I HATE quitting a job.
I’ve never enjoyed having to look someone in the eye who has given me an opportunity to work and telling them I’m submitting my resignation. I don’t know why, really. I’ve only had one job I really, really disliked, and I felt bad quitting that one, too.
I just don’t want to be a disappointment or inconvenience, and I kind of think quitting makes me both of those.
But I’ve done it again. I’m quitting. I’m quitting something I don’t even really, fully, whole-heartedly want to quit.
Sure, there’s some relief when I consider the pressures that will be lifted and the hours I’ll get back with my family. But no matter what we choose, there’s always an opportunity cost.
I have LOVED my work for the past eleven years. I thought that’s what I’d do for the rest of my life. Well, my working life, anyway.
At some point, I thought there’d be more sleeping in, baking, working out, house cleaning… and cue the laughter of all my retired friends.
My work has given me purpose and meaning. It’s been more than a job; I truly believe I have been fulfilling a calling. It has become enmeshed in me as part of my identity. I’ve had security, both professional and financial.
I’ve had a sense of accomplishment and have felt – on the best days – like I’m actually making a difference.
But I’m quitting. It hurts. It hurts a lot, and I think it will hurt for a long time.
Now that this work isn’t going to be a part of my identity any longer, I have to figure out who I am. How new-agey and millenial of me.
You know what’s the toughest part of all of this? Realizing that I have reached a point in life where I’ve come to define success completely outside my home. Don’t misunderstand, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the fact that I’ve chosen (with my husband’s full support and blessing) to work.
Nope, that’s not the problem.
The problem really is that I have allowed the quality of my work to determine whether I’m a successful person, whether I’m “achieving.” And you know who loses there? My kids. My husband. My church. And me.
It’s a painful moment when you come toe to toe, eyeball to eyeball, with your own failures and shortcomings. And what a surprise when you finally realize those failures have been masquerading as success. Hm.
Wolf in sheep’s clothing.
So, I prayed for God to help me do things better, to handle things more effectively. And then I waited expectantly for Him to work some miracle within me, to change me so that I more effectively managed all the plates spinning in the air at once.
I figured He’d start catching some of them before they fell, He’d help me run a little faster, spin a little better, see peripherally. But that wasn’t His answer. His answer was quit.
I argued. I bargained. I ignored. And then I submitted.
Because in the end, I know that’s the only way I’ll have peace. I never understood Peter stepping out of the boat and walking on water, only to begin sinking moments later, as well as I do right now. I always thought it was kind of dumb, honestly.
I mean, he asked to get out of the boat. He knew it was Jesus waiting there for him. Why would he freak out? How weak.
Well, you know what? On this side of the boat, when you’ve stepped out, you may be standing on top of the water looking right into the face of Jesus. But the waves are still coming. The boat is still rocking. The water is still very, very deep.
And you begin to wonder if you made a mistake. Was I pushing? Did I act rashly? Did I make it all up?
And over, and over, and over He has to reach out to me and pull me back up from the swirling depths of doubt and insecurity.
At least Peter only needed to be pulled out once.
But oh, how grateful I am that He stands by, waiting for the moment I need rescue. What a gift. What a patient, loving, and understanding Father.
