Cast Your Bread Upon the Waters 

by Hannah Grace Staton 

[part one: the writer] 

Not again, Garrett thought, scanning the letter in his hands. After reading it a second time, he stuffed it back in the envelope and tossed it onto his desk. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and stared out the window, watching snowflakes spiral downward as his hopes crashed to the ground with them. 

This was the third time he had sent his book proposal to a publisher and been rejected. Each time he rode a roller coaster of emotions during the weeks that passed between sending his proposal to the publisher and receiving a response. The first two times he was rejected, he didn’t take it so hard. It’s normal, he thought. Authors’ books get rejected all the time. I just need to keep trying. 

But this time was different. Luminate was the only other publisher he knew of that accepted unsolicited manuscripts directly from writers. That was rare for most book publishers, so as far as Garrett was concerned, this would probably have been his last chance for getting his book published unless he chose the self-publishing route. 

Garrett had been sure he would be accepted this time, and it wasn’t just wishful thinking. Luminate seemed to be the best fit for his work and had published several other books similar to his. Not only that, but they actively welcomed new and upcoming authors and had recently accepted a book proposal from his friend Conrad. Conrad was the one who told Garrett about Luminate a few months prior after Garrett had been rejected by the first two publishers he reached out to. The timing seemed perfect, and at the time the puzzle pieces clicked for Garrett. I see, he thought. I was rejected by the first two publishers I sent my book to so that it would be accepted by Luminate. This is wonderful! 

It didn’t make sense anymore. 

Garrett decided to call Conrad to let him know. After six rings, Garrett heard Conrad’s voice, bright and cheerful as ever: “Hello there! You’ve found Conrad Martin. I’m not lost, I just can’t answer my phone right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you when I can.” 

Conrad’s answering machine message usually got a grin out of Garrett, but not today. Of all the days for him not to answer, Garrett thought. I wonder what he’s doing? 

But then he remembered—Conrad had told him the week before, “I’m going to be holed up in a cabin in the woods for a few days, hacking away at the rough draft of my book. You can call me if you want, but don’t expect me to answer, because I’m going to have my phone turned off.” 

That could’ve been me, but now it won’t be. It was a painful reminder of what Garrett had been hoping for. He pushed aside the tinge of envy and tried to sound upbeat in his message: “Hey Conrad, it’s Garrett. Just wanted to let you know that I got a rejection letter from Luminate today. Thanks for telling me about them—it’s not your fault my idea wasn’t accepted. Hope your writing is going well. Bye.” He hung up and set the phone back on his desk, on top of the rejection letter. The sense of rejection he had felt the first two times this had happened returned, only heavier this time because it felt final. 

He heard his wife, Ashlyn, playing with their two young sons, Dallas and Dixon, in the living room. They were building a tower of blocks, the boys’ favorite game. “One, two, three, four, five, . . . nine blocks!” Ashlyn cheered. “Let’s make it twelve, shall we? Here, let me help you.” There was silence for a few minutes, then a crash as the tower toppled to the ground. 

“Oh no!” wailed Dallas and Dixon in unison.

Dixon began to cry, but Ashlyn quickly soothed him. “It’s okay. We’ll start over. Let’s build an even better tower this time!” Both boys calmed down, and by the silence that followed, Garrett surmised that they were happily at work building another tower, with all thoughts of the past one forgotten. 

His thoughts drifted back to his work. I wish it was that easy for me to pick up the pieces and start over again. 

The words from the rejection letter kept running through his head. Though politely worded, it still drove a dagger into his heart. “Thank you for sending your work to us,” it read. “Unfortunately, we do not currently have a place for your book.” No one has a place for my book, Garrett thought. The feelings of discouragement that had been lingering below the surface began to well up, and his thoughts spiraled. No one understands me or thinks that what I have to say is important. I guess other people’s words matter, just not mine. I always thought Conrad was a better writer than me—it’s only fair that his work was accepted and mine wasn’t. I’m not talented enough. There are a lot of other writers out there who are much better than me. Really, who do I think I am to write a book and expect other people to read it? 

I don’t see much point in trying again. I’ll probably fail. Besides, I have no idea where I would go or what I would do next—I’ve already exhausted all the options I can see in front of me right now, and other opportunities aren’t exactly chasing me down. I guess my father was right after all. He told me that trying to make a career out of writing was a mistake and that I should get a real job in business or something more profitable. How am I supposed to provide for my family like this? 

At that moment, an image entered Garrett’s mind of his book sitting on a thrift store shelf. In his mind’s eye, he saw various shoppers scanning the rows of books, most of them overlooking his book altogether since it was sandwiched among books with catchy titles, colorful covers, and well-known authors. Of those who did see it, no one bothered to pluck it off the shelf to see what it was about. 

No one, that is, except for one ordinary-looking teenage girl running her fingers along the spines of the books one day, her eyes hungry, her expression searching. When she saw Garrett’s book, a flicker of a flame leaped to her eyes, and she snatched the book off the shelf. After studying the description on the back cover and the endorsements in the front, she placed it in her basket with the rest of her purchases. The girl took it home and began to read it, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she pored over its pages. The words went deep as she read, slowly and meditatively, occasionally looking up from the book and staring into the distance as she pondered what she had just read. She finished the book with tears in her eyes. Clutching it close to her heart, she looked up and whispered, “Thank You, God, for helping me find this book. It was just what I needed.” 

