Spring Broken

“The happiest place on earth” is one of the most brilliant marketing slogans ever created.

It’s also a lie, as most advertising is.

Before the devoted Mouseketeers among you take offense, let me explain.

If you’re willing to ask any parent who’s bought the slogan hook, line, and sinker, they would likely regale you with tales of bitter unhappiness in their ranks upon visiting one of the prohibitively expensive houses Walt built. My wife and I took a brief trip to the east coast version prior to parenthood and were witness to no shortage of tantrums and meltdowns. The kids in their charge were also challenging. In fact, they were the sole source of their parents’ grief. One indelible image burned into my memory took place at the Tomorrowland Speedway, where children have the opportunity to sit in the driver’s seat and practically demonstrate to mom and dad just how thoroughly unprepared they are to handle the family sedan. While my wife and I each waited in our designated spots for a repurposed riding mower with a paint job (I have no idea why we thought we wanted to do this in the first place), I was prevented from entering the vehicle due to a toddler with a death-grip on the steering wheel, mother’s arms wrapped tightly around his legs, awkwardly pulling him forcefully in the opposite direction, full-horizontal. Mom, of course, ultimately won this battle of wills, and I can only guess at what awaited him as they exited. My wife and I then hopped happily into our respective rides, pondering smugly how we would never tolerate such behavior in our own kids, if or when they arrived.

It had escaped my memory as I puttered along the guided track that my siblings and I had provided our own parents a decent share of frustration years before as children after they had saved scrupulously to bring us to this very magic, only to be met with timid reluctance to enjoy ourselves. The five of us were bunched together outside of the entrance to Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, my mother wondering what the hold-up was. The noise and speed of the coaster as it roared past paralyzed the three of us. My mother would later tell us she grew up a fearful child, and, by God, she wasn’t about to allow that to transpire with her own. We were boarding the literal crazy train whether we liked it or not. My younger sister’s tear ducts began gushing with anxiety as our fate was decided, and so, we marched into the snaking line as if dead men walking. We sat down, we coasted, and my sister continued wailing (it never stopped) as we exited. Once she was able to quell her sobs sufficiently to form intelligible words, she shared our joint sentiments through tears now transformed: “I want [sniff] to [sniff] ride it again!” Mom’s dogged determination paid off, though it wouldn’t be the last time a carefully-planned family vacation was met with momentary misery.

The further along I move in parenting, the more I come to believe that kids will never meet all of our expectations, not even when it comes to the “fun” we plan for them. Likewise, we can be a source of disappointment as parents if we aren’t paying attention. I don’t know when exactly it occurs, but we forget at some point along the way what it’s like to be a kid in a world constructed and managed by adults. I tend to believe the best parents keep this truth at the forefront of interactions with their children, and, consequently, that such kids stand the best chance of adapting well to adulthood.

I often forget this truth as a parent, however, as I’m sure some of you would echo for yourselves. The stress of a given moment can bring out the worst in all of us, and sometimes our kids may be the closest target, though they may clearly have a part in the resulting strain on our nerves. Vacations are an excellent opportunity to test such scenarios, and ours are no exception.

As I’ve mentioned in the past, my wife is a planner and organizer to the nth degree. She’s assembled massive, complex spreadsheets and itineraries both for work and home that would make your head spin. Another talent I regrettably don’t share is her ability to summon an inexhaustible supply of ideas to serve as the content of said spreadsheets and itineraries.

This year’s idea for our annual spring break family vacation had us abandoning what was swiftly becoming a Disney tradition after three years. A couple of the kiddos wanted a change, so my wife went to work researching and preparing, settling on an experience they would never enjoy at the balmy sea-level climate of Gulf Coast Texas. And so, packing an additional large suitcase to carry winter apparel, we left the sunny, crowded beaches of Galveston behind for the white but equally crowded slopes of Beech Mountain, North Carolina.

For those unaware, as we were, Beech Mountain rises to an elevation of 5,506 feet above sea-level. The average high in March sounds more like the average low for what passes in Houston as winter: 47 degrees. Access to the resort involves weaving deliberately in and out of a seemingly endless series of hairpin turns that will challenge otherwise eager travelers prone to carsickness. My wife, a characteristically nervous passenger, chose to maneuver the airport rental herself due, no doubt, to the fact that I’ve carelessly rear-ended one too many strangers in the last six-years, and nobody needs that complication miles from home in a vehicle that doesn’t belong to you.

As we made the twisting ascent, the sun hid itself behind the accumulating clouds as the temperature plummeted in the space of less than an hour from a moderately comfortable 50 degrees down to a bone-chilling single-digit. Green gave way to white as snow collected in the passing surroundings. By the time we reached the summit resort village of Beech Mountain and stepped out of the van with the intention of paying in advance for the following day’s access to the slopes, the gusty, frigid wind hit our faces like a hammer. Seconds was all it took for the muscles to feel the icy pain of cheeks frozen in place. The trip up and then down the snow-covered stairs to the resort booth for tickets proved fruitless as we learned we would have to make our purchases the following day. My wife’s spirits gradually fell with the temperature, as did our youngest’s as they gingerly made their way back on the slick steps to the van in the frozen air. “I wish we had gone to Disney!” he lamented.

Once back in the van, the plan had been to make our way to the Walmart in the nearby town of Boone for a curbside order of basic provisions and to grab a bite for dinner before returning to the mountain and settling in to the Airbnb. The roads and weather precluded the likelihood of making it out of town, or back, for that matter, so we altered the plan and attempted what should have been a brief drive to the house to wait it out and simply get off the roads and into shelter. My wife relinquished the wheel and allowed me behind it this time as we set out.

The short distance to the house lasted twice as long on the steep, slick neighborhood inclines and declines. We unwittingly passed it by due to the absence of posted numbers and had to shift in reverse, precariously backing up until facing the driveway. Ascending it without snow/ice-treaded tires was out of the question, so the van would remain at the base of the driveway, just out of the way of passing vehicles.

My wife’s visible but unjustified regret over planning what was shaping up to be a miserable family vacation was about to get worse. As she and the kids attempted to gain footing up the driveway followed by two flights of stairs to the front door, I began grabbing seven pieces of luggage, one at a time, up the same ascent. I stepped inside to a warmer climate, thankful for an escape from the bitter cold outside. After a few passing minutes, one of us, I don’t recall who, observed that the lights didn’t seem to be working. In fact, nothing requiring electricity seemed to be functioning.

No power. Wonderful.

Now, here I must pause a moment to observe the state of attitudes among our party, which I have glossed-over until now. Needless to say, my sweet wife was on the verge of tears at this point. I was intensely stressed on her behalf but was doing my utmost to remain upbeat, but the strain of the effort was wearing my nerves thin. Our children were, for the most part, faring better, save one, who will remain nameless. This one, I regret to say, often has an irritating tendency to offer needless, sarcastic commentary during almost any circumstance, be it positive, negative, or otherwise neutral, merely, it would seem, for its own sake, or for the delight of simply being a drag. We’re really not sure after six years. In any event, there is a time when it’s tolerable, and there is a time when mom and dad’s patience can no longer bear it. This was one of those times.

