How do you spell “success”?
I wrote the following article for a website targeted toward young adults, especially those who might be in transition from college to career. I’d been percolating on the topic for a while and I enjoyed the opportunity to blend my thoughts together and create a fully brewed idea. That analogy would mean a lot more to me if I liked coffee.

“I feel like such a failure,” my friend Lucy told me over the phone. “I got my degree in music ed and now I’m a bank teller. My college education was a complete waste of time and money.” “You are not a failure,” I assured her. But beyond that, I wasn’t quite sure what to say. In the days that followed I thought about what I’d like to say to my friend, and to others struggling with the fact that things haven’t gone as they’d hoped after college.

1. College is about more than career training. Yes, most of us attend college to prepare for a specific vocation. But it doesn’t take long to realize there are a host of other life lessons we pick up along the way. How to get along with difficult people. How to organize your time. How to depend more fully on God. I even learned how to crack an egg with one hand while working the breakfast shift in the college cafeteria. Think about the friends you made, the challenges you overcame. The benefits of college go beyond preparing us for a job. So don’t measure the “worth” of those years solely by your rung on the corporate ladder.

2. You probably won’t be in this job forever. My father worked for the same company for 40 years. That was fairly common in his era. But it’s not so common today. The U.S. Bureau of Labor reports that people change occupations about every five years. My husband, for instance, studied broadcasting in college and worked in a radio station after graduation. Then, after discovering how much he enjoyed teaching a class of junior high boys at church, he went back to college to become a math teacher. After a few years teaching he decided he’d be better suited to a business environment and spent the next 20 years in information technology. So if you’re unhappy with the job you have now, remind yourself that you likely won’t be in that job for 40 years.

3. Find another way to put your education to work. Lucy—a trained music educator—could fulfill her passion for teaching by volunteering. I suspect her disappointment about not being a high school choir director would be softened if she volunteered to lead a children’s choir at her church or if she helped out at an after school music program at an inner-city school. Instead of bemoaning the job you don’t have, ask yourself what you could be doing with your non-work hours that might put your hard-earned college education to work.

4. God is more concerned about who you are than what you do. This is the most important thing I’d say to Lucy. As I read the Bible, I find scores of verses about good character and much less about career choice. God values honesty, compassion, kindness, . . .

• Teach me your ways, O LORD, that I may live according to your truth! Grant me purity of heart, so that I may honor you (Psalm 86:11).


• For God saved us and called us to live a holy life (2 Timothy 1:9).

Even when Scripture does talk about our jobs, it emphasizes how we work, not what we do:

• Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving (Colossians 3:23, 24).

I sincerely doubt our loving heavenly Father shakes His head at Lucy and says, “Too bad she’s not a music teacher.” No—He’s looking for things like how she treats her clientele, how she relates to her co-workers, how her words reflect His character.

This reminds me of a trip my husband and I took to Africa several years ago to visit my husband’s sister and her family who were missionaries. They lived on a remote, mountain compound with a hospital, a Bible school, and a church. One day we toured a row of cement block rooms that housed the Bible school students. The rooms were bare—no beds, no desks, no electricity. But my sister-in-law told me that these rooms were a huge step up from the mud shacks these students usually called home.

Throughout that trip, as I observed the contrast between my affluent American lifestyle and the simple ways of these African believers, I realized pleasing God had nothing to do with laptop computers or clever word combinations—the tools of my trade as a writer. Whatever God “required” of us as His children had to be something that could be accomplished in this simple village, in a busy urban center, or a quiet farming community. When I returned home I read the Bible with new curiosity—what does God require of me?

• Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world (James 1:27).


• But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you (Matthew 5:44).


• Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you (Ephesians 4:32).


• . . . live a life worthy of the Lord and please him in every way: bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God (Colossians 1:10).

Over and over again God talks to us about the way we treat people, doing good, getting to know Him, bearing fruit—things that have nothing to do with occupation.

