I’ve been interviewing for a job for the past two months. I know. Two months. The first conversation was to see if I’m available and would be interested in pursuing an opportunity, which itself was in the process of becoming available. The second meeting was to continue that conversation in greater detail. The following interviews (four in total) were with different directors and departments, including an “informal conversation” as it were with the man in charge. Now, I started this journey with perhaps more than the required dose of skepticism – the fact that there was a month lapse between conversations one and two didn’t help. But I did have one assurance in mind, that whatever the outcome, it would be God’s gift for my good (righteousness and holiness). So, I spent hours preparing, while remaining calm and collected, accepting that this may just be “interview practice”.
By the end of the series, however, nerve-racking got a new face – me in my grey power suit sitting in the president’s office; worrying that every word that comes out of my mouth, every thought that crosses my eyes is being scrutinized by someone who held my professional future in his hands.
What!? How did that happen? Wasn’t I the one being pursued!?
In the two months of learning about this job, I’ve grown to love it without having even done it! It’s the marrying of all the things I love: planning and organizing, mentoring and counseling, curriculum development and teaching, building relationships and forming partnerships – all in a supportive environment that welcomes innovation, encourages exploration, and allows freedom. And the best part? It’s with the population I’m most passionate about!! So, in the past two months, I eagerly prepared for my interviews. I excitedly ended each meeting being more confident that this was what God had been preparing me for during this past year… Even before that. Every professional relationship and experience in the past six years was equipping me for this!!
And yet, here I am, stomach in knots, fretting. Yet I am so anxious that I must obsessively clean my fridge for over an hour. Yet I am so overdosed with skepticism that I refuse to celebrate. “Until it’s officially official,” I tell myself, “don’t get excited. Don’t get your hopes up.”
The alternative then would be, what? Keep your hopes down? Poop on your own parade? The very fact that I’m telling myself not to get too excited is proof that I’m already excited. The floats are already out of storage. The band leader has already started the procession. And here I am, all these wasted hours, trying to convince myself that it’s got nothing to do with me. That somehow spending the next few days (or weeks) sinking in anxiety-driven misery is better than floating in the thrill of exciting new possibilities. Whatever happened to God’s good and perfect plan? Isn’t that always something to celebrate? Instead of frantically trying to get all the balloons back in the storehouse; instead of feverishly attempting to silence the trumpets; why not just put on my tiara and enjoy the ride?