Job Satisfaction part tres

Perhaps everyone has some job dis-satisfaction at some point. Their profession turns abruptly to con-fession, and all of us can confess that there are parts of a career that we would love to do without.

My brother-in-law is a partner for Accenture (formerly Arthur Anderson). Russell has worked all over the world including exotic places like New Zealand, Kuala Lumpur, London, Amsterdam, Singapore and, of course, Canada. The one place Russell will not work is the United States - and why is that? Not because he doesn't like the States or that he has a political quarrel with this country, but he doesn't appreciate working 80 hours per week and then receiving so little time off to rejuvenate. Almost everywhere else in the world, there is a mandatory four weeks of holidays for workers so that they can be more productive, but here in the States? You'd be fortunate indeed if you received at least three. There is something so appealing and appalling at the same time about the American "work ethic." The harder you work, the more money you earn, the less time you spend with your family and children, the more (possibly) you rue the lack of time enjoyed when you were younger.

Why the love affair with the almighty work ethic? I have even heard some workers bragging about how much time they work and how little time they spent at home. "I worked 70 hours last week," one might say. "Yes, well, I had a presentation with the 'higher up' and pulled two all nighters." A last one might add, "I gave 70 hours at the office, fifteen hours of charity work, and missed the birth of my daughter. Ah well, she'll forgive me someday."

Of course the last statement I made up, but we often play that career poker game of upping the ante and laying down a full house of not being in the house. It is shameful. But we must work, right?

Yes, we must and there are still parts of the job we would love to avoid whether personnel issues, details or public speaking. If we could trim down our jobs to doing just the things we like to do, well, then you've got your hobby.

The characters of my tree chopping story had different understandings and levels of job satisfaction (or dis-satisfaction), but what was most saddening was that none of them enjoyed what they were doing. Not only were they not being paid well, but it was simply a way to spend their time.

The economy has tanked, and in some ways, I don't want this blog to come off as patronizing, but at this point, when people are out of work, in some ways, it's a re-orientation of what people would really like to do with their lives. What is it that moves them? What is their passion? It might even be an opportunity to sit back, take a deep breath and ask the question, "What is it that God has planned for me?"

How will God use you? Even in the midst of hardships with a profession, how will God use you?

Paul was a tent-maker. Working with canvas (actually, I have no idea what they made tents out of two thousand years ago, but go with me) could have been a tedious job. And, strangely enough, Paul could have done anything he wanted. With his education, his intelligence, his oratory abilities, Paul could have been a Public Relations person for the Roman Empire and made good money at it, too. But, of course, Paul listened to the voice of God (after a while and after some horrible decisions) and was called to put his talents to use.

Many youth and adults that I have come into contact with assume that Paul was always happy with his decision, that he had a nice life as a preacher - worked one day a weak like all preachers do. He lived in a big house next to the temple, carried out his Sunday duties, kissed the kids when they went off to kindergarten.

Many of you already know that Paul was not married, had no real permanent home, although he was a Roman citizen. His preaching was not limited to temples either: he was perfectly comfortable sharing his gifts wherever he was. But, what many people don't realize about the apostle Paul, that his tasks - his profession - his road as an evangelist was pocked with pitfalls. 2 Cor. 11:23-31

"Are they ministers of Christ? I am talking like a madman - I am a better one: with far greater labors, far more imprisonments, with countless floggings, and often near death. Five times I have received from the Jews the forty lashes minus one. Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I received a stoning. Three times I was shipwrecked; for a night and a day adrift at sea; on frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from bandits, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brothers and sisters; in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, hungry and thirsty, often without food, cold and naked. And, besides other things, I am under daily pressure because of my anxiety for all churches. Who is weak, and am I not weak? Who is made to stumble, and I am not indignant? If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness. The God and Father of the Lord Jesus (blessed be he forever!) knows I do not lie."

Paul had the weight of the world on his shoulders; not just the physical suffering, not just the emotional abandonment, not simply the horrifying circumstances, but he carried the cares of a burgeoning church like the yoke of an oxen. But even in his calling, he realized his reliance on the Lord. And so he pressed on - he was greater for it. The beatings and dangers made him stronger and he impressed that fact upon the Corinthians and those who read the letters - even to us today! His job satisfaction was at an all time high because he was weak in the Lord which made him strong. 12:9 "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' So I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me."

His grace is sufficient. Even as we struggle through our job satisfaction (or dis-satisfaction) his grace is sufficient and in our weakness, God's power (which is his love) is made perfect. Reliance in him created the power of the Apostle Paul. If anyone was entitled to claim job dis-satisfaction, Paul could have. But, he simply claimed to be weak.