As the scene played in Garrett’s mind, it felt as though a tiny flame was stirred to life within him. But as it faded, its effect evaporated. Is that what I want—to garner stacks of rejection letters and slog through discouragement and sit alone typing words to fill up a screen day after day only to produce a book that hardly anyone cares about and somebody doesn’t think is worth keeping all so that years down the road, some angsty teenage girl on a shoestring budget can find it and read it? It seems a high price to pay for a small reward. 

The flame had flickered out for the final time. In that moment, the answer to the unspoken question lingering in his mind was decided: No. It’s not worth it for just one person. 

He had made his resolve. Garrett exhaled, and with an air of finality he drew his copy of his book proposal out of his top desk drawer, crumpled it into a tight ball, and threw it in the trash. It was time to move on. 

[part two: the artist] 

I should have known this would happen again. Jaivon drummed his fingers on the kitchen table as he mentally replayed the meeting. There’s no way around it. He shook his head resolutely, his thoughts swirling

like the snowflakes falling outside his window. He watched as they spun their way out of the sky to join their companions carpeting the ground with an ermine-white blanket that would turn into a sea of blinding bright jewels on a clear sunny day. He smiled. There is always hope. There is always beauty and a chance to start again, even when it seems like everything has ended. 

But that didn’t make rejection any less painful for him. This was the third time Jaivon had met with a representative of a record company only to be rejected. It seemed like each representative gave a slight variation of the same speech. After hearing it a few times, Jaivon could just about swear they were given a script from some guidebook on how to handle nonconforming artists like himself. The voice tone and facial expression, too—they must have learned those, because once they reached a certain point in the conversation, it went something like how it had gone today. The agent nodded his head at the right intervals and listened politely without interruption as Jaivon described the kind of music he wanted to play and why, but Jaivon could tell that he had already disconnected and it was fruitless for him to continue talking. He stopped and asked the agent, “So what do you think?” 

The agent furrowed his eyebrows slightly, set his jaw, and adopted a patronizing voice tone similar to a mother explaining to her toddler for the fifteenth time why pigs can’t fly. “You are quite creative, Jaivon. I was impressed by your demo. Your lyrics are original, your style is distinct, and your voice is appealing. After speaking with you in person, I can see that you express yourself well, with passion and conviction. You show potential to become a hugely successful breakout artist.” He paused and fingered the buttons on his suit coat before continuing, “But there is a major barrier you must overcome in order to achieve that.” 

“And that is?” 

“Well, to put it bluntly, your music, while creative, is not poised for commercial success because there’s not much of a market for it. I can help you, but you need to be willing to make a few changes.” “I don’t think you understand,” Jaivon replied. “My style and sound are very important to me, and I don’t want to change.” 

“I understand that,” the agent said in a voice as smooth as butter. “I’m not saying you can’t keep your sound. I support your music, and I want you to be able to play the kind of music you love to perform. But you have to understand that my job is to get your songs out there and get them heard so we can sell records, and that’s not going to happen unless you’re willing to write some songs that are more radio-friendly. If you’re not willing to do that, I can’t do any more for you. It’s your choice.” 

Jaivon uncrossed his legs and set both feet firmly on the floor. “I won’t do that. I can’t change my sound—it’s part of who I am, and I’m not going to change my mind about it.” End of conversation. After shaking hands and exchanging thanks for each other’s time, Jaivon strode out the door. 

That was how it went every time. This last time had been no different. Jaivon had thought it might be—this record company initially seemed to be more interested in creative expression than commercial success. But after another conversation just like the others, his illusions were proven to be just that—illusions, and he was brought to the point of decision again. Would he persevere forward on this path or turn back and take another road? Every rejection was a turning point, forcing him to decide. 

He could hear his wife, Brooke, softly humming a lullaby as she rocked their baby girl, Brynne, to sleep in the nursery. He smiled. He knew that Brooke was a woman of character before he married her, but after Brynne was born, he got to see her character at another level as she sacrificed precious sleep and time to care for their daughter without complaint. Her fortitude was astounding. He knew that he was stronger with her at his side. Yet she was dependent on him, and he never forgot that. The burden of providing for his beloved wife and child weighed especially heavy at times like these when he wasn’t sure of the path forward. What was he supposed to do? The temptation to abandon music altogether in favor of something more reliable seemed appealing.

He decided to call his friend and fellow artist Nathan, whose counsel was invaluable when Jaivon was struggling. After a few rings, he heard Nathan’s voice, strong and steady as ever: “Hello there!” “Hey Nathan, it’s Jaivon. It’s good to hear you. I didn’t expect you to answer. Aren’t you busy working on songs for your album?” Jaivon pictured his friend in the darkened halls of a recording studio, briskly pacing as he usually did when he was having a phone conversation. 

