God doesn't want me to make a guitar.

Between wood infested with beetles, the most warped plywood ever sold, and a package delivered to me with various pieces of hardware literally falling out of it when the postman handed it to me, all I can think is it was not meant to be. This box made it to me with about 30% of its original contents still inside. I'm pretty much done with mail of any kind. Guess I really need to get a driver's license now.
I thought about asking the pastors of the church where I work if god wanted me to make a guitar, but they seem like good people, and don't need me mocking everything they believe in. I also could have asked my exterminator.
Once a month, he hangs out in my kitchen and tells me all the stuff in the world that worries him, while he sprays poison in all the cracks. This week, he started telling me about Our Lady of Fatima, a vision of the Virgin Mary that was said to have appeared to three shepherd children at Fatima Portugal in 1917. He looked through a stack of religious tracts pulled from his Corrections Officer jacket, but he couldn't find one for me. I wondered if he was spraying a brainwashing agent around my apartment that would convert me, but when I went to work the next morning's church service, I still didn't believe.