A few months ago, I met with a young man in his early 30's who had been stationed in some heavy combat in Iraq. Not only was he suffering from emotional and physical trauma from military duty, but when he returned, his life took a drastic turn for the worse as his spouse had not stayed faithful while he was serving his country. I met with him at his parents' house and, while sitting under an umbrella on the back deck, he revealed to me how he felt the need to be strong - the need to be in control. He needed to swallow all of his emotions so that he could be the powerful soldier that he was: no soldier would weep over the hand the life dealt.

He was struggling with a power issue. And as we met, I talked with him about this verse. Maybe God was calling him to be weak? Maybe God was calling him to let the power shift to the Almighty? Maybe true healing comes from our ability to be weak and let the Spirit take control.

The young man wept. His tears - his fears of failure, denial, rage, pain, agony came rushing in a torrent. It was a flood of emotion that I had never seen before - the dam broke and after everything had poured out an overwhelming sense of exhaustion rolled over his face. His body fell limp. He tried to apologize and then stopped himself. "I'm finally weak," he said. "I'm finally weak."

In our weakness, God does his greatest work. In our suffering, God loves us harder than ever. In our struggles with profession or con-fession, God works through us so that we can live in this world and love others.

We may or may not be satisfied with our job which earns wages, but we can be satisfied with our calling as Christians - to love.

Just to be satisfied with the job of loving.

Job Satisfaction - Part Deux

The tree expert, the one from the far distant land of Moronia, from here-to-forth (I don't know if that's really a phrase) shall be called Ernie, placed his tool of choice on the ground. It was a blending of a pool skimmer pole and a chainsaw. I have no idea how it worked other than the fact that the blade moved from twenty feet away while Ernie could keep his feet planted firmly on the ground. Ernie moved with the fluidity of a natural athlete; his bare arms rippled when he held the chainsaw. I watched Christine out of the corner of my eye to see if she was noticing the physique of this young buck. Yup. I tried to place myself a little more in the path of her view so she would look at my be-muscled form. I flexed. Nothing. I cleared my throat while raising my own arms behind my head. She was transfixed. But who can blame her? For her to look at my arms at that point would be like a person going to the zoo to look at domesticated kittens while the lions are roaring in the background.

Ernie, with no verbal encouragement from his friends - in fact, there was not even a recognition that Ernie was going to climb the tree at all - put these spiky things on his shoes, draped some ropes over his head, I noticed he was looking our way to see if we were watching - he purposely flexed his muscles - I saw that! - and began to shinny his way up the now stripped down maple tree. Our tree looked as if it had been systematically disrobed; naked, it stood, as if on stage, very self-conscious, wanting only to disappear. It was at that point I felt the most sorry for it, if one can feel pain for a tree anyway. I think this is the way many people feel at the end of their lives, disrobed, naked - nothing left to cover them. They are painfully aware that earthly life is soon to disappear.

I worked in a nursing home for my clinical pastoral education. Through the first thirty-one years of my life, I had never been in the presence of any one who was truly in the last stages of dying. But, that changed when I met Catherine. She was smart as a whip; feisty, eighty-eight years old and weighed about ninety pounds. The opportunity arose for me to visit with Catherine a few times during a rousing game of Bingo. While most people in the nursing home were playing one card, Catherine was playing three and in the midst of the calls, she would quickly place her chips and go right back to her crossword puzzle. She saw me approach and squinted her eyes through her enormously thick glasses.

"Hello, young buck," she said. Most people in the nursing home dispense with any formalities about titles. They've earned the right, I believe.

"Hello, Catherine, how are we today?"

She waved her hand at me as if flushing a gnat from in front of her face. "Pshh. Shut up, Reid. Stop acting like one of the stiff doctors."

I took a chair beside her. "Are you winning?"

She looked over the table in front of her. An assortment of shampoos, stuffed animals, hand creams and quarters were strewn in front of her. She leaned over to whisper to me. "Some of the others get excited about this (excrement), but to me, it's just stuff to clutter up my room. I usually just give it away anyway."

"That's very kind of you, Catherine."

"I just don't want it in my room. There's nothing kind about it." She reached over and grabbed my hand. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

We strolled down the hallway to her room, she in her wheelchair, I, ambulatory. As we turned in to her room, she motioned for me to sit in one of the last remnants from her home. It was an old, greenish-brown rocking chair circa 1965. As I sat down, she wheeled herself closer to me and immediately took my hand back onto the pillow on her lap covered by a blanket. Catherine always had a blanket over her legs. With liver-spotted hands, she stroked my hand like a cat.

"Reid, I'm getting ready to die."

"Don't say that, Catherine, you've got a lot of days left to live."

She gripped my hand tighter. With one hand she pulled back the blanket to reveal something that I had not known about her. She had both legs amputated. My first reaction was to pull my hands away from her. Holding on tight she said, "That's the reaction that most people have - fear. They want to pull away as if diabetes was contagious, or that death can be transferred through the air we breathe. Please don't do that."

