It's been almost a week since I lost my job, and I think I'm finally in a place that I'm able to talk about it. Aside from the obvious (that it stinks to be unemployed), I suppose things could be a lot worse. For example, I might have children to support: mouths to feed, day care bills, college funds, etc... I think back over all of my many co-workers who have been laid off from the department in recent months, including those with ill family members and difficult circumstances, and it makes it hard to feel sorry for myself. I know that this is a turning point in my life... the point that I will one day look back on and say, "that's the best thing that could have happened to me." We don't see the plan for our lives in the moment; you just have to trust that it's there.
To be honest, I never thought there would come a time when I did not have that job; you think that, with almost 16 years in one spot, that you'll be there forever... or at least as long as you want to be. On the other hand, I had grown increasingly disenchanted in recent months. When things slowed down, I lost some of my passion for my work. It's a terrible thing when the job you once loved, dedicated yourself to and identified yourself by, becomes an impossible chore; the days are long and the few tasks you have left to accomplish are largely unfulfilling. I know I might've never had the courage to walk away on my own. Sometimes it's a gift to get the thing you don't want; sometimes it's the only thing that could possibly propel you forward. And as I look back, I realize that the true joy came, not so much from the work or the company (though I enjoyed both) but from the people... and I'm blessed to still have the people.
Two days after my untimely release, I met my work pals for a "last day" picnic we had already planned for Mikey G. After 16 years, he's moving into the next phase of his career to be an educator. He brought me the cookies in this photo, along with his last can of "desk soup", wrapped with a photo of me and a funny poem I'd written about a dozen years ago. We all had some yuks over his hand-decorated "Sorry you got can'd" cookies and the "can" award. And as we sat in the park, eating our sandwiches and laughing over the good times, I had one of those moments. You know the kind: When you realize that you're living a moment that makes life worth living. You have them once in a while, and they are so special when you have the clarity of consciousness to recognize them. I thought to myself, "I wish I could freeze this moment and just enjoy it a little bit longer." Wouldn't it be great if you could save those times in a bottle and pull them down from the shelf and open them when you're feeling a bit low? That hour in the park was a snapshot in time that I'd like to remember forever. And as we clasped hands around the picnic table before leaving and said a prayer, thanking the Lord for the profound gift of our friendship, I couldn't help but tear up. These people are my family. Three of us are gone from the company now and only three are left. We may never, all six, be together again; you never know where life will take you. But I hope they all know how much their friendship, wit and wisdom have touched my soul. As have so many others over the years, they've set the bar pretty high for my future co-workers!
And Mikey G, I really did eat most of those cookies. I ate them, in careful order, until they spelled out the words "You Can". I thought you would enjoy knowing that you are still imparting words of encouragement! And right back at you, buddy...
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