After returning with another piece of luggage, I stepped across the threshold, but to my consternation, my feet found only a slippery surface on the wet linoleum. It took only a second as my legs flung clumsily into the open air, and like a circus clown, I fell flat on my behind with a “thud.” No laughter was heard from our brood. Cue, instead, yet another dry, sarcastic comment from said child about how amazing a vacation this was shaping up to be. As I regained my footing and rose to my height, my anger broke like a dam, having heard one too many such unhelpful comments over the last hour of the journey. Before I knew it, the brief but cutting words shot out of my mouth like a cannon, aimed squarely and unequivocally in our child’s direction.

And just like that, I had uttered bitter, divisive words to one of my children, words I’ve admonished the kids never themselves to say to anyone.

I’d like to say I immediately regretted it, but, we all know, this kind of anger doesn’t step aside easily, at least not immediately. I wanted to be angry. I nevertheless moved on to the next task, which was comforting my wife and then trying to solve the power problem. I stepped outside searching for a breaker/junction box but found no identifiable issue there. Unthinkingly neglecting to inform my wife of plan B and having left my phone in the house, I began walking up the street to neighboring residences, hoping to either acquire assistance or information. Again, the air was a brisk and breezy 9 degrees. Not until climbing to house number four did I encounter another “survivor,” who told me power was likely to return before the evening, in his experience. This didn’t fix the food problem, since we had no inclination to die driving off the edge of an icy mountain, but I did acquire his cell number to update me, or, I thought, to plead for rescue.

I made it back to the house, where I found my wife beside herself with worry. I had not, as I mentioned, shared with her where I was going, leaving only her imagination to toy with her as to why I had not returned from the base of the stairs or why I was not answering her literal calls into the woods surrounding. Wrapping my arms around her as she sobbed, afraid she had been left alone to face this debacle, I apologized, doing my best to reassure her. I don’t remember when, but not long after, the neighbor-stranger became a God-sent friend, and he graciously invited us via text to share the warmth of his fireplace along with a hot meal cooked with care on his gas stove, if we were so inclined. We gladly accepted, but did not make the climb until dad, anger subsided, chose to make amends.

Though my words were directed carelessly at one of our children, I realized I needed to apologize to each of them. I did so in turn, and it appeared to improve matters. We made our way to the home of our new friend in much better spirits. As he cooked and conversed with us, after no more than half an hour, the familiar electric hum of appliances was heard suddenly as light bulbs above burst back into bright existence. The day was saved, our bellies were full, and our temporary home, upon returning after a couple of hours, was now warm and inviting. We would all get a good-night’s sleep, only to have another adventure or two the following day. It would, at the end of it all, be a vacation to remember, with several more ups and downs we wouldn’t soon forget.

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Parents, we know, are expected to exercise patience with their kids, but some kids, I’ve observed, appear to hold fast to the conviction that it is their sworn, conscious duty to test the limits of their overseers. We have just such a child, and the effort to remain calm but firm often feels impossibly Herculean, even for someone like myself who, prior to kids, was known for longsuffering with difficult people, notably in the professional realm. Library patrons, however, are not one’s children, though they clearly may act like them, to which I can attest.

There are many days I wake up nervous and uncertain of whether the Doctor Jekyll or Mister Hyde version of our child will rise to meet the day, ready either to challenge the world at large or to cooperate with it. More often than I care to admit, it’s often the former, at least with us at home. My wife and I have searched and prayed for an answer as to why one would actively work to antagonize those closest to you rather than seek peace and pursue it, but we have yet to find a reason, other than the lingering scars of an unstable, painful past, of which we, regrettably, had no part.

They say you have to love the child you have, as they are, and not the child you hope to have. This can be tough when it feels there is so, so much in them that needs to change. With adoption, there is no guarantee that you will make an impression, especially if you were absent from a child’s most formative early years, as we were with ours. It’s hard to know how to approach parenting under the circumstances when it often appears that nothing is effective in the way that it should be. Some kids are that eager for a fight. I’ve consequently lost count of the number of times I have felt like giving up, like we’re simply biding our time until graduation, when the house may return to us and a consistent peace will reign once again.

But we don’t give up, though I often am compelled to. And we’re not called to. I’m reminded of the words of Paul to the Romans, as he closes his letter: “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.” Implied in these words is a truth about the life of faith, if not life in general. Behind the hope, patience, and faithfulness encouraged is an understanding that life will not be easy, no matter what’s before you. How much more so for those of us doing something we believe He’s called us to, even though we might feel we’re doing it all wrong or that there seems little evidence on a daily basis that He’s behind it?

Among those three, I struggle most with “joy.” It’s a chosen attitude, and I tend to allow the appearance of circumstances to drag me down, unlike my wife, who, to me, can find within her the capability to be endlessly positive — unless, that is, a spring break trip she has planned for the family is rapidly transforming into an episode of “Survivor.” We continue to plan them, nonetheless, which, I suppose, is good evidence that we aren’t giving up and continue to provide the kids with memories. Regardless of attitudes, struggles, or misfortune, or the appearance of little personal change among one’s charges, we press on, and we do best when joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.

“Life is difficult.” That’s how M. Scott Peck opens his esteemed work The Road Less Traveled, and I love it, though I struggle, as we all do, to accept it. Truer words have never been spoken. We all want relief, ease, and convenience. You could make an argument that it’s the American way. But, no matter how many “just a touch of a button” solutions technology fashions for us, we’ll still have children to raise, as difficult as they may be, we’ll still lose our cool with them on occasion, and we’ll still have forgiveness to seek. God help each of us to choose joy, whether in the middle of family business at home or a spring break trip gone awry.

Paradox

My unease rose steadily with each word read. The little old church ladies of my youth never once shared this information with us in any conservative Sunday School curriculum, or at least none that I could recall. This was a Christian university, was it not? Here I was, a freshman, barely a week or two immersed in the college experience, absorbing from the Old Testament survey textbook the erudite, and seemingly apostate, opinions of a Ph.D. from the rarefied world of Biblical scholarship. It was a new, foreign experience for me, and I uncomfortably felt my faith unmooring.

The space devoted to the argument, laced with meticulous logic, filled barely a page, as if to suggest it required little defense. The plagues of Egypt, he implied, could, in fact, be explained through the lens of naturalism when considering phenomena known to have existed in that region of the globe and at that period in history. With that, he sequenced one cataclysmic event after another, detailing the manner in which each created the natural, physical conditions for all those following that befell the unfortunate citizenry under Pharaoh’s rule. Not once were the terms “God” or “miracle” interspersed within the paragraphs, as I would have expected. It was, admittedly, convincing, and I was dumbstruck. I had run headlong into my first, genuine intellectual challenge to my faith, and I knew not how to respond.

It wouldn’t be the last time I encountered what felt like a rebuke of my beliefs, but I learned, over time, to appreciate such challenges. The value of being raised in a Christian home cannot be overstated, in my opinion, but there comes a time when we can no longer lean upon our parents’ faith. We each have to take a good, honest look at our foundation, which is often revealed, soon after we escape the nest to meet the world face-to-face, to consist not of our own experiences and personal convictions but of those who have lovingly expended the painstaking effort and time to influence us day after day.

