I walked out of the building with several bags, my purse, and, of course, my coffee.
I tossed the bags into the trunk and pushed the button to close it.
The trunk started down…and immediately popped back open.
Still holding my purse and coffee, I moved a few things around, making sure nothing was in the way, and pushed the button again.
Closing…
And back up it went.
Fine.
I rearranged things one more time, checked the latch, and tried again.
Nope.
At this point, I decided the automatic button was obviously the problem, so I would just close the trunk myself. I pushed it down firmly.
There.
That should do it.
Nope.
The trunk popped right back open.
I finally took the hint.
I looked for the key fob that normally hangs from my belt loop, but it wasn’t there.
I found it.
In a bag.
In the trunk.
The car wasn’t malfunctioning. Nothing was blocking the latch. And apparently pushing harder wasn’t going to solve the problem.
The trunk was keeping me from locking my key fob inside.
Sometimes we need to take a hint.
Unfortunately, it has occasionally taken me considerably longer than three attempts to recognize one.
I Had a Plan
There was a time in my teaching career when I was convinced that the next logical step for me was administration.
It made sense.
I earned my master’s degree in administration and supervision.
I had been teaching in Maryland for several years. I loved leadership. (I’m Lucy, remember?) I enjoyed working with other teachers and solving problems. I mentored new teachers and student teachers. I took on leadership responsibilities beyond my own classroom.
Then I started applying for administrative positions.
And interviewing.
And getting turned down.
Closing…
Pop.
I applied for another.
Closing…
Pop.
I earned a master’s degree in instructional technology and design.
I kept working. Kept learning. Kept building my skills. I served on educational technology committees and led professional development. I looked for opportunities to grow and to demonstrate that I was capable of doing more.
And I kept teaching.
Eventually, I began working on my doctorate in Educational Leadership and Instructional Technology. Of all the participants in my doctoral program, only two of us were still classroom teachers. Everyone else was already working in administration or higher education.
Certainly, I was headed there too.
Except I wasn’t.
When Trying Harder Isn’t the Answer
There is certainly something to be said for perseverance.
One rejection doesn’t necessarily mean we’re headed in the wrong direction. Neither do two. Sometimes the right response to an obstacle really is to work harder, learn more, try again, and refuse to quit.
But sometimes we can become so determined to make something happen that we never stop to consider why it keeps not happening.
I did what I had done with my trunk.
Move something.
Try again.
Rearrange something.
Try again.
Push a little harder.
Surely this time it will work.
But at some point, I began to realize something about myself.
My best work happened in the classroom.
That’s where I thrived.
That’s where the things I was good at came together: teaching, creating, communicating, encouraging, challenging, building relationships, and helping students discover abilities they didn’t know they possessed.
I had spent so much time looking toward what I thought should come next that I hadn’t fully appreciated the work God had given me to do right where I was.
Proverbs 16:9 says:
“The heart of man plans his way, but the LORD establishes his steps.”
I had planned my way.
There wasn’t anything inherently wrong with the plan. I wasn’t chasing something foolish or irresponsible. I had prepared for administration. I had earned the degrees. I had developed leadership experience. From where I stood, it seemed like a perfectly reasonable direction for my life.
But those weren’t the steps I ultimately took.
And now, looking backward, I can see things I couldn’t possibly see then.
What I Couldn’t See
I couldn’t see West Virginia.
I couldn’t see myself walking into Spring Mills High School and meeting the students who would eventually become such an important part of my story.
And I certainly couldn’t see the theatre program.
I had an opportunity to create a theatre program where none existed. In my five years there, we established a Thespian Troupe, won awards, took trips, hosted one-act festivals, and staged full-length plays and musicals—all while forging relationships that are still precious to me.
None of that was visible when I was sitting through another interview, hoping someone would finally give me the administrative position I thought was supposed to be next.
At the time, I saw rejection.
Looking back, I can see redirection.
Had one of those administrative positions worked out, my story would have been different.
Maybe it would have been a good story. I don’t know.
But I do know what I would have missed.
I would have missed those students.
I would have missed that classroom.
I would have missed the opportunity to build a theatre program that gave so many students a place to learn, create, perform, and belong.
And I would have missed some of the most meaningful work of my career.
Maybe Take the Hint
I don’t believe every difficulty is a sign from God that we should quit. I don’t believe every rejection means we’re pursuing the wrong thing. And I certainly don’t believe we should encounter one closed door and immediately announce, “Well, I guess God doesn’t want me to do that.”
Sometimes faithfulness means knocking again. Sometimes it means working harder, becoming better prepared, and trying one more time.
But perseverance and discernment aren’t opposites. There may come a point when we need to stop asking only, “What else do I need to do to make this happen?” and begin asking, “Lord, is there something here I need to see?”
Proverbs tells me that while I may plan my way, God establishes my steps.
I couldn’t see West Virginia. I couldn’t see Spring Mills. I couldn’t see a stage filled with students who would become precious to me.
I could only see the door that wouldn’t open.
God could see the path.
That’s what I want to remember the next time something isn’t going according to my perfectly reasonable plan. I can keep working. I can keep growing. I can keep knocking when it’s appropriate to knock.
But I can also pay attention.
I can trust that the God who establishes my steps sees farther down the road than I do.
And sometimes, I can take the hint.
