The Consequences of Failure
“Superintendent wants to see you,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact but weighted.
The words hit like a hammer. My breath caught, my chest tightening. “Now?” I managed to ask, though the question felt pointless. Of course, he meant now.
He nodded, already turning away. “He’s expecting you.”
My hands felt clammy as I punched my card and walked toward the office. The journey from the shop floor to the superintendent’s office had never felt so long. Every step echoed in my ears, amplified by the heavy stillness of the early morning. The hum of the machines faded behind me, replaced by the sound of my own heartbeat, pounding hard and fast.
By the time I reached the door, my mind was racing. What am I going to say? Should I admit it? Play it cool? Maybe he’ll just give me a warning... My fists clenched as I tried to steady myself. The cold metal of the doorknob sent a shiver up my spine as I twisted it.
The air inside felt colder—clinical, as though the room itself anticipated what was about to unfold. Overhead lights buzzed faintly, a sharp, sterile contrast to the oppressive silence. The superintendent sat stiffly behind his desk, his expression unreadable but resolute. He motioned for me to sit, and I obeyed, sinking into the chair opposite him. My hands clung to the fabric of my pants, desperate for an anchor as the moment hung heavy between us.
The space around us was stark and uninviting—gray walls, a battered desk cluttered with papers, and a single window partially obscured by half-closed blinds, their slats casting fractured patterns of pale, wintry light onto the floor.
His words cut through the silence with the precision of a blade. “Your early departure yesterday didn’t go unnoticed. I’m afraid we can’t keep you on here any longer.”
The weight of his words punched through me, sharp and unrelenting. The cold air in the room seemed to bite deeper, piercing through my skin and sinking into my chest. My throat tightened as I struggled to find something—anything—to say, but the stark finality of his tone left no room for argument. The drab gray walls and utilitarian furnishings seemed to press inward, amplifying the sudden emptiness clawing at my chest.
I nodded, muttering a quiet, “I understand.” My voice barely sounded like my own. Rising to leave, I felt the sting of failure settle deep, its sharp edges cutting through the numbness that had taken hold.
A Closed Door, an Open Path
Unemployed and adrift, I stood at a crossroads, staring into the unknown. Fear clawed at the edges of my mind, whispering doubts I couldn’t shake: What if I never find another job? What if I’m not enough? A part of me longed to retreat, to patch the hole in my life with another monotonous job like the one I’d just lost, clinging to the false comfort of familiarity. But beneath the fear, something stirred—a quieter, insistent voice that refused to let me settle.
God had been there all along, even in the frustration and sleepless nights. I see it now, clear as daylight: losing the job wasn’t punishment; it was permission—permission to leave behind a life that no longer fit. It was a hand, unseen but firm, nudging me out of the door I would have clung to for far too long.
The road ahead wasn’t clear, but it was wide open, stretching into possibilities I couldn’t yet grasp. I felt a flicker of purpose, faint and fragile, like the first hint of light at dawn. This wasn’t just uncertainty—it was transformation, the moment when God gently stripped away the safety net of the familiar and whispered, Trust Me.
Looking back, I see now how pivotal that moment was. The sawmill had been a chapter, yes, but the story wasn’t over. In fact, it was only just beginning.
Finding Shelter at Dad’s
This unexpected firing would land me in at dad’s doorstep, a place I hadn’t planned to be and wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to stay. At first, it would feel like a retreat, a quiet stop to regroup and catch my breath. But as the days turned into weeks, I would begin to realize it was more than just a temporary refuge—it was a place where I could grow, even if I didn’t recognize it at the time. His house became a haven, a space of encouragement and gentle guidance as I wrestled with the uncertainty of what came next.
What began as a season of loss was slowly being transformed into a season of preparation. God wasn’t just closing a door; He was opening a way forward, offering me a foundation to stand on as I learned to trust His direction, even when the road ahead was shrouded in uncertainty. In hindsight, what felt like the end of everything familiar was actually the beginning of something far greater—a life that would be filled with His purpose and grace.
That city was where I wanted to go, but living with my father and his family? That was another matter entirely. To me, my father’s faith created a divide I couldn’t quite bridge. His home radiated a glow of contentment, a happiness born from his steady faith, but to me, it only magnified my own deflation. Conversations with him felt like trying to shout across a canyon; his warmth and optimism seemed unreachable, as if separated from me by an invisible wall. The thought of stepping into that space, carrying the weight of my failure, felt suffocating.
The Divide Between Us
Every fiber of my being resisted the unseen hand steering my life, pulling me toward something I wasn’t sure I could embrace. My father was religious, and that created an invisible wall between us—a barrier that felt both impassable and intangible. Conversations with him felt like shouting across a vast, empty canyon; my words echoed back to me, distorted and hollow, while his responses, though calm and thoughtful, seemed to drift just out of reach. His steady optimism, so foreign to my own restless turmoil, only deepened the chasm. It wasn’t hostility or conflict that kept us apart—it was the quiet, unsettling sense that we were living in two entirely different worlds. I had no language for what I was experiencing at the time, but the distance was palpable, leaving me wary of drawing too close.