It’s easy to say those things, even believe them mentally. It’s harder to embrace them when you spend 40 hours a week doing something that doesn’t fulfill or satisfy. But don’t give in to the temptation to measure success by your job. Success is living your life—the whole of your life—in a way that pleases God.

Whether you’re a music teacher or bank teller.

And that’s what I’d tell Lucy.

This article originally appeared on the NavConnect website, a ministry of The Navigators. http://navconnect.navigators.org/2010/12/08/success/ Used with permission.

Scattered thoughts from a busy week

• I can’t imagine living through an earthquake and a tsunami, and then spending several hours wondering if my family was alive.
• How in the world are the Japanese people going to clean up all the garbage created by the tsunami?
• It’s wonderful to have friends that understand without me having to explain everything.
• Skype is fun. We just got it set up at home and talked to Doug’s sister and her husband as our test drive.
• I’m not a huge cake fan, but I shared an enormous piece of chocolate cake from a restaurant with Kate and Eric that was served with fresh fruit and raspberry sauce. Of that, I am a fan.
• A friend of mine just gave birth to a beautiful ten pound baby boy. Fifteen years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy who was 9 lbs 13 1/2 oz. I’m a little upset that she beat me.
• Everybody has troubles. Everybody.
• The other night I was making gumbo while my husband and our three teenagers played Monopoly on the dining room table. In that moment, all was right with the world.
• In the grocery store, I thanked a soldier for serving our country. I’m going to do that more often.
• I’m getting very gray.
• I don’t know what the future holds but I know who holds the future. That’s a little trite but I like it.
• Birds. I’m delighted to hear them singing now, but I know I will come to curse them some summer morning. I shouldn’t do that.
• I miss my parents.
• Barber’s Adagio for Strings. It makes me cry every time.
• I’d love to have a typewriter. (But not in place of a computer.)
• You don’t have to be old to be grown up.
• You can be old and not very grown up.
• I love citrus “flavored” lotion.
• “Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

"Oh, That's Okay"

Squeak, squeak, scrape.

That’s the sound of me pushing my soap box across the floor. I’m about to step up and give you an ear full. Be warned.

“I’m sorry.”

These two words cause me a lot of anguish. But it’s not what you might think.

It’s not that I find it difficult to apologize (or that I find it easy). It’s not that I think anybody owes me an apology. It’s that our society doesn’t really know what to do with those two little words.

First of all, we quite often use “I’m sorry” when we really mean “I apologize.” The phrase “I’m sorry” means “to be filled with sorrow.” For example, it’s a common practice to say “I’m sorry” to someone who has just experienced the loss of a loved one. You’re letting that person know that you are filled with sorrow over his or her loss. You’re not apologizing for anything.

I doubt that I’ll be able to get the entire English speaking world to say “I apologize” when that is what they mean rather than “I’m sorry.” And I can’t say it’s wrong to use “I’m sorry” in this way. I’m sure I do it myself. But it would be more accurate and more clear to use “I apologize” when that is what we’re really trying to say.

What bothers me even more is that our society doesn’t know how to respond to an apology. Let me give you a for instance.

After a recent shopping trip, a friend of mine discovered her four-year-old daughter came home with a candy bar that was not paid for, if you know what I mean. After confirming the suspicion that the candy was hijacked from the store, and after a conversation about the fact that stealing is wrong, my friend returned to the store with her daughter so little darlin' could confess to the manager what she’d done and ask for forgiveness.

With a little help from Mom, the sweetie told the store manager she’d stolen a candy bar.

“I’m sorry,” the child humbly confessed.

“Oh, that’s okay,” the manager responded.

My friend wanted to strangle the shopkeeper (though that would have required more apologizing so she refrained). “Don’t tell her it’s okay,” my friend wanted to say. “It’s not okay!”

I was equally appalled. We the people need to learn how to say “I forgive you.” That’s the proper response to an apology (provided you’re willing to extend forgiveness). Or perhaps "I accept your apology." Or at the very least, “Thank you for the apology.” And sometimes it’s appropriate to say, “That’s so nice of you, but I don’t feel like an apology is necessary.” Anything but “that’s okay.” If it were okay, there would be no need to apologize!

