Yet there is a disclaimer he made that always puzzled me.

"I do not know how to go out or to come in."

How is that possible? Just use the door. 

Now that my morning routine includes letting the chickens out of their raccoon proof dormitory and writing a story while they scratch at my feet, I understand. After swiveling their latch, there are often one or two who cannot find the opening. They pace to and fro in earnest along the wall, cheeping frantically, eyeing their sisters who have somehow escaped and are eating all the best bugs. Their attention is glued to the chicken on the other side of the wire, preventing them from scanning the possibilities. If they did they might notice the obvious exit. 

One time I applied for a job. I felt it dovetailed with my abilities and already imagined myself accepting the position. 

"Oh, you have chosen me? How lovely! It will be an honor to work with you."

But the phone call that came was more succinct than that. 

"We picked someone else. Thank you for your interest."

I spent the next few days pacing. 

"I should have shown more interest in the interview. My resume left out a few crucial features.  I don't know who they hired but I don't like her."

Then John tapped me on the shoulder. 

"Let it go."

He was standing on the threshold of a wider view, inviting me to come out of my cage. 

Maybe instead of a lucrative position I should be praying for a listening heart.