I tried to relax. She pulled the blanket back over her legs. "I'm going to die," she repeated. "But that's not the worst part. What is the scariest, most hurtful part, is that I've been amputated from my family and friends. They come because they feel guilty, or responsible. They don't really want to be here; they just want to put in their time so that they can get their inheritance when I'm gone." I shook my head. "Slowly, piece by piece, my life is being lopped off just like my legs, and I am left just a small shell. It's horrible."

Catherine died two days after this discussion.

It was horrible to watch our tree fall. Piece by piece, amputated from the head to the roots, falling sometimes gracefully to the ground, sometimes crashing. Ernie dissected our maple tree until she was simply a stump sticking up from the ground like a giant's knuckle. As Ernie finished his dismantling, the other three scrambled around on the ground where the tree used to stand. Like ants searching for discarded crumbs from a picnic, the other three workers piled up limbs, branches and leaves. The youngest, who was also the smallest, seemed to be the guinea pig of the group. He got all the rough jobs. Mainly, it was his task to stack the largest of the cut logs, put them into a wheel barrow, and stack them once again around the side of our garage. I tried once again to strike up a conversation.

"So you get to be the strongback of the group?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm the newest. I get all the jobs that the other (sphincter muscles) don't want to do."

"What's your name?" I walked with him to help him deliver his load of chopped limbs.

"Pete."

"Pete, do you mind if I make an observation?"

"Go ahead." He struggled to lift some of the biggest logs on to the pile.

"It doesn't appear as if your crew gets along very well."

Eddie looked at me out of the corner of his eye. Sweat dripped from his brow as the largest of the tree stumps thumped onto the red lava rock that covers the ground outside of our garage.

"Are you a fortune teller?" He smirked.

"Not that I know of," I said.

"The guys I work with are a bunch of (gluteus maximii). They show up, pretend to look busy, and boss me around. I'm fed up with it. I'm about to tell them to shove it (expletives deleted.)" He looked me over for a little bit and then continued. "I'm working two jobs, my girlfriend and I just had a baby, and I'm eight hundred dollars behind on rent. Those guys..." He shook his head.

From a distance I heard Pete being called back. "Pete. Get your lazy (bones) back here and keep working!" One of the others, who I assumed to be the leader of the crew had lit up a smoke and was waving to Peter. Peter mumbled under his breath and hefted his wheelbarrow back to the downed tree. As he made his way through the now trampled grass, the foreman began to lay into Peter. I couldn't here what he was saying, but body language spoke volumes. The foreman pointed his finger into Peter's face; his voice obviously raised, the capillaries in his face filled to full volume. After his verbal admonishment, the foreman walked over to where I was standing. With a stance of penitence the foreman said, "Sorry about that."

I raised my hand. "No problem." I had no idea what he was sorry about.

"He does this on most jobs. If he can chat up the owners, he'll tell them a sob story about his family situation. He hopes that the owners of the trees will feel pity for him and give him a secret bonus. This is his last warning. So, I truly apologize." If he would have been wearing a hat, it would have been in his hands, I think.

"Is his situation really as dire as he says it is?" I asked.

"Well, yeah," the foreman said. "But that's so unprofessional. Besides, if he gets tips on the side, where does that leave the rest of us." The foreman mumbled under his breath. Some form of curse against Peter, I think.

I waved him off over the chorus of chainsaws. "I hope you have a better day."

He didn't say a word.

Job Satisfaction

This will be a multi-part story - I think most people like sequels, although generally the second installment often falls short of the mark. I will attempt in this coupling of weeks to produce some semblance of profundity, but if I fail, ah well, just a blog. Just a blog.

This is a tale of two Mondays. The first, I, Reid, an observer. The second, I, Reid, a character worthy of a Oscar nomination.

Monday #1:

The day blossomed brightly; the light shone through the cracks in the window panes of my bedroom between the shade and the wood. It splayed lightly on the hardwood floor of the bedroom, illuminating the dust that hangs suspended in the air. I rolled over to spy the alarm clock on the dresser and after glancing at the face glowing 6:27, I groaned inwardly calculating how many seconds I could postpone putting my bare feet on the cold floor. But, once my body was awake, and my brain sufficiently suffused with blood from the act of calculating, there was no going back to the glorious, blissful ignorance of early morning sleep.

I stretched my legs hearing the joints crack like a bag full of popcorn. I turned back to my wife, Christine, who had pulled the blankets up over her head like a groundhog returning to its darkened den. I looked up into the mirror that sits next to our bed and noticed the lines of weariness haloing my eyes. The nest of my hair poked out around my ears and I brought a hand up to attempt to tame the static charged follicles. To no avail; the savage hair fought back and stayed standing at attention.

Placing my feet on the ground, I felt the coolness begin to soak the warmth out of my body. Shivering, I reached for the clothes that I had discarded on the floor eight hours before and put them on. Twice I attempted to put my sweatpants on; the first time backwards, the second time both legs in one hole. What a great way to start a day.