Please, people. Formulate a good response of your own, practice it privately if you must, but don’t tell me “it’s okay.” It’s not okay.

Squeak, squeak, scrape.

Remodeled

Sometimes I wish things wouldn’t change.

I recently saw a photograph of the Iowa farmhouse my Aunt Betty and Uncle Bill lived in when I was growing up. Back then, it was a simple, two-story brick house, with an insanely steep staircase going from the main floor to the bedrooms above.

The house sat across the road from the cornfields my uncle farmed with my grandfather. A pair of binoculars sat in the living room windowsill so we could track Uncle Bill and Grandpa in their day’s work, or watch the storms coming in, at times welcomed, at times not.

There was a porch with a swing in the front, and an enclosed porch on one side next to the kitchen. I loved that house.

But in time, Aunt Betty and Uncle Bill needed a place without an insane staircase, and they moved into town.

A few weeks ago, one of my sisters traveled through Iowa and she drove by Uncle Bill and Aunt Betty’s old house, stopped the car, and snapped a photograph.

When I saw the photo I was shocked—and a little horrified. The new residents added a whole wing onto the old farmhouse. In fact, it’s like two houses, joined with a window-lined passageway. Very modern. Lovely. But wrong.

I liked it the way it was. With the porch and the swing.

And Aunt Betty and Uncle Bill.

And that’s the point, really. I miss knowing Aunt Betty is bustling around kitchen making Rice Krispie Treats. I miss seeing Uncle Bill on his tractor, or rubbing the head of his favorite dog.

The remodeled house is just another reminder that time is marching on, that nothing stays the same. Except our unchanging, eternal God. And that’s where I need to place my hope and my joy. Yes, houses come and go. Even the people we love come and go. But Jesus? The same yesterday, today, and forever.

Stories from the ER

One of my friends works in a local emergency room. Every once in a while she will pass along a story about some strange case she encountered—usually involving a lot of blood. But today I heard about a 20-year-old patient who died and whose parents chose to donate 17 organs and other tissues from their child’s body to that many sick, suffering strangers.

I don’t know what 17 things were donated beyond some of the obvious ones—eyes, kidneys, heart. During the surgery there were 17 medical professionals on hand to receive a particular body part for a needy recipient. My friend observed that each of the people transferring the body part to its destination paused to thank the donor before leaving the room.

Can you picture it? I’m sure each person knew the urgency of handling the donated item quickly. But they acknowledged that each organ, each piece of tissue, had come at the cost of a human life.

My mind went quickly to Jesus. He died so that I might know life. His back bled, His joints popped, His eyes closed, His heart stopped. For me. For you. For the world he loved.

So I pause . . .

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus.

Weight Control

I blame my mother. And why not? Isn’t that how we all explain away our various phobias and addictions? She once admitted she’s probably to blame for my dislike of cats. It’s either that or the fact that cats are self-absorbed, boring, redundant little creatures. But I digress.

As the title of this article suggests, I’m blaming my mother for my issues with weight control. I don’t blame her for my weight problems, mind you. My propensity for carrying a little too much cushion around the middle could have just as easily come from my father’s side of the family. No, I blame my mother for my preoccupation with diets and weight control.

Mom was a beautiful woman who apparently thought she needed to shed a few pounds. I confess, she wasn’t svelte, but she certainly wasn’t heavy. But from the time I was old enough to notice, I noticed Mom was always on some kind of diet. I can picture the little BBs she lined up on the kitchen windowsill to reminder her to drink eight glasses of water a day. I remember the cartons of cottage cheese that she ate because they were low in calorie (and because she genuinely liked cottage cheese, especially with a canned peach on top).

I also remember the time she told me about my father’s weight loss plan. If he thought he had put on a few pounds, he’d cut out the graham crackers and milk he ate before bed. And sure enough, that brought his weight back down to where he wanted it to be. And I assume he reinstated the crackers and milk. That’s so not fair.

