I Quit My Day Job

So much has happened in the past month. 

I took my first ride in a Lyft, and that was interesting. I was a little nervous, so I Googled whether to sit in the front or the back seat, not even kidding. The internet provided the information I needed and made it clear that, if you want to be left alone, sit in the back and put earbuds in, and if you want to talk, sit in the front.

So I sat in the front. I didn't want to ride with someone I don't know anything about. Fortunately, this guy was a great conversationalist. When he asked "What do you do?" I couldn't help but to admit that I quit my job a couple of weeks ago to follow my dream.

I've been a teacher for twelve years. It was my identity. It was a wonderful, easy feeling when people would ask, "What do you do?" 

"I teach," was my response, and the conversation either continued or ended, but either way, it didn't matter. I had a valid response. One I could be proud of, and I was.

I can't say that anymore. I am no longer a teacher. I hesitated when typing that sentence. It is difficult to admit, now that it is complete. Now that the dust has settled and I have a moment to reflect on what I have done. Like grabbing the aglet on the end of a shoelace and gently pulling, it took a matter of seconds to undo everything that I had worked for. This career that I had built. My future is undone. It is more unknown than it has ever been. What was I thinking?

I've been pretty open about it since it happened. I was prepared for scoffing. I was prepared for scrutiny. I was prepared to write a blog entry to serve as a metaphorical middle finger to anyone who laughed and said "You'll never make it."

Imagine how shocked I was when what I received was support. Encouragement. Blessings and well wishes from nearly everyone I told. Everyone-- except my Lyft driver.

He said to me, straight-faced, "You're crazy. No, I don't like what you've done." He said it like he was doing me a favor. Like he was telling me what no one else cared enough to tell me. What no one else was brave enough or presumptuous enough or bossy enough to tell me. He apologized, but explained that it was his honest opinion. He went on to chastise me for thirty minutes, explaining how selfish this seemed and how I needed to provide for my family first and how irresponsible it was for me to quit my job. 

Irresponsible. Selfish. Those words rung in my head and stung my heart, and allowed the doubt that I had suppressed to resurface.

"This is something you do in your spare time," he admonished. "You write a book and work on your craft at night and on the weekends. During the day, you support your family. No, you need to go back to work." 

My Lyft driver and I parted on very good terms. Don't think he was rude or scarred me irreparably. I actually found what he said helpful, because while most everyone was encouraging to my face, I'm sure what he said is what at least a few people have thought, so it was beneficial to hear it voiced.

And it was beneficial because it made me come to terms with how incredibly scared I am.

It would be impossible to count how many times I have asked myself, what have I done? In my daymares, I'm on Let's Make a Deal.

"Alright, Rachel, behind door number one is $4,000 a month plus benefits, and it's yours for as long as you want it! Behind door number 2 is who knows what! You have no idea and we don't either! What'll it be?"

I see myself pointing enthusiastically, with confidence, to Door #2. This is all in slow motion, by the way.

There is a collective horrified gasp from the audience. "Are you sure?!" The host speaks loudly, clearly, eyes wide, not wanting to get sued because he misunderstood.

I am undeterred, jumping up and down, fists in the air, nodding and giddy.

And probably just like some real-life contestants, here I am, a month later, no longer giddy, whispering to myself, "What have I done? I chose Door #2, and there's no going back to Door #1 now."

Sure, I could go back to something similar, but what I had, as blessed and glorious as it was, is now gone. I threw it away for what might be, but is not guaranteed. Oh, Dear God, tell me, what have I done?

Looking at the clouds, I think of what is beyond. In the realms of heaven and hell, am I playing with things bigger than myself and treating them like pawns in a game? Things like protection and divine intervention and miracles and peace of mind, not only for myself, but for the man nearest and dearest to me. "Whatever you bind on Earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on Earth will be loosed in heaven." I've let loose something that was given to me by the almighty creator of all and giver of all good things. I tossed it aside. Discarded it. Doffed it like a glove because my hand got hot. And now it is sealed. On Earth and in heaven, it is done.

I can't explain every event, every scripture, every answered prayer, every moment of inspiration and the ones that brought misery and eventually led me to the point when I quit. I can't detail it for you. I can't tell you how much I have prayed for this and begged God on my knees to pave a path for me. All I can say is that I believe that path exists. It may not lead to $4,000 a month plus health and dental; I would say that's a given. And when I think about what we stand to lose. My car. Our gorgeous, luxurious leather sectional that served as the most indulgent purchase we've ever made. My husband's sanity. He's put up with a lot having to live with me anyway. And now I've gone and quit my job, leaving him as the sole breadwinner for the family. What, in the world, have I done?

Perhaps this will result in little more than frustration and weight gain. Distraction, fatigue, poor marketing-- so much could go wrong here. But maybe, just maybe, these events have unfolded for a purpose. Maybe there is a miracle in store for me, after all.

That miracle might be that I sell an octillion copies of my book. Or the miracle might be that, oh I don't know, that I finish the dang thing in the first place. The miracle might be that I fail miserably and enter the classroom again the next year better than before. 

Or... the miracle might be that I come into the presence of my creator in a capacity that I never imagined. That I become closer to Him than I ever thought possible through the helplessness of the position I have put myself in. He is my only refuge and strength right now. My identity as a teacher is gone, so my only identity is in Him. Maybe that's the miracle.

I think about how much I've been praying lately, and I think of that scene from Steel Magnolias. You know, the one where Truvy scoffs at Annelle because she prays all the time? She rolls her eyes and says to M'Lynn, "She prays at the drop of a hat these days."

M'Lynn gapes at Annelle. All of those lovable friends look shocked; they react the way anyone would react upon finding out that someone is crazy.

Do I really want to be like Annelle? Do I want people to scoff at my religious chatter and roll their eyes when I talk of prayer and, worst of all, unfriend me because my posts may sound less than stable according to the world's standards? I'm not kidding, that's a tough pill to swallow, ya'll.

But if it results in me being made closer to my creator, then yes, that is what I really want.

The future is unknown. Like I said before, so much could go wrong. But, isn't the future of this earthly life continuously unknown anyway? Tomorrow is not guaranteed, and, success or not, it will all come from Him. To God be the glory. For this, for my future, for my past. He will reveal all one day (Daniel 2:22), and I'll see the reason and plan. I'll finally be aware of the invisible crossfire I was caught in and I'll know which bullets He helped me to dodge, and which ones I walked right into because of my perfectionism or my defiance. Or maybe my inarticulate, incoherent way of thinking and communicating-- hence the need to sit in quiet and control words. To make them say exactly what I intend. To read them again and again to be absolutely certain before I make that statement, post that comment, or share that story. I wish I could convey how attractive that is to me. How empowering. How strong this call is to rekindle my relationship with words. But no matter whether anyone on Earth understands or can answer the question, what have I done, what matters is that I did it. Door #1 is a memory. A distant rant from a Lyft ride long ago. I have no choice but to move on toward the next adventure. 

Geronimo.






Photo by MILKOVÍ on Unsplash