As for the successive natural catastrophes that were the bane of the Egyptians’ existence, I began learning to trust a little more, though not exclusively, in the grey-matter God provided me and allowed him to help me begin reasoning my way from solely “either/or” kinds of thinking to “both/and.” Each type of philosophical framework has its place in the proper context, and in this case, I arrived at an acceptable paradox, of sorts. So, what if there were a natural cause and effect relationship between one plague and the next? Does this necessarily preclude God’s involvement or the interpretation provided therein, the author’s exclusion of him from his version notwithstanding? Do you believe God created the natural world and, as such, its natural laws? If so, how could he not be credited with involvement, and, hence, the meaning behind such events? As such, I found my way through, not around, this crisis of belief, able to accept the seeming paradox of both the natural and supernatural perspectives.

Merriam-Webster defines “paradox” as “something (such as a situation) that is made up of two opposite things and that seems impossible but is actually true or possible.” I have found myself recently returning to this word and concept, though I long ago left my cherished college years and the thoughtful debates there encouraged. A couple of eventful decades down the road, I find myself now in middle-age and neck-deep in the travails of parenting — adoptive parenting, to be more precise. And while it is in many ways no different from parenting biological children, there are ways in which it is not. Distinguishing the differences can be difficult if you have not had the experience of both.

Nevertheless, this word — paradox —came to mind of late. More about that later.

Adoptive parents tend to flinch at the question from well-meaning folks when asked, “Do you have any kids of your own?” The children we have taken in, we know, are our own kids, and they always will be. What they mean to say, we understand, is, “Do you have any biological children?” We will usually forgive the unintended offense and may offer a gentle correction. Regardless, I have grown to recognize that there exist differences between the two experiences of parenting, especially from those who have accepted the daunting task of attempting both. Without fail, they share that it is not the same, regardless of how young your children were when brought into their “forever home,” as it’s termed, or how similar their upbringing. The difficulties of either experience are hardly identical across the board. This is ever true for children adopted later than the newborn stage and who had their own, often troubling, history prior to inclusion into the family.

Our kids will always be our kids. There was a time, however, when they were not. Their experiences are something my wife and I will never be able to fully-comprehend; the best we can ever offer for those years we were absent from their lives is the sincerest empathy from hearts bent towards a God who spiritually adopted each of us, as we read, through the work of Christ. Those experiences will, nonetheless, always be a part of them, and remind us at certain times that, as much as they belong to us, there are pieces of them that we will never be able to share with them. As unfortunate as their past may be, it still may feel to them like an irretrievable loss. The adopted child, consequently, may often live with the paradox of wanting both you while at the same time longing for something they have left behind.

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I had, at this point, wished to share an extensive narrative of the known, documented details of their lives before they entered our home, specifically from the perspective of our oldest, but discretion counseled otherwise. This remains their personal history, and this outlet here is, for all intents and purposes, public. My own intent was to convey through this narrative the enormous challenge it is to begin parenting in a foster child’s later life, due in no small part to the many disruptions they tragically endure before they (hopefully) land with a home and with parents who will love them as they should have been from the start.

Maybe someday I will share it, when the kids feel more comfortable with it. There is much of their early history that we have only read about in redacted files and reports. What their lives were before is scarcely ever shared by them in acute detail. Innocent bits and pieces appear occasionally: reminders of pets from their past, a random trip in the car with birth mom and siblings, etc. The grittier memories, however, are almost never revealed. I have expressed to my wife that I hope one day, when they are able to perceive themselves from an adult point-of-view, that they will be able to discuss with us their early experiences, including adoption, openly and freely. Even though we have become a part of their lives, even though we were once children ourselves, we will never be able to fully appreciate or comprehend what they experienced during the same formative years. Although they found themselves ultimately placed with willing, loving parents, time lost will never allow them to know what it is like to be nurtured consistently from conception on and find soothing assurance in the safety of a single set of caregivers.

Instead, I would say, imagine every way in which you nurtured your child until the age of, say, 7 or 8. Your connection with them began, I would argue, from the moment of conception, not when they exited the womb. You spoke to them, and they learned, even then, to identify the gentle timbre of your voice. You were conscientious about your diet, careful not to ingest anything that could harm the development of your child. After birth, you held them frequently; your touch regulated their vitals and fostered their physical development. You were responsive to their fundamental needs of eating, sleeping, changing — simply connecting. They further identified with and were responsive to your face, your voice, your presence, as they grew. They were safe with you and in their home. The stress they dealt with was minimal.

They grew older and matured with you by their side. They learned to talk, to read, to tie their shoes, ride a bike. They developed relationships with grandma, grandpa, cousins, uncles and aunts. They learned to socialize, share, play with siblings. They started school, made friends, learned about the world. You completed homework together, encouraged their progress, celebrated their successes.

Through all of this, the one constant was you — their parents. You had been with them before they even had the capacity to remember. Your loving and calming presence alone settled them, helped them learn to manage their emotions. They develop trust. Home is less a place than persons, though they may perceive it as a place. You are there, and you always have been. This is enough.

Now, the adopted child’s experience.

First, remove the constant, loving caregiver, who would not enter your life until later, if at all. Prior to this, you may have remembered your parents, but instead there are others, maybe many others, during that span who have acted in that role. You are moved more frequently than you’d like. Some caregivers were kind, some were not. It became difficult to trust adults. You still learned to ride a bike, tie your shoes, etc. You still went to school. But the nurturing, consistent presence of a true parent through all of this was conspicuously absent. Home was neither a place nor a person, at least not for long, if at all. You bounced around from one place to the next, and the rules and expectations changed practically every time. If you had siblings — your only other hope of connection to home — they may or may not have remained with you wherever and with whomever you ended up. It’s as if you entered the world on your own a decade too early, unprepared and afraid. You’re in control of nothing.

If or when you finally did land in a “forever home,” as they referred to it, there may have been relief, maybe happiness, but it was difficult at times to believe it. You don’t know who these grown-ups are and never have known them, though they seem kind and loving. The social worker dropped you off, once again, except now there is the expectation to become a family. How you do that is anybody’s guess. The grown-ups that you’re now meant to call “mom” and “dad” seem just as unsure about their role, though they try not to show it. Though this feels different, better, in a way, it also feels just as unsettling as any other placement you’ve experienced so far. There are new rules, new relationships, new expectations. The stress of it, though this is supposed to be the best thing you could have hoped for, is too much sometimes. You may act out, not fully understanding why. You want love, and here it is offered, but you may also feel compelled to recoil from it. You’re in a good place, but this is hard. It’s a fresh start, but the pain of the past arrived along with you.

Now, to put this into perspective, imagine for a moment that this was the experience of your child. Knowing what you know about who they are, how your relationship has shaped them, how you have nurtured them — imagine how such an experience would have had an effect on them.

Take a moment.

In the HBO documentary “Foster,” social worker and foster parent Earcylene Beavers accurately expresses how such a change affects a child, regardless of the circumstances surrounding removal from their home: “Once a kid is taken from their parent, if they didn’t have an issue before, they got one now.”

