Great Expectations

I carried the eight-inch stack of papers outside to the fire pit.  In my goal to simplify, I’d mercilessly purged my career file.  After all, I was now retired and had no need to keep four decades’ worth of documents.

I tossed a few pages in the pit and struck a match.  Slowly, the edges of discarded papers curled and turned brown.  As the flames danced across the paper, I was overwhelmed.

I felt panicked.  I was burning a significant part of my identity.  Each piece of paper represented my federal, contractor, and corporate careers—and I was tossing them in the fire!  What if I needed that Standard Form 50 from 1985?  Or my position description from when I worked for the Commanding Officer?  Or a detailed, job-specific resume? Or proof of my security clearance?  I considered grabbing the nearby garden hose and extinguishing the fire.

I felt sad. All of these papers detailed milestones and events of my 42-year career.  I’d worked over 85,000 hours, yet my length-of-service awards, resumes, position descriptions, and professional certifications held no interest for anyone other than me. Yet did that warrant them being reduced to ashes?

I felt sentimental.  As I sorted through the paperwork preparing for the big burn, I came across naval letters of commendation for a job well-done, cheering emails with atta-girls, glowing comments on performance appraisals, and encouraging handwritten kudos.  How could I forget coordinating the naval changes-of-command, which was like planning a wedding but without choosing a color scheme or deciding what the attendants would wear?  Or the high-visibility, nerve-racking Admiral’s Fleet Officer Support Conference? Or the details involved for the annual leadership conferences? Or the frenzied preparation and rigid protocol for the dozens of VIP visits?  I decided to salvage—and savor—those words of approval, affirmation, and appreciation from the burn pile.

I felt relief as I tossed my annual performance reviews in the fire.  Those performance evaluations had been the source of my angst throughout my entire career.  Achievable expectations set by management always morphed into self-imposed, unrealistic expectations.  I had to achieve excellence at all times and in all tasks.  I deemed mistakes unacceptable; the smallest error would haunt me for days and scream of my failure. Now, with the documents destined for destruction, I could exhale. I no longer wore the chains of performing perfectly in the workplace.

I wadded up more papers and tossed them in the flames. The paper ball writhed in response to the heat.

"That's what I did my entire career," I thought.  "I writhed under the heat of perfection."

As I jabbed the paper deeper into the flames, I had a huge ah-ha moment. My striving for perfection didn't begin or end in the workplace; I'd been living with great self-expectations of perfection my entire life—and I was still living with it!

As a child of a career Marine, I was introduced to good order and discipline at a very young age.  Every toy had its place; if it was out of place, it was thrown away.  There was no questioning, no excuses, no talking back.  I was expected to do what I was told the minute I was told to do it, and to do it right the first time. I quickly learned that good behavior was pleasing and the reward was love.  Mistakes and misbehavior meant I wasn't good enough to be loved.

Early on, I formed an equation to live by: my perfect performance + pleasing everyone = affirmation and approval = I was loved.  I strived for perfection and affirmation at all times. At home. At school. At work. In every work relationship.  In every friendship.  In my walk with God.

The fire popped and spewed small red-hot particles skyward.

I realized I'd gotten my life equation wrong—so very wrong.  The correct equation is God's grace + God's mercy + God's love = I am loved, worthy, and redeemed.   

I grabbed a large stack of papers and dumped them in the fire.

It was time to make a change. A big change. I needed to torch the unrealistic self-expectations that I had to be constantly perfect. To incinerate the tainted perception that I was defined by what I thought other people thought.  And to sear the lie that I needed someone’s approval to be worthy.

Suddenly, the flames erupted and consumed the papers.  The fire burned hot—so hot that I had to quickly retreat several feet.  In a matter of minutes, only ashes remained.

I stared at the ashes and blinked back tears. All the official evidence of who I’d been and what I’d accomplished in life was now a pile of gray dust.  I wasn’t sure how I felt.

Then I realized the ashes were a powerful word picture—a vivid reminder—that the Lord will take what has burned up, burned down, and burned out and make it into something beautiful.   

Unexpectedly, a warm feeling began to radiate in the depths of my charred soul. A feeling of expectancy, anticipation, and excitement.  I sensed God was about to do something new.

And God did something new: He fanned the flames of courage for me to make big changes.

Eighteen months have now passed.  My journey to change has been uphill, hard and challenging.  I've wrestled with my strongholds, sought professional help, and shed gallons of tears. I've been through the Refiner's fire.  Today, my hope is rekindled, my joy re-ignited, and my peace reclaimed.  With a freshly fueled wildfire faith, I am waiting and watching—with great expectation—to see what God will do next!

To give them beauty for ashes.  ~ Isaiah 61:3