Come Be My Light

Finally. . . I've been looking at Mother Teresa's big ol' book o' confessions for weeks now, scraping up the courage to dig into it. It's entitled: Come Be My Light: The Private Writings of the "Saint of Calcutta". Indeed, I do think the kind mother is worthy of saintly status, but a few dozen pages into the book, I can't help but think how my memoirs would be entitled if anyone had the courage to scrape together excerpts from my journals. Her book is filled with dark confessions of the soul and a lifelong struggle to be a light for Jesus by embracing his sufferings and the hardships of humanity.

By golly, I'm afraid I haven't suffered much . . . or not enough, anyway. Starting next week, I'm giving up donuts all together . . . and man, I just had a good'n at Hilligoss this morning. (Pineapple danish!)

But back to my memoirs . . . I'm afraid anyone would be hard-pressed to come up a spectacular title gleaned from my life experiences. The editors would find plenty of weaknesses and failures in this old boy and absolutely nothing noteworthy to carry a book for 400 pages. But perhaps one of the following titles would suffice as a brief summary of my unremarkable life:

Come Be My Average Joe
Come Be My Forty-Something Suburban Pastor
Come On Get With It, Honey
Come Let Us Have Coffee Together
Come Over to My House
Come to the Office and Fix My Computer
Come Write Another Out-of-Print Book
Come Fix My Lawnmower
Come On, Dad, You're Kidding, Right?
Come Be My Cosmic Joke
Can't You Come Up With Anything Better Than This?