“Um, well, no, I’m not. The contract fell through, and the record company dropped me from their roster. That just happened today, so I didn’t have time to let you know yet.” Nathan paced his living room, watching his sons build forts in the snow outside the front window. 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Yes, I know. I don’t feel like talking about it right now. So why did you call me?” 

“Well, I wanted to let you know that I met with an agent from another company today, and let’s just say I’m not working on an album either.” 

“Unbelievable. What did they say?” 

“Said I’m not radio-friendly enough.” 

Nathan laughed. “Yeah, I’ve heard that line a time or two. They follow the same script almost everywhere I go. How are you doing? Feel like changing careers?” 

“I’m standing at the brink of a canyon ready to jump, and I need you to talk me out of jumping off the ledge.” 

Nathan stopped in his tracks. “Literally?” 

“No, figuratively.” Jaivon gave a tiny grin. 

“Whew. Thanks, man. You really gave me a shock.” 

“Sorry about that. I just wasn’t in the mood for joking.” 

“I get it. When it comes to things like that, I don’t take it lightly either. Faith is not a funny thing. It can be seriously scary sometimes.” 

“You’re telling me.” 

“Right. So . . . what do you need to hear?” Nathan tilted his head expectantly. 

“The same things you always tell me when I call you like this. I need to hear them as many times as you can say them and a few times more for good measure.” 

“You’re right. I need to hear those things too. We all need to be reminded of the truth sometimes, because in this world we live in it’s so easy to forget. Well, here goes. Jaivon, remember that it’s not about how talented you are. God knows, Brooke knows, I know, and you know that there are plenty of artists out there who are way more talented than you’ll ever be, but that can’t stop you from being used by God if you don’t let it. You will probably never feel qualified enough, and the truth is, you’re not. Your weakness is a stage for the show of God’s strength. It’s about His life, His Spirit, His message flowing through you. So don’t let your insecurities bar you from plunging forward. Everyone deals with insecurities—they just learn how to push through them. 

“Remember that your unique offering has value: it’s what God has given you to share with the world. And if you’re worrying about the size of your audience—stop right now. If just one life is touched through you, that in itself is an incredible privilege. The seeds you sow may yield fruit you never know. It reminds me of something one of my favorite songwriters, Dave Clark, once said: ‘A songwriter preaches from an obscure pulpit to a faceless congregation but God somehow makes the impact personal.’ That’s what we do: create beauty in the dark and trust that someone out there is listening. I know it’s hard, but that’s our calling. 

“And don’t let anyone convince you that making music doesn’t matter. God made music and gave it as a gift to humanity. Art in general, and music in particular, speaks to the soul in ways beyond what we know. You should expect a fight when you choose to create, because you’re following in the footsteps of your Creator, and

the enemy wants nothing more than to destroy every ounce of creativity in you so that you don’t even try to create in the first place. He will hound you at every step and try to block the path. But keep fighting. The most powerful way you can do that is to keep following God’s call to create. And lastly, remember that ultimately you have to choose between selfishness and love by deciding either to withhold what God’s driving you to make or to let it out and share it with whoever will listen. The choice is yours.” 

“Preach it, brother. You said just what I needed to hear. I appreciate it.” 

“It’s my privilege.” 

Jaivon hung up and placed the phone back on the kitchen table, on top of some lyrics he’d been working on. Then he closed his eyes and dared to dream. He pictured his album resting on a shelf in a thrift store. He didn’t mind the thought—even though the original buyer didn’t like it, at least they cared enough to pass it on so someone else could listen to it. Throngs of shoppers browsed the shelves, most of them not noticing his album, which was nestled between albums by artists whose names everyone knew. Those albums floated off the shelves while his stayed. No one bothered to take it off the shelf to look at the track listing until one day, an average-looking teenage girl paused by the shelf and ran her fingers along the edges of the CD cases, carefully reading each title. When she saw Jaivon’s album, she curved an eyebrow and slid the CD off the shelf. She read the track listing and flipped through the album leaflet; then she put the album in her bag of finds and took it home. 

Several pictures passed through Jaivon’s mind of the girl listening to his album, sitting on her bedroom floor late at night with her headphones on and her eyes closed. She listened to it over and over, sometimes playing certain songs on repeat. One in particular, “Cast Your Bread,” was her favorite. She wore that track out. The song planted a seed that inspired her to start writing songs of her own. When she decided to pursue a music career herself and was rejected by record companies in the years to follow, she would listen to that song, and it would encourage her to press on and not give up. 

The vision lingered in Jaivon’s mind. Somehow he knew it was just that: a vision, not his own wishful thinking. A fire had been stirred inside. He thought of the polite but persistent lectures from record company agents, the times when words didn’t come and melodies seemed far from reach, the long hours spent sitting alone at the piano straining for something he alone could hear. It would take all that, and much more, to reach the ears of a girl he might never meet on earth, to touch the heart of someone from a new generation who would take up the torch and follow the call to create. 

The fire inside blazed to life. In that moment, he knew the answer to the unspoken question lodged in his mind: Yes. It is absolutely worth it to touch one person. 

He had made his resolve. Jaivon took a deep breath, picked up a pen and a piece of paper, and began to write. It was time to move forward.