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They arrived at our doorstep mid-April. Our oldest, 8 years, and one of her younger brothers, 2 years, entered our previously childless home as the social worker covered a few formalities and then made her exit. And that was it. There we were, just the four of us, nervously but expectantly eyeing one another, wondering what happens next, faced with the seemingly simple yet daunting task of becoming a family.

My wife decides we should make a meal together, and spaghetti is about as easy as it gets. While she and our oldest head to the store for the ingredients, I lie on the floor and push a toy school bus back and forth with our youngest. This would be our first bonding moment, and he appears, in spite of his subtle trepidation, to be happy for the interaction. I’m as much a nervous wreck as a parent bringing home a newborn from the hospital.

On their way to the store, my wife and our oldest make conversation. She risks the question and cuts straight to the chase:

“Can I call you ‘mom’?”

And just like that, we became parents. One of their sisters would join us several months later, unbeknownst to us at the time. If life hadn’t changed significantly enough for us with two, it would, most undoubtedly, with a third.

I have no idea what it is like to parent biological children, and it’s likely I never will. It’s just as well. My wife and I tend to believe that the manner in which we pursued a family was destined, perhaps a calling, though, for my part, I frequently sense I’m falling short of the mark as a father. Adoptive parenting is, first and foremost, we have learned, about establishing and nurturing a connection, something that is commonly taken for granted with one’s biological children.

The adoptive parent, by contrast, often must live with the disparity of children who both want your love at the same time they may feel and act upon the impulse to push you away. Their early history and your absence from it will never change. This reality and the way in which it manifests itself in the home can feel as if they are both with you and without you, no matter how much love you share. It is parenting with a kind of paradox, though in hope and prayerful expectation that there will come a day when there are no conflicting realities, that there is only you and the unbreakable connection with your children, forged through years of struggle and patient healing from their past.

Adoptive parenting is hard and heartbreaking. When we share our struggles with a fellow parent and hear the words, “I understand,” it can, admittedly, be difficult to believe, though spoken with the best of intentions. A recent post I read along these lines recommended instead the response, “How can I help?” Many of us would welcome such help, even if only a sincere prayer.

Of course, it is not all struggle. There are plenty of unique rewards and pleasures, as there are for parenting in general. One of our favorite pictures was taken on the very day I mentioned. Upon returning from the store, mom and our oldest got to work together on dinner. I took the opportunity to freeze the moment and have never regretted it. Written on her face is pure delight about where she is, what she is doing, and with whom.

She is, in the photo, at long last, home. These created, captured moments we cherish, where no paradox exists.

One Turn

“$134,500.”

My jaw hit the floor. At best, I would have guessed a couple thousand, which would itself have been justifiable cause for celebration. But I had long forgotten about the copy of the will that had been sent to the library many months ago and had begun this particular day with no expectations whatsoever. A seemingly routine call would change everything.

“How much?!” My elevated tone must have implied insult on the other end of the call, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“Is that not enough?” the executor replied. After reassurances to the contrary, we shared a laugh and then commenced discussing the details of the late Mr. Lee’s bequest to the Clear Lake City-County Freeman Branch Library, which I had been managing for just over a year. I then would do my best to wait patiently for the check in the mail. In other professions, such as my wife’s chosen field of chemical engineering, cash like that is chump change, here and gone in the course of an afternoon. In a public library, it’s a windfall of serious capital. We had just won the lottery.

Nine years previously, I had trepidatiously begun my career as a public librarian at this branch, which was on the cusp of closing the doors to its third architectural iteration, circa 1970s, and reopening in a state-of-the-art facility almost four times larger directly across the parking lot. At the forefront of my mind was my uncertainty from the first day I was placed alone on the reference desk whether having earned the degree would prove time and money well-spent, or if I should have instead opted for choice number two — to be all I could be in the U.S. military. Had I selected the latter, which I nearly did, the following year would have further altered my fortunes in the service of my country after the tragic collapse of a pair of towers on home soil. It’s anyone’s guess where I might have found myself deployed and what fate would have awaited me in some remote corner of a world in conflict. As it would happen, I selected study over soldiering, and so I landed among books instead of a battlefield.

After a year as an entry-level librarian on the front line of public service at this branch in and around the Johnson Space Center community, I nearly threw in the towel and ventured to other less turbulent waters, so to speak, or so I thought. I knew not what to expect after taking a job working for the general populace, and I certainly didn’t expect to be treated so poorly and ungratefully by the everyday folks I was sincerely trying to help. More often than not, the interactions were admittedly positive, and I proved myself capable of pinning down the answers they sought. But it’s true that one bad apple can spoil the bunch, in this case the bunch being the collective patron interactions in a given day. A single, truly negative encounter is a pall over one’s work day if you allow it to be, as I did time and again. I’d had enough of this entitled crowd, and so I would roll the dice and see if I could find better patrons elsewhere.

I was still too green to understand that working directly with the public simply opens yourself to encounters with difficult people. It comes with the territory. Changing the scenery is no solution. They’ll find you. In almost 18 years in the profession, I’ve observed there are many long-time front-liners who remain nervous and perplexed about this reality and who continue searching in vain for a remedy that will never present itself outside of themselves.

In any event, I attempted an escape to another large municipal system and was offered a position. Upon arriving for a day of preliminaries and paperwork, I stepped unwittingly into a HR disaster. At least one of many new-hires was wise to the dysfunction and walked out within the first 15 minutes, expressing her disgust at having wasted a day of vacation for this. I, on the other hand, decided to stick it out. The situation did not improve. By the time the day was done, it was discovered that none of us were informed about documents we were required to bring with us, after repeated inquiries they still had not determined at which of the many branches each of us would be placed (an important detail when searching for a spot nearby to lay your head), and, oh, by the way (as we all were departing in the late afternoon on our long respective routes home), there is one more stop here in town we neglected to tell you about; you’ll have to use additional leave time from your present job in order to return and take care of it. As if this weren’t enough, I was provided one final disappointment — I was not being hired for the position for which I interviewed but a step and pay grade beneath it.

Now, I do believe in providence. The 8th chapter and 28th verse of Romans I often forget to apply duly to any and every circumstance. This was a rare moment when a prayer for direction earlier in the day when circumstances began to deteriorate returned an answer as clear as fine crystal. The inept crew at this particular HR department were hardly working for the good of those they called and, by all appearances, were under the impression they were paid instead to sabotage their employer by repelling new-hires. On the flip side, I left with the bittersweet certainty that I should stay put where I was, and I was fortunate to learn that I would be welcomed gratefully back to the branch in Clear Lake, two-week notice notwithstanding.

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How does one determine the will of God? Why, in that moment, did I interpret circumstances as an indication he wanted me to stay where I was? Why could it not, from an agnostic perspective, simply have been what it was on the face of it — an incompetent organization in desperate need of improved hiring practices?

I can’t imagine a scenario in which I could irrefutably prove to anyone that God was indeed guiding me that day. I am not a skilled apologist, I have learned, so I’ll make no attempt here. I do think, however, that if all of us were honest with ourselves, there is plenty that each of us accepts on faith, though the substance of that faith may differ. As for me, I have seen and experienced enough, especially while I was under my parents roof, that convinced me of a good God who is involved in the world, and it has informed and shaped my faith over the years. But I also don’t believe I had no choice in the matter; I wasn’t irresistibly compelled to believe, though it could be argued I would be foolish and stubborn not to. Choice, I find, is still left to us, though God may be sovereign. It is just a part of what it means, I think, to be created in his image.