I recently heard of a diet plan that even I am unwilling to try. It’s the Dixie Cup Diet. (Don’t Google it. You’ll discover a very different, very gross diet plan that involves spitting out your masticated food into a Dixie Cup. There. I just told you the gross version so now you really don’t have to look it up.) The Dixie Cup Diet I recently heard about is this: Eat only three Dixie Cups of food a day.

Yes, the little cups. Yes, three. Yes, a day.

Apparently, that’s how much food a person can eat who has had their stomach stapled.

When that diet plan seemed a bit out of reach, I decided to see what was recommended for people who have diabetes. I Googled “Diabetes Diet.” In addition to suggesting the eater avoid sweets, red meats, fried foods, fast foods, and a few other fatty things, the website I selected offered the following meal plan:

• One serving of protein (3 oz of chicken, lean beef, or fish)
• One serving of bread (whole grain roll, tortilla, or ½ cup pasta)
• One serving of dairy (cheese, milk, or low-fat sour cream)
• One serving of vegetables (fist sized portion or a small bowl of salad)
• One serving fruit (tennis ball sized or ½ cup sliced)

I interpreted the above diet plan to mean I could eat one of everything. Now that is a diet I can live with.

The Trouble with Texting

I should give up texting altogether.

I trust you remember the “hat feet” fiasco. (If not, read the blog post from September 17, 2009.) Since that experience I have learned how to form coherent sentences when texting, complete with proper punctuation. Just when I thought I’d mastered the whole texting thing, I got a phone call from a Colorado Springs homicide detective.

Let me explain. This week, my 19-year-old daughter, Abby, has been taking care of some friends' cats and zucchini while said friends are out of town. I should just trust that said 19-year-old is on top of things, but I’m a mother, and sometimes I don’t do so well with the whole “keep-your-nose-out-of-it” thing.

I was a little worried that our friends would come home to feline fatalities, so before settling in at the office one morning I sent Abby a friendly—okay, motherly—little text: Did you feed the cats yesterday?

Everything was spelled correctly; it was a full sentence, proper capitalization and punctuation—good to go. I went to select Abby’s phone number. There were two very similar numbers in my “recently used” list. At one time in the past I misdialed her number and now both numbers are saved on my phone. Was Abby’s number xx7-xxxx or xx9-xxxx? I know I’ve selected the wrong one a few times. I held my breath and selected xx9-xxxx.

Send.

A few minutes later I got a call on my cell phone. The phone number on the display screen was a little odd. It wasn’t a standard seven-digit number. Maybe it’s the phone company, I told myself and answered it.

“Hello?” I said.

"Hello. Is this 5xx-xxxx?” a deep voice asked, reciting my phone number precisely.

“Yes.”

“This is Detective Howard with the Colorado Springs Police Department.”

My mind raced. Eric is on a camping trip—did something happen? Did someone break into the house? Has my car been stolen?

“Yes . . .” I responded tentatively.

“My phone number is xx9-xxxx. I’ve been receiving some unusual texts from this number. Can you explain this?”

Flooded with both relief and embarrassment, I began to babble. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Your phone number is one digit different than my daughter’s. I texted your number by mistake. I had both numbers on my list and I wasn't sure if she was 7 or 9 and I chose 9 when I should have chosen 7. It will never happen again. I'm so sorry—”

Officer Howard chuckled. “Oh, that’s a relief. I’ve been known to get harassing calls from people I’ve worked with as a homicide detective. I’ve had to change my number more than once.”

“I’m so sorry,” I continued, my heart beat back to normal. “I’ll be more careful.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Now that I know it’s not a disgruntled citizen it’s okay. Text away.”

Feeling comfortable with the friendly homicide detective I asked, “So, did you feed the cats yesterday?”

Anyway, like I said, I should just give up texting altogether. Or at least be sure of my phone numbers. In the future I’ll be sure to use xx7-xxxx. Or is it xx9?