(May 5, 2013) When my firstborn entered this world, he was sick, and as I stood over that Plexiglas baby bed, breathing tubes and wires and IV’s all braided around him, I was scared, devoid of answers. Now, he’s 18 and soon to be heading off to college with a myriad more questions floating before him: What’s your major? Your career? Will you make good money? Are you sure it’s the best choice?
And I have no more answers than when I hovered over him as he gasped for every breath.
Within weeks of my graduation, I could recite answers to nearly all those questions. I had a “call” in my life, I would be a pastor, impacting the world with the gospel. So I traded my sport-filled, outdoorsey life for the cloistered existence of a Bible scholar, studying Greek and Hebrew, reading theology and philosophy. Before seminary, my friends back in Tennessee would have described me as competitive—crazy about games with a sphere (especially baseball). I rode four wheelers, hunted deer, duck, and goose, and fished every week of the summer. But I left it all, propped the fishing pole in the corner, clicked off the World Series, and buried my nose in research and writing sermons and answering the toughest of eternal questions. I thought it was what I was made for…
And I was wrong.
Well, at least partly wrong. Those 15 years of clergy life taught me a ton about God and more than I wanted to know about people, but mostly, I learned about myself. I learned that the fishbowl existence endured by many pastoral families was not for me. I learned that I was a teacher, a coach, and a storyteller at heart. Although I had been doing a good thing in serving God and the church, I wasn’t being who I was meant to be; I was meant to be in the classroom and on the sidelines. I live to tell stories, stories involving creeks, and woods, and rivers and the things we learn in our ragtag adventures through this world. Some may struggle with my decision, may say that it can’t be right, that I had a “calling,” but all I can say is that I’m a better husband now and twice the father and I’m finally at peace. Don’t be mistaken, I’m grateful for those days and for all the lessons, and I’m still committed to my faith, but I learned that even a sacred profession can turn sour if it isn’t the right fit.
So what do I tell my soon-to-be-graduate as he stands on the precipice of his future? How can I be a guide when it took me 15 years to find the right destination?
So I sit at my desk and offer the best advice I can scrounge: grab those present opportunities, run through the doors that crack open, and work your fingers to the bone while you’re there; all the while eyeing the big picture—the most important things in life—God and family, giving yourself wholly to them. That’s it. That’s what I have after searching, thinking, praying, and trying out all sorts of ideas for my own future. Hopefully, it won’t take him near the time it took me. Hopefully, he’ll pass my few successes and not struggle too much. Nevertheless, if he doesn’t make six figures or live in a huge home, I pray he’ll be loving life as I do, and as he stands over the beds of his children, hopefully, he’ll have a few more answers.
By Blue Ribbon News special contributor Scott Gill of Rockwall. He’s a teacher, coach and author of the young adult adventure novel, Goliath Catfish. His writings have appeared in Dallas Child, Teachers of Vision and Chicken Soup for the Soul.
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