Dostoyevsky may have said it best in his novel “The Brothers Karamazov,” suggesting that we may willfully apply our preconceptions when interpreting events, personal or not, particularly if one is a realist/unbeliever:

“The genuine realist, if he is an unbeliever, will always find strength and ability to disbelieve in the miraculous, and if he is confronted with a miracle as an irrefutable fact he would rather disbelieve his own senses than admit the fact. Even if he admits it, he admits it as a fact of nature till then unrecognized by him. Faith does not, in the realist, spring from the miracle but the miracle from faith. If the realist once believes, then he is bound by his very realism to admit the miraculous also.”

I wouldn’t say I encountered miracles as much as intervention that day. Nevertheless, it is left to us to choose an interpretation based on the substance of our faith. I could have proceeded with the move, I suppose. The truth was, I was running from a difficult situation in an attempt to make my own life more comfortable, or so I thought. There is value in facing challenges, though many of us are conditioned to interpret them as a sign to seek an easier, more convenient way.

While I believe God was making use of circumstances to influence my decision, there was another hard truth I needed to understand — running from a challenge may involve nothing more than running towards another. Life isn’t always best lived seeking one simple, convenient, and pleasant path after another. If it’s not the frustration of dealing with contentious patrons, it will undoubtedly be something else. And sometimes, one difficult choice, one turn, if you will, is all that’s needed to make a world of difference in your life or mine.

______________

John Lee Hancock, like me, grew up in the blue-collar, chemical refinery town of Texas City. I would venture to guess that our similarities end there, but I have found it curious that there isn’t a movie director in present-day Hollywood whose films I am almost guaranteed to appreciate more consistently than his. In any event, his film “The Highwaymen,” released in 2019 on Netflix, tells the story of the manhunt for notorious killers Bonnie and Clyde from the perspective of the former Texas Rangers commissioned to track them down. Leading the pursuit is Frank Hamer, played convincingly by Kevin Costner, with Woody Harrelson in the role of his partner, Maney Gault.

Midway through the plot, Hamer pays a visit to Clyde’s father in Dallas. Perhaps seeing little to gain from either in the investigation, the pair use the encounter instead to wax philosophic on the nature of choice and fate. “One turn on the trail,” each utters familiarly, suggesting the notion of a course in one’s life set and determined irrevocably once a pivotal choice is made. While the elder Barrow’s imploring for his son takes issue with the idea that the choice reveals one’s inherent, inescapable nature, Hamer illustratively applies the phrase to himself, describing a single moment chosen in his youth that, he believed, dramatically altered and fated his life’s profession. The choice, the one turn, changed everything.

______________

My wife and I were once good friends without a hint of attraction between us. I still believe friendships can evolve into some of the best marriages, but that’s a topic for another time. Over a decade ago, I don’t remember precisely when, she was in the process of purchasing her first home, and I happened to be the friend available to whom she first decided to show it. We turned into the neighborhood, down the street, and then parked alongside the curb in front of the house. She excitedly shared the details with me for a few minutes seated there in her sedan.

Now, at that moment, I had no idea about what the years ahead held for me and how this casual afternoon stop was as much about what was in store for me as for her. Had my future self spontaneously appeared in the back seat to drop unwelcome spoilers, I wouldn’t have bought a thing he was selling; I wouldn’t have been prepared to hear any of it:

“Let me tell you what’s about to go down, Jim. First, this house. Take a good look, because a lot is going to happen right here for you. Your name will eventually be on the title. Yes, you heard that right. You don’t know it yet, but this is also your first home, which leads me to my second surprise. The girl seated next to you is the one you’ve been after for so long. She’ll figure it out before you do, but once you recognize it, you’ll have difficulty imagining anyone else better suited for you. Cue wedding bells. Third, you two will start a family right here. Maybe that’s not surprising, but here’s the kicker — you’re going to forgo the baby stage and acquire three older kiddos in one blow. Oh, also, they will bear absolutely no resemblance to you whatsoever. I’ll just leave it at that. Fourth, that great big library you unsuccessfully tried to escape several years ago? They’re going to put you in charge of it. Yes, you. Moreover, you and the staff will be afforded rare but rewarding opportunities to make significant impacts on the community, impacts that will be publicized even outside of the city and state. Much of it will begin with a phone call you aren’t expecting about the generosity of a man you’ll never meet.”

I never for a second would have believed any of that. But it did, in fact, happen. And it might not have had I ignored how I was being directed and had instead effected my flight a few years previous.

Time and hindsight reinforce anyone’s faith, I find. The downside is, of course, the waiting. I feel as if I daily face doubt about the goodness of God while dealing with one irritating, sometimes disheartening, challenge after another, especially in this stage of life raising kids in the home. Assurance can be long in coming while buried in the grind. But when I pause to look back on that day and see all of the remarkable things that have followed because, I believe, I obediently chose to stay, how could I not believe in a good God?

We’re taught in Scripture that not one of us is beyond the grace of God; not even a single choice can alter that. However, time isn’t returned to us, which makes each choice more valuable as the minutes slip away. It’s the earliest turn that stands the best chance of affecting the greater share of all those that follow. And that’s good news for those who believe in a good God.

Chapter 2: Dalhart

Carving broad lines into the dirt, he circled the tractor at the edge of the field his father farmed as a hired hand, straightened it out, and started anew. Plowing one endless furrow after another, Joel stole a longing glance at the cars speeding past on the adjacent road, each headed anywhere but here. Family duty held him firmly in the driver’s seat of the tractor’s cabin, though he would gladly relinquish it for a ride in the backseat of even the slowest vehicle escaping this dry and dusty patch of land outside of Dalhart. While he would later appreciate the work ethic instilled in him by his father, who expected him and his brothers to do their part by participating in the family trade as long as they remained under his roof, he derived no pleasure in farming and anticipated after graduation a life outside of such a town that offered few, if any, other means of making a living, even to this day.

Granted, there was nothing to discredit the modest, deliberately-paced community of Dalhart, so named for its establishment between Dallam and Hartley counties in the Texas Panhandle. Then again, there was nothing much to its credit either, in Joel’s opinion. Living in a small agrarian town suited men like his father, who had spent his entire life there, was devoted to his trade, and knew as much about the world outside of it as he wanted to and nothing more. In a way, Dalhart was a refuge from the busy, chaotic world beyond beyond its borders. Even my grandfather’s television, a veritable window in one’s living room opened to the wider world, was, as I recall in his later years, rarely tuned to anything other than golf or the weather; there was little else that captured or required his attention, and this by choice. I once asked him if he had ever considered living anywhere else, myself having recently arrived for a visit from the sprawling, noisy metropolis of Houston. “What?!” he exclaimed. “You’d have to be crazy to want to leave this place!”