To me, my father was religious, and that created a barrier between us—one I couldn’t easily see past. Conversations with him felt like trying to talk over a telephone line that had suddenly gone dead. I would speak, but my words seemed to vanish before reaching him. His responses, though kind and thoughtful, felt muffled, as though we were separated by an invisible glass wall. It was a wall I couldn’t explain, yet I felt its presence in every interaction.
At the time, I didn’t recognize the irony. Just weeks earlier, I had prayed the sinner’s prayer myself, stepping onto the very path I believed separated us. By my own definition, I was now “religious,” but in my mind, we were still on different planes of existence. I couldn’t relate to him as I had before his conversion, and that disconnection left me restless and wary of drawing closer.
Lessons in Surrender
At first, the discomfort of being under my father’s roof was all I could see. It clouded everything, leaving me restless and determined to escape. I clung to my vague plans, convinced that this was just a temporary detour on my journey. The walls of his home, warm and filled with a happiness I couldn’t share, seemed to close in on me. Each moment under his roof amplified my own feelings of inadequacy, deflated by my job loss and the disconnection I felt with my father’s unwavering faith. Yet, the Shepherd was patient, guiding me with a wisdom and love I couldn’t recognize at the time. Like a wayward sheep, I was being nudged—not with force, but with a firm and gentle hand.
My unease wasn’t limited to the confines of my father’s home. A growing distance had begun to emerge between me and the people I once held dear. The friends I’d clung to for years now seemed like strangers, as though we were speaking entirely different languages. The glass wall that had defined my relationship with my father now stood between me and them, leaving me feeling isolated and misunderstood.
I will skip over a section from pages I’m taking this from and give a summary of what took place instead: There was a conflict at church where communion was taking place and I was told I could go up front because I wasn’t a Christian. My temper go a bit warm and my parents and I had words at home about it, and I am not going to tell them I am a Christian.
“Tell us what happened,” he inquired. His kind eyes held mine, a quiet encouragement that made the knot in my chest loosen slightly.
I took a deep breath, my voice shaky but steadying as I began. “It was that morning,” I said. “In the motel room. I turned on 100 Huntley Street, and they were talking about what it means to give your life to Christ. I just… knew. I prayed the sinner’s prayer right there—confessing my sins, asking Jesus to be my Savior and my Lord.”
For a moment, she stood frozen, processing my words. Then, all at once, her face lit up, her eyes filling with tears. She clapped her hands together, her voice trembling with emotion.
“Praise the Lord!” she exclaimed, her joy spilling over like a flood. “Oh, praise the Lord! I had no idea, but He knew! He’s been working in your life all along!”
Her excitement poured out like a flood, but I could only sit there, unsure how to respond. Moments ago, I had been drowning in frustration and doubt. Now, a warmth spread through me, like a light breaking through the storm.
My dad rose slowly from his chair, his movements deliberate as if the moment demanded reverence. His hands rested on my shoulders, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.
“Son,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion, “this… this is what we’ve prayed for. God has been so faithful.”
The knot in my chest loosened as he pulled me into a firm hug. His shoulders trembled, his voice breaking as he whispered, “I’m so proud of you.”
As I stood there, enveloped in their joy and love, I realized this wasn’t just about me. It was about us—family, reconciliation, grace. The first steps into my new life weren’t taken alone. They were taken shoulder to shoulder, united in hope and faith, carrying us all into uncharted territory together.
That day, I stepped into a spiritual truth that would become a cornerstone of my walk with God. Later, I would come to realize the words of Romans 10:9 had come alive in my heart:
"If you declare with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved."
In that moment of confession, I wasn’t merely acknowledging Jesus—I was aligning myself with Him. It wasn’t just a simple affirmation of faith; it was a turning point where belief became action, where faith became surrender. By declaring Him as my Lord, I wasn’t just receiving His grace; I was pledging my life to His purposes. This was more than salvation—it was allegiance. I was embracing His Lordship over my life, committing to listen for His voice, follow His guidance, and walk in obedience to His will.
The gravity of that declaration wouldn’t fully unfold until years later, during a pivotal moment when God called me to tithe my time. I found myself reflecting deeply on Matthew 7:21:
"Not everyone who says to me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but only the one who does the will of my Father who is in heaven."
In that season, I came to understand that simply calling Him Lord wasn’t enough. To truly walk in step with Him, I had to live as though He was my Lord in every sense. It wasn’t about lip service; it was about daily surrender. It meant relinquishing my plans, trusting in His guidance, and aligning my will with His—even when it cost me something.
This realization was both humbling and empowering. It called me to a deeper faith, a faith that demanded action and trust. It challenged me to see my life not as my own, but as His—to be used for His glory, shaped by His will, and directed by His purpose.