I walked out into the hallway to roust the girls from their own pleasant slumbers. The youngest, eyes already opened but smile hidden by the covers, slipped out of bed and reached arms up wanting me to carry her to the breakfast table. I denied her the opportunity, but I always have to remember that the days of carrying my girls are rapidly closing and I want to continue to hold on to their last piece of childhood that I can. I looked at the middle daughter who caught my eye and then emulated her mother by snapping back into the darkened tunnel of her covers.

"Breakfast in 10 minutes, Josephine." I said.

I only got a muffled grunt.

I opened Elsa's door. Her light was already on and a book was open on her bed. "How long have you been up?" I asked.

"When does the sun start shining?" She smiled and pushed her glasses back up on her nose with one finger. Her brown eyes looked at me quizzically as if I had asked her the most inane question in the world.
"Elsa, you have to start turning on more lights when you read. That's why God made the sun so nine-year-old girls can wake up too early in the morning to feed their reading addiction."

Elsa rolled her eyes and said, "Dad, you're so weird."

"10 minutes, Els, 10 minutes." I could see her calculating in her own head how long it would take to get dressed and how many pages that would leave her to read.

Walking down the hallway I heard how the floor made the same sounds as my creaking bones did when I awoke. Maybe it's the same thing: the bones of the house, the floors and walls, creak when they are wakened? Flipping the kitchen light, I shuffled across the grainy, tiled floor of the kitchen noticing the dishes that I'd neglected the night before. Housework never seems to be over, have you ever noticed that? Is there ever a moment when you sit down, look at every corner of the house and say, "Great, now I can take a break."

After making the traditional breakfast and lunch for the girls, cereal and milk for the former and traditional Vegemite sandwiches for the latter (isn't that what all children have for lunch?), I perused my calendar for the day. It was my day off - or as 'off' as it gets. As an adult, there really is no such thing as an off day, no day to leisurely read a book or take a walk, I noticed a star by the calendar. Today was the day that the tree removal experts were coming. Over the years two trees in our front yard had gradually begun shedding limbs like chickens molting feathers and it was only a matter of time when one of those thousand pound feathers was going to pulverize the roof of the house. Well, that certainly would be an exciting way to spend a morning.

Christine had been having some back problems, so she, too, stayed home from work that day. After reviving ourselves with coffee for me and breakfast for her, we sent the girls off to their respective schools and waited for tree specialists to come and commit arbor-cide. We loved our trees but we loved our roof even more.

Not much later we heard the muffler of a truck pull up in front of our house. As I looked out the front window, the passenger door of the van opened and before any person exited the vehicle, a cloud of cigarette smoke preceded the person. It was like when a famous performer comes on stage and the smoke machines buffet out smog to hide the performer to the last minute. Well, the 'performer' finally emerged waving away the smoke from his addiction. He was of medium height wearing a sleeveless shirt exposing arms encircled by barbed wire tattoos. His compatriots were vomited forth from the van and it was apparent from the beginning that Monday had started off in a very negative way for these men. The four of them proceeded to avoid all conversation, eye contact and in general, communication. The one with a pony tail looked like he'd actually slept in the van over night; the tallest one ground his teeth so hard that the muscles in his jaws rolled back and forth like and earthquake. The smallest one took a long drag on his cigarette and flicked the still lit cancer stick into our yard. It was lucky that Christine did not see that - she would have made their morning even worse with a verbal tongue lashing and perhaps her own sermon on the dangers of cigarette use. It is somewhat ironic, though, that all the men who work with wood would all be smokers.

As they split apart to their respective responsibilities like neutrons splitting apart in a nuclear reaction, it became quite clear we were in for a very interesting spectacle. In fact, Christine and I pulled up lawn chairs to watch the show.

As we settled in, the tallest one, who, as far as we could find out was from the planet Moronia - at least that's what we gathered from the smallest one - began to hack off the limbs of one of the trees with the greatest of ease. With seemingly precise calculation he lopped off branch after branch away from the house. It was hard to watch, but he was such and artist, that I even stopped to praise him for his artistry.

"Wow!" I said as I walked over to him. "You have real talent." He stared at me without responding. Perhaps he didn't hear me. Perhaps he'd lost his hearing from being around chainsaws for a large chunk of his adulthood. Perhaps he thought I was joking. Either way, he started his chainsaw and raised it like Jason from the Halloween movies. I guess on the planet Moronia they have no expression for the word "thank you?"

Next blog I'll get to the other characters of the operation who had names, as far as we could tell, that resembled what most people would call a domesticated donkey - one of them was called by the others "Idiot", another "Doorknob" - I'm not sure any of them called each other by the name given them by their parents. All in all, this was the grumpiest group of working people I'd ever seen.