My father shared no such sentiment, a fact that did not evade the attention of his own father. It isn’t a stretch to say that the numerous years David Johnson had spent working the land as a matter of necessity had become stitched inseparably into his very identity. To have a son who did not find equal meaning in this respectable form of labor was to suffer a personal affront. He was not an emotionally demonstrative man, however, though his departure from his childhood home as a teenager was contentious, to say the least. He made a rebellious escape of his own from a father with whom he didn’t see eye to eye and never once looked back in regret. Exiting the dust-bowl era, he found a way to make life work for him in spite of an unfinished formal education, eloping with his teenage bride, Zola Faye McBrayer, and focusing his life’s labor on tending the land. Five kids were to follow, Joel the fourth in line, preceded by Peggy, Nancy, and Steve, and trailed by Don.

Zola Faye’s fourth was an unplanned pregnancy. To make matters worse, conception was discovered following a procedure his mother had undergone known obstetrically as a “D and C,” which involves clearing tissue from the uterine lining. No viable pregnancy is biologically equipped to withstand such a procedure under the best of circumstances. Upon learning of the mistake, the doctor counseled abortion, convinced the fetus either would not survive or would be born unhealthy or severely disabled. Zola Faye refused. Defying the odds, the baby would be born to term, alive and healthy. She would give him the prophetic Biblical name “Joel,” meaning declaratively “Yahweh (the Lord) is God.” The improbable birth would be documented in medical literature. I would first hear this story many years later in a sermon delivered by my father, who shared of his mother’s conviction that it presaged a life determined for a special purpose or moment.

Whatever that purpose might be, this story would lend Joel a profound sense of God having miraculously intervened in his life long before he possessed a formed mind to perceive it. The words of Psalm 139 might as well had been penned by him, who, incidentally, was given the middle name “David” by his mother and father.

“Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days were written in your book before one of them came to be.”

Central to this sense of meaning and purpose was the church, and for the Johnson household, attendance was routine and expected for all in the family. His father, David, arrived early every Sunday to open the doors of the First Baptist Church of Dalhart, his deaconly duties extending only insofar as gatekeeper and collector, namely offertory contributions and attendance numbers in Sunday School classes. Aside from this, he characteristically could be relied upon to shutter his eyes during the service not in meditation or prayer but in slumber. Yes, the pastoral message was important; he diligently brought his family each week, after all. It seems, however, he was simply a man who was at his best and most alert when moving, and a sermon afforded little opportunity for that. Zola Faye, by contrast, kept conscious and active attention, teaching the young married’s class, singing in the choir, and occasionally serving as pianist and, for several years, church secretary. As for Joel and his brothers and sisters, they were present and accounted for given the doors were open — Girls in Action, Royal Ambassadors, childrens and youth choir, Sunday evening church training, vacation Bible school, etc. Religious or not, one’s best social opportunities in a small town at that time were often provided by an engaged church, and the Johnsons’ extracurricular activities would imply it was practically a second home for them.

Growing up, Joel’s interests inclined toward literature. His oldest sibling, Peggy, unwittingly practicing for her eventual career in education, taught him to read before he ever set foot in a classroom. Once children’s stories were covered, he moved on to the family encyclopedia, an educational staple of many mid-20th century American homes. Further along than most by the time first grade began, he and another student were permitted in their reading class to occupy a corner of the classroom and lose themselves in any available story that seized their interest. He acquired a library card at the earliest opportunity and pored over every book on the shelves detailing the history of World War II and the Civil War. The daring adventures penned by Alistair MacLean were his favorite. When these were exhausted or unavailable, Readers Digest bound and abridged novels that amply lined his mother’s shelves would do. To this day, my father’s preferred posture is seated comfortably in a recliner with an open book. Conscious of it or not, he was building habits and forming values that would extend to his own children years later. My own career choice of librarianship undoubtedly began its formation during those early reading lessons decades ago between my aunt and father. For those of us led to believe we are the masters of our own fate, I would argue that nurture and influence stretch much further back into our familial past than we might imagine.

At 15, a friend loaned him “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy. “It’s a dangerous business,” Tolkien writes, “going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” Joel would spend hours discussing the volumes with his friend, enthralled not only at the exploits of the nine but, more importantly, moved by the spiritual themes undergirding the patient, expansive story, which, like many others he read, depicted places, real or imagined, dissimilar to the one he inhabited, fueling a desire to tread his own path into the unexplored world once given the opportunity. Something greater and deeper than the adventures he had read about continued to stir within, inspiring him soon to begin taking his first steps into a vocational life of faith.

Whether it was the stress of this call that weighed upon him or simple adolescent immaturity, Joel found himself during his senior year succumbing for a season, due to the influence of friends, to more than a passing interest in alcohol, a developing habit that he managed to conceal from his abstinent parents. Late in the academic year, he would pass evenings several times a week with friends overindulging. He didn’t relish the taste, but it did the job and did it well. Certain evenings passed out of memory entirely; the manner in which he made it home on these occasions were left a mystery.

There are few times in life that bear stronger potential to form both our best and worst habits than adolescence, and at his rate, alcoholism could thereafter have grasped and held him captive with relative ease if left unchecked. Had it succeeded, the story told here would read differently or, perhaps, not be read at all. To our great fortune, however, resourcefulness is one of God’s most enduring though often overlooked qualities. Every tool is at his disposal to shape our circumstances and character as he sees fit. He would recognize in due time what awaited him without an adjustment and would, thankfully, quit cold turkey. He would never touch another drop. The lessons learned would be put to good use, as they should for any seasoned minister. There is no shame in possessing a past, especially if it offers a personal education on the meaning of grace. And who better to comprehend and appreciate the lessons of one’s past in humility than those committed to professional ministry in the service of others, each with their own pasts? Christ saves us all from something.

Joel had spent abundant time pondering these and other spiritual matters for much of his brief life thus far, which led him eventually to consider whether it hinted at a call to a career focused wholly on God’s work. But to what, exactly? The works of Scripture, especially in the Old Testament, do not always describe the “call” of God in precisely the way many of us understand it today. Then, the Levites fulfilled the “professional” function, but primarily due to bloodline; it was a “default calling,” if you will. Many of those “called” who we read about were tasked with a very specific job in mind that did not necessarily carry a socially- or culturally-defined title that limited their role and responsibilities: be fruitful, build an ark, father a nation, lead my people, conquer, save my people, be anointed as king, rebuild the city, etc. All were called of God, but to an ordained task, not a defined title. I have met those who pursued a call in seminary who did not belong there, and I have known instructors who shared that observation. While there is no clear fault in following a call in the best way we know with the information we have, it’s wise to consider that we may limit God to think he can work with us only within the confines of professional ministry, though it most certainly has its place.

As best as Joel could surmise, just as many others do, his call should be pursued as a leader and shepherd of a congregation much like the one of which he’d long been a part, so he duly set out to obey prayerfully in the best way he saw fit. Consulting with his church’s pastor as well as select deacons in the body, he was approved and officially licensed into ministry. The duration of his first sermon barely gave listeners time enough to warm their seats after only seven minutes in the pulpit, but the brevity was no discouragement to him. Joel would continue in that direction.

