“Any news?” had become the question David dreaded. People asked it kindly, usually while balancing a cup of tea after church. He answered with a bright summary of applications, interviews, and possible leads. By the time he got home, he felt as though he had delivered a disappointing quarterly report on himself.
He had been out of work for five months. At first, the free mornings felt temporary and almost useful. He repaired a cupboard, updated his resume, and took the children to school. Then the weeks accumulated. Rejections arrived in language so courteous and empty that he could barely remember which company had sent which one.
One Sunday he said, “Nothing to report,” more sharply than he intended. The man who had asked looked embarrassed. David apologized, then went outside before anyone could reassure him.
His friend Marcus followed with two cups of tea. He didn't ask about applications. He asked whether David wanted to help him move a bookcase the next day. David almost refused on the grounds that he should be job hunting. Then he realized he had planned to spend three hours refreshing the same listings.
They moved the bookcase badly, scratching a wall and discovering that neither could judge an angle. Afterward, they ate sandwiches on the floor because the chairs were covered in books. Marcus asked how David was actually doing.
“I feel useless,” David said.
Marcus didn't immediately list his good qualities. He asked what the days were like. David described the silence after the school run, the effort of sounding enthusiastic in applications, the peculiar shame of buying groceries with money his wife had earned even though they had always called it their money.
“Does she see it that way?” Marcus asked.
“No.”
“Have you told her you do?”
David hadn't. That evening, he did. The conversation was uncomfortable and overdue. His wife was worried about money too, but she was more troubled by his withdrawal than by their temporary arrangement. They made a plan for the practical things and agreed that he would tell her when the silence was getting heavy.
He also asked a few friends to stop making employment the opening question every time they met. They could ask about his life. The search was part of it, not the title under which everything else had to be filed.
Faith did not make the waiting pleasant. Some days, the language of provision felt distant from the account balance. David kept praying, sometimes angrily. He found company in the psalms that asked how long without quickly answering themselves. He didn't need every prayer to end in a confident voice before it could be honest.
A job eventually came, though not through the lead everyone had been excited about. Before that happened, there were more ordinary weeks: applications, school runs, an afternoon helping Marcus repair the scratched wall. David remained a father, a husband, a friend, and a person whose presence mattered, even on days when no employer wanted an interview.
The next Sunday, someone asked how his week had been. David mentioned that his youngest had learned to ride a bike. He told the story at length. For once, there was plenty to report.
