God Gave Me the Secret to Success
Words by Erin Barber // Image by Sarah Hartley
The one time I met a man who I’m pretty sure was God, I was caught completely unprepared.
I can vividly recall my disappointing appearance. Black slacks, black shirt, black apron, safety shoes. Hair up. Unkempt bun. No makeup. A smile on my face but lack of light in my eyes.
The one time I met a man who I’m pretty sure was God, I was working at a restaurant. One of those mid-scale American fusion chains that inexplicably offers both wok-fried shrimp and pot roast with potatoes. I was 21 and floundering. Just graduated college. Knew what I wanted to do but didn’t have confidence or a clue how to get there. So while I was trying to figure all that out, I ran overflowing, too-hot plates of “today’s special” to apathetic restaurant patrons.
And then the man who I’m pretty sure was God walked in.
I didn’t seat him at his table. Didn’t make any awkward restaurant-friendly small talk. Shoot, I didn’t even notice him come in. He was just there. Sitting at booth 73. Maybe he was with someone. Maybe he was waiting for someone. Maybe he was alone. I don’t much care that I can’t remember that part.
What I do remember is that he called me over to his table from clear across the other side of the restaurant. I think I was on my way to the kitchen, at the back of the restaurant, and he was seated in a booth close to the front.
But he waved me over anyway. Not the server closer to him, pouring water for a young couple. Or the busser collecting the silverware from the discard bucket just in front of him. He very simply, and seemingly without fuss or agenda, waved me over to his table.
The one time I met a man who I’m pretty sure was God, I stood there in front of his table and asked him something like, “Can I get you anything?”
And he asked me, “Where are you from?”
I get this question a lot. I look Ethiopian or Eritrean to most people, so I assumed that’s what he was getting at. But instead of explaining the usual very long, very complicated intercontinental, interracial story of where my parents are from and how I came to be, I opted for a simple, “I’m from here, Thousand Oaks.”
And he said, “You have such large eyes. Such ovals. And a slender face.”
He looked at me for some time, studying me with a neutral softness. I shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other trying to digest his observation.
Then he said, “Bring me a menu.”
I looked down at his hands—hands that were already holding a menu.
“No, no. A kids menu. And something to write with.”
Our kids menus were always stacked in two neat columns on a table right by the front door. They were just these simple sheets of A7 paper. One side had some connect-the-dot and coloring activities to keep kids entertained, the other was blank—I guess for free drawing or whatever.
So I went and fetched exactly one kids menu and a miniature box of crayons and brought them back to the man who I’m pretty sure was God. I placed the paper menu and the crayons on the table. He immediately flipped the paper over to the blank side. Then he withdrew a single, red crayon from its box and asked me, “So who are you and who do you want to be?”
And standing there in front of the man who I’m pretty sure was God, the man who had just asked me the most profound question I’d ever heard, I was dumbfounded and dizzy, all at once.
While I struggled to compose myself, he just carried on and began writing on the blank page. He divided it into four, equal sections with his crayon and then asked me another question, “So who are five people who inspire you?”
I barely managed to mutter, “Umm. Mmm. My grandpa and um….”
“Good,” he said, as he filled in the first section with “grandpa,” already aware that it would be quite a while before I could spit out four more names.
“Now, where do you want to be in 3 years?”
He labeled the second section. “In 5 years?”
He wrote in the third section. “In 10 years?”
The last square. “You need to think about what you want your life to be. Imagine it so. And write it down.”
He pushed this scribbly paper with the four sections towards me. I took it from the table and clutched in towards my chest. At this point I was starting to tear up. Because the one time I met a man who I’m pretty sure was God, he was right. And his words hit me so hard.
I needed to think. about. my. life. And get busy planning it to make progress toward my goals. There was a reason why I was smiling with no light in my eyes—I was lost.
So before I walked away from the man who I’m pretty sure was God, he gave me one more gift. He asked me, “Do you know what the secret to success is?”
Through my tears, I almost laughed. If I knew I definitely wouldn’t have been laboring away in a family-friendly franchise.
He said, “The secret to success is words.”
In my 21-year-old haughty furor, I thought to myself, Words?! That’s it?? So I should just memorize new, scholarly words each day? What a rip-off. The secret to success is words. How anticlimactic. I think I even let a little eye roll slip.
And though I was suddenly thrown into simultaneous sadness and confusion – sadness in feeling that my postgrad table-waiting life was such a let down, and confusion over this whole interaction – something possessed me to take that paper with the scribbled crayon home and pin it centrally on my bedroom wall. Where it still hangs to this day.
I never could throw it away.
* * * * *
Flashforward to today. I am 27 and I live in Germany.
About a month after I met the man who I’m pretty sure was God, I quit the restaurant and started getting serious thinking about five people who inspired me and where I wanted to be in 3, 5, and 10 years.
I hustled for my dreams and can look back and say that the past six years have made me strong. I produced a music video for a now-famous rapper, moved to Japan, learned Japanese, met the love of my life, got accepted to Georgetown, declined Georgetown, moved to Germany, learned German, moved to Wales, got a Master’s degree, moved back to Germany and am now steadily building a freelancing career, in that order.
The reason why I’m pretty sure that the man from the restaurant that day was God is that he, and that scribbled-red-crayon-life-plan-paper, were what started it all.
Oh…and the secret to success in life?
Six years and three languages later, I can say it’s true: Words.
About the Author:
Erin is a life-liver, writer, innovator, and dreamer with an immense love for people, storytelling, music, and dogs. She lives in Germany and has a B.A. from the University of California, Santa Barbara in Film, Media, English and Communication and an MBA in Media Management from Cardiff University in Wales.
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