At long last, graduation arrived. He summarily struck out on the road leading from town, blazing past furrowed fields over which he’d once driven. From here, there would be no stolen glances toward the tractors carving the dirt hours on end, though perhaps the metaphorical but fitting words of Christ, to whom he had pledged himself, echoed in his mind as he fixed his gaze forward and forged ahead.

“No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

Just as the plow prepares the ground for the growth it will foster, Joel was unknowingly headed not yet into a life of career ministry but rather one of patient preparation for a task God had designed for him years later, a task which he would share with another. Her story began many miles southeast of the quiet farmlands spread across the Panhandle, nearer the noisy, steam-pluming refineries stretching along the lengthy coasts of the Gulf. Hers was a different hope for the future they would soon inhabit together.

Dropout

“. . . the great evil of the church has always been the presence in it of persons unsuited for the work required of them there. One very simple sifting rule would be, that no one should be admitted to the clergy who had not first proved himself capable of making a life in some other calling.”

– George MacDonald, “The Curate’s Awakening”

I reluctantly cracked open the heavy tome a fourth time, attempting to plow once more through the Old Testament survey reading assignment. I had already completed four years majoring as an undergraduate in the study of Scripture, not to mention in the original languages, so much of the information in the textbook had been covered. The scholasticism curved slightly steeper here at the graduate level, however. Seminarians all enroll in the same preliminary courses, college credit notwithstanding, so there was no getting around it. Having previously been guided through similar information, I should have found it simple enough. While this ought to have been the case, I struggled to maintain focus not a week into my third semester, second year, in a course of study that would ultimately earn myself the degree “Master of Divinity.”

After attempt number four failed, exasperated, I surrendered and placed the book aside. I uttered a brief, sincere, desperate prayer, expressing my lost interest in my chosen field, wondering if it meant I was lost as well. I had a decision to make. On the one hand, the scale seemed to tip decidedly in favor of remaining where I was. I understood the value of staying the course, of maintaining a commitment. I had graduated from my alma mater with highest honors and had received the religion department’s top award for an exiting senior. I tutored Greek and was even given an opportunity or two as a senior to fill in for professors in a couple of classes. I hadn’t left myself with a wealth of options post-college, having both majored and minored in “Christian Studies.” Due to my performance as an undergrad, my tuition here was covered (word to the wise: finishing formal education debt-free is not to be taken lightly). My parents were ministers whose experiences had deeply influenced my siblings and me enough to consider pursuing the profession. Then there was the pesky, unwanted impression of turning your back on your perceived calling; surely one doesn’t “drop out” of seminary without incurring the wrath of God, or at least his ire. All signs advised staying put.

On the other hand, there was scant as much other than feelings. Nevertheless, I thought, what if my difficulties and lingering reservations were evidence that maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t called to this at all, that I was simply a good student and nothing more, mistaken about the career that best lies before me? After all, here I was, attending classes in a different seminary than that at which I began and in less than a year’s time, having believed the unease I had felt beneath the surface at the outset simply necessitated a change of scenery, carrying me to this moment and this place. Here I was back in my familiar home state, and still I had little or no passion remaining to serve as either a minister or academic. I wasn’t spiritually disillusioned but professionally uninspired and uncertain. If my heart was no longer in it, perhaps the rest of me should no longer remain either.

Not willing or ready to abandon recklessly a relatively secure station in life for God-knows-what, I sought the counsel of a trusted friend as well as my parents, who themselves were serving in ministry. I expressed my thoughts that perhaps I wasn’t where I belonged, though I hadn’t determined precisely what else there could be. I have heard since that one should not quit a job until you have another waiting for you; thoughtful words, indeed, but a few more years would pass before I gleaned such wisdom. To my surprise, they each recommended withdrawal, and I found myself thankful for friends and especially parents who so often supported and trusted my decisions. I would sleep on it and find resolve in the morning.

My course determined, I set out the next day to begin the process and paperwork, but there was one task that first needed attention. I had the privilege not more than a week or two prior of having begun a position as a graduate assistant for one of the seminary’s esteemed professors. I now had to deliver the inconvenient news that he would have to search for another assistant so unexpectedly soon into the semester. I couldn’t be certain how he would receive it. Both the dean and assistant dean of the previous seminary, where I also served as a grad assistant, went to great pains to persuade me to stay after I had decided to return to Texas, and it was difficult not to feel their efforts were wholly self-interested. It was, after all, a fledgling seminary on the cusp of accreditation, so retaining rather than losing students was a priority for them.

I arrived at his convenience and seated myself in his office, coming straight to the point. I no longer believed seminary is where I belonged; I would be withdrawing. His response was equally direct and honest, and what he said has stayed with me to this day. After expressing genuine respect for and understanding of my decision, he replied, “I’d ask that you not share this outside of these walls, but there are other students here who ought to make that decision.”

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As the year 2000 dawned, the magazine “Christianity Today” selected C. S. Lewis’s “Mere Christianity” as the best religious book of the 20th century. If you take the time to read this and Lewis’s other works — not only the more popular but nonetheless timeless and outstanding Narnia series — you begin to understand the unique gift he possessed to illustrate, explain, and simplify even the most complex of theological concepts. I know some who would argue this point, but I discovered his work at a spiritually unsettled time in my life and found him to be a clear breath of fresh air in the thin, stifling atmosphere of skepticism. In his deft and capable hands, he demonstrated that it can, in fact, make logical sense to be a believer. While no man is infallible, I have found my faith encouraged and bolstered time and again when I revisit his works.

As original and unique as his thoughts were, even the best among us have been mentored or taught, formally or informally. “No man is an island,” as John Donne famously put it. Lewis’s “master,” as he would dub him, was George MacDonald, a man he never met but whose writing deeply influenced him and many others whose names have overshadowed his own.

I came across MacDonald shortly before my decision to withdraw, thanks to a very well-read friend who never lacked for literature both to recommend and lend. Published in 1864, “The Curate’s Awakening” tells the story of Thomas Wingfold, a minister who finds himself in a crisis of belief after his Christian faith is intellectually challenged. While there is a wealth of insight in the story for anyone who might find themselves even a century-and-a-half later in a similar crisis, among my favorite quotes is the gem above, spoken by Wingfold’s mentor, of sorts, who patiently guides him back to his faith.

MacDonald must have encountered in his own life the “great evil” of men unsuited for the ministry. I’ve wished he could have further unpacked this claim, even if spoken through a fictitious yet truth-telling protagonist in a novel. Perhaps I should read more of his works and search it out. I know, nevertheless, that these words struck a chord with me at a critical time. They and my professor’s private opinion shared also confirmed observations I had made over the course of a year in seminary, if not earlier, by those “called” to a life of professional church ministry.

While the Protestants among us applaud what Luther and the Reformers accomplished with the doctrine of the priesthood of the believer, I’ve wondered what good or ill this truth, by extension, has done for the conviction of those who believe they have been “called” to ministry. In the same way I do not need a priest to mediate God’s truth, likewise my calling is between myself and God, as it goes; who’s to dispute it?

_______________

The evening came on, and I joined my acquaintance and his friend for a little company. The former had recently finished seminary; the latter was nearing the end. I was somewhere between the second and third semester, already wondering in the back of my mind if I shouldn’t be elsewhere in life. The conversations I would hear rather than join that evening would only sow further uncertainty, along with a measure of disappointment.

