I stole this pen from Our Lady of Lourdes Church. It is a cheap plastic blue ballpoint pen that has been snapped in half and taped back together with cream colored masking tape.

This pen was there when I needed it. God answered my prayers.

I am a writer.

I woke at 4:30 to workout, read, and write. In the torch red Chevy Monte Carlo, I skyrocketed to Oakland’s Lake Merritt and worked out. Then I kicked it in the car and read Selected Writings of Juan Ramon Jimenez. I settled into some peace and started writing words that were already fading away, and I knew my pen was dying, and then it was dead.

I did not panic. I searched around inside the glove and trunk for another pen but did not find one.

Like a shepherd searching for his lost little lamb, I searched the streets. I stopped five different people and softly asked if they had a pen, but they did not, and it seemed to sadden them, as if they knew I needed it, that I needed something.

I felt lost wandering without the hope of words, and I lifted my head, and it was there in all its glory—Our Lady of Lourdes Church—and I was simply going to pass her by as if I were not worthy, so I entered.

It was there.

On the table there was this pen answering my prayers and giving me more than what I ever deserved, and I was thankful.

I stole this pen, then I entered into the chapel, bent my knees, and prayed, but I did not pray for forgiveness for stealing this pen that wrote these words that I share with you.

Some crimes pay for themselves.