He remembered the last Saturday he was in Christiania, when he rushed up Akers-gate to go to Saint Olav’s church. Had he not felt like the prodigal son returning home—a self-important little prodigal son trotting homeward nose in air, sure of being received with roast veal and new shoes and finger-rings? And no doubt he had thought he deserved it—!
Then, as God had not at once let him have things as he wanted them, he had gone his way again—and felt himself wronged.
My God—I do not even know myself what I have done, against Thee, or against myself, or against all those with whom I have dealings—when I chose to withdraw into myself instead of opening the door to Thee—
“Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If any man hear my voice and open the door to me”—he remembered that from the Revelation. Any man—! Yes, he himself had been one of those who were unwilling to open the door. At that time he had imagined it was God alone he sought—he would pray for this thing or the other. He had assumed he would receive it in any case, as he wished it to be. When his own childish little plans came to grief, and God did not intervene and put everything right for him—then he had slammed his door too. But at any rate he knew now—there was not a thing between heaven and earth which did not seem to him utterly flat and tasteless, since he had heard God himself offer to come and sup with him.
—from The Wild Orchid by Sigrid Undset, Book 2: Ch. 5