For Everything There Is a Season

Originally published Sunday, October 20, 2013

Why should it be so difficult to figure out what you’re supposed to do? 

Some people sail through life, seemingly without a care in the world. They pursue a career that they enjoy and through which they earn a decent living. They enjoy their family and friends, root for the winning team, and marry the right person. I say “seem” because no one can really know what lurks in the hearts of men. But at least, by all outward appearances, they are enjoying some sense of fulfillment in what they are doing. And more, they seem to be following the correct course for their life.

Others of us, we seem to be constantly swimming upstream, fighting the current, trying to avoid the flotsam coming toward us, wondering what the hell this is all about. We try to listen to the voice of God, to discover some direction in the cacophony of signals coming at us, to find some indication of which path to take, where to find some sense of fulfillment in careers, relationships, in life. 

I find myself presented with a choice, and I have no idea which direction to go: About a year ago, upon returning from Spain, I took a project management contract that turned out not to be as promised, so I found another. That company was going through a massive reorganization due to a buy-out and I, along with all the other contract project managers, was laid off. I was fortunate to find another contract in two weeks, but that, again, recently came to an abrupt end. My skill set just didn’t fulfill the requirements of that particular job. As Forrest Gump said, “It happens.”

The fact is, I don’t even want to work as a project manager. I only do it because that’s where I earn the most money and I feel  the need to put some of that away for the future.

Which brings me to the point of all this: Am I following God’s plan by continuing to work in a role I neither enjoy, nor suits my temperament and skills? Or am I displaying a lack of faith by doing so? Should I chuck it all? Step out of the boat to join Jesus on the water, accepting as pure faith that I won’t sink and drown? 

Alternately, maybe I’m being given these contracts, unfitting as they may be, so that I can put some money in the bank and then pursue what I’d rather do at some point in the future without the financial Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. Maybe I’m exercising my faith by slogging through each month, watching my countdown calendar, which today shows 76 weeks remaining before I leave for the next pilgrimage that I so desperately want to begin. For everything there is a season.

But what season is this?

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