I can’t recall finer details, but they conversed easily and freely. It was loud, bawdy, and more to the point, when women were mentioned, unapologetically and wholly objectifying. There was alcohol, which wasn’t necessarily a problem, but thrown atop everything else I was hearing from a pair ostensibly “called,” it certainly didn’t elevate my impression, which I kept to myself.

Granted, we all feel the need to blow off steam, and we all benefit from friends, or should, who allow us to speak our minds candidly. However, the best friends hold us accountable, and I confess I had expected better from future shepherds, so to speak. My acquaintance would later tell me in a private moment that, all evidence considered, he had arrived at the conclusion there likely wasn’t a God; he would ultimately change professions. His friend, to the best of my knowledge, moved on into ministry. Learning what I did that evening, wherever he landed is no place I wanted to be.

I could tell as well of ministerial undergrads who stole books from the university library where I held a work study job for 2 1/2 years, or the classmate and coworker who continued to pursue theological studies post-college, only to determine, like my acquaintance, that he was an atheist, albeit an atheist with a purpose. He would find his 15-minutes of fame years later after filing suit against the military for their refusal to allow him to serve as a humanist chaplain. Video I discovered online of a lecture he had delivered to an audience unfamiliar with his past revealed a curious affectation he had also developed — a crisp but unmistakably clean British accent. I gathered from such that he had either suffered a bump to his brain’s left hemisphere, or his theological education, not to mention his careful and conscientious presentation of himself, was deliberately tailored to gain the admiration of others rather than to edify the body of Christ.

In very recent years, I’ve known and heard of career ministers abandoning the profession and their congregations long before retirement over reasons not entirely clear to me or others, and some of them have done so in dramatic and disappointing fashion, leaving a trail of damaged relationships and churches in their wake. We’ve all heard of prominent pastors who have made the headlines taking it a step further and abandoning their faith as well. Then there are those who happily stay in place and whose behavior or doctrine falls far short of the mark. I heard of one recently whose teaching strayed so far from a fundamental doctrine laid plain in Scripture, it was worth questioning whether or not he takes the time to read it at all. And I haven’t even begun to mention claims of sexual misconduct, in some cases criminal, which the press is always pleased to share with the public. Regardless of whether it’s burnout, moral failing, or something else, it leaves me discouraged, and I return to MacDonald’s words, wishing, perhaps, that they had chanced to read them years before, if not to dissuade them from their calling to elevate its significance, prompting them to have made a wiser choice.

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Future ministers, at least in Baptist institutions, are encouraged to take a good, hard, introspective look at their call early into their formal education. There is no grade to be earned in doing so, nor is there an august body of professors or clergymen before whom you stand to be judged on whether or not your call is valid. This call, your call, is between you and the Creator. That being said, I do believe there are enough who mistake a call simply to be an authentic, faithful follower of Christ in life, generally speaking, as a call to professional ministry. Feeling poignantly touched by the Gospel and its truth in a life-altering way is, in my opinion, something all believers ought to experience. And such believers are meant to infiltrate every profession, not just the clergy. The command — the “call,” if you will — to “go out into all the world,” can’t happen if we don’t actually go out into all the world.

In his first recorded letter to Timothy, Paul laid it out for those desirous of the task of “overseer”:

Whoever aspires to be an overseer desires a noble task. Now the overseer is to be above reproach, faithful to his wife, temperate, self-controlled, respectable, hospitable, able to teach, not given to drunkenness, not violent but gentle, not quarrelsome, not a lover of money. He must manage his own family well and see that his children obey him, and he must do so in a manner worthy of full respect (If anyone does not know how to manage his own family, how can he take care of God’s church?). He must not be a recent convert, or he may become conceited and fall under the same judgment as the devil. He must also have a good reputation with outsiders, so he will not fall into disgrace and into the devil’s trap.

I can’t help but notice that Paul opens with “whoever aspires to be” rather than “whoever is called to.” It appears one can actually choose this noble task. However, there are a few expectations. Do you have the inherent qualities required for the job? You’re welcome to earn the degree, but the best of what’s expected can’t necessarily be learned in a classroom. For many, you either have it or you don’t, perhaps in much the same way my oldest child has natural, God-given athletic abilities that I never had and never will.

I consider myself privileged to know at least a couple of men who fit the bill, degreed or not. My father and father-in-law both spent the greater part of their professional lives in career ministry in one form or another, and I have seen in them the qualities Paul details in the passage above. The degree, if we’re honest, could assist with only one — able to teach — insofar as the coursework would provide content for instruction. The ability to teach, however, along with the rest, comes from somewhere else. Moreover, with this ability should accompany an understanding on whose authority one is teaching.

“Thus saith the Lord.” There are few bolder pronouncements in Scripture than this, delivered most often by the prophets. It is not a phrase one would utter unless absolutely certain what followed was indeed the holy thoughts of God himself. Yet the minister, as interpreter and teacher, effectually serves as God’s mouthpiece each moment he steps into a pulpit and opens the book, whether he has considered the weight of this responsibility or not. There is no greater position of power and influence, in my opinion, and it is for this function alone I find MacDonald’s words above cautioning entrance into the profession most relevant. It reminds me of what our beloved professor of the original New Testament language shared with us at the close of our third course: “Students, you now know just enough Greek to be dangerous.”

I hope I do not sound contentiously dismissive of anyone’s call to ministry. Scripture is replete with examples of those who appeared unqualified for the task given to them. God uses the “weak things of the world to shame the strong,” as we know and read. It is one of his most beautiful and attractive characteristics that he utilizes those the callous world blithely casts aside. But I also believe God can and does equip us for the jobs he gives us, and it is worth at least a moment of the time granted to us to consider whether or not he has, in fact, gifted us accordingly. The lives of those we shepherd, by choice, by call, or both, may depend on it.

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For almost 18 years, I have spent my professional life in public libraries. It is a career that has treated me very well, and I hope I have shown the same courtesy to those I’ve served. I’ve enjoyed successes that many never achieve and was convinced by 40 that if my career ended at that age, I would be satisfied with what had been accomplished. I have wondered on a handful of occasions what might have happened had I stayed put in seminary, but there’s no way to know. I have never regretted the decision, and I’ve never felt, judging from the way life has worked out, that God is displeased somehow with the decision. I have much to be thankful for, and I believe he had something to do with where I’ve ended up. I have considered that ministry may be somewhere down the road. It seems a waste of an education such as I absorbed to never utilize it in a professional context. In any event, it’s up to someone other than me, and I hope I’m attentive to the call if or when it arrives.

Maybe it’s presumptuous of me, but I’ve imagined returning to my alma mater to impart a few words of wisdom to the undergraduate ministers in training. Given the opportunity, I would likely open with MacDonald’s words. While my interest would not lie in dissuading them from their “noble task,” I would hope they might gain a greater respect for their call and consider its weight. It’s easy enough to take a class and earn the credit. It’s much harder to lead others desperate and thirsty for spiritual truth, especially if we’re meant to lead elsewhere.