in a better mood. So maybe that’s just easier. You’ll be poorer of pocket, but richer of spirit. Assuming you don’t feel like a bit of a pushover.

Anyway, it’s funny what a “chance” encounter at the front door can make you think of. I’ve thought of how the Jehovah’s and I really have had a good, long run together. I feel like they’ve been with me since I left home at the age of eighteen. If only my poor, devout Catholic mother knew what they were trying to get me to believe! She’d certainly pray even harder for my soul, such as it is.

But, as I said, I can no longer harbour any ill will towards the JWs. We’re like the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote—inseparably distant and yet somehow, ironically attached, for better or for worse. “Beep-beep!” I say as they are foiled yet again…for now. But they’ll be back with the next tragedy, as sure as the leaves fall in autumn.

Sometimes, though, an opportunity is not to be missed. And I think that’s why I had to write about this.

Gerard