Failure is a Gift

 I sat in the room, nervous. I had sensed this moment coming all week. Though I felt a small comfort and peace, deep inside, I was terrified. I was bracing for the letdown—far from my first. I made small talk with someone twenty years my junior, knowing that soon, he would ask me to step down. That reality was hard to face.

My mind drifted back to my first year as a deputy. I had called my father repeatedly, distressed over my fifth write-up. Each time, he told me to thank them for the discipline, not to quit, and to keep my head up. But I was overcome with sorrow. I felt like a failure. Maybe I could earn straight A’s, but I had no common sense. I feared I would never catch on. I was beginning to give up.

Still, my dad insisted I keep going.

In my first week alone, I had discharged my weapon—firing over sixteen rounds at a bull on Super Bowl Sunday. Not long after, I found myself in a full-blown foot pursuit of an escapee, my face, mostly pride battered from the struggle. My track record was awful. I was a walking paper trail.

Two and a half hours from my family, I was alone—scared, but mostly afraid to fail. On my days off, I drove the roadways to memorize them. I listened to the police radio, studied flashcards for signals and codes, and spent hours at the range, trying to improve my shooting. I wasn’t a "gun person," but I was beginning to think I just wasn’t cut out for the job. I had the desire, but maybe my critics were right about me.

Yet, twenty-five years later, here I sat again.

I had watched my father lose his dream once. People crushed him. But he chose his children over their opinions, and I respected that. He also taught me that failure could be a gift—because, in the end, it is our response that truly matters. I don’t quit a half-marathon when it gets hard or when obstacles arise. I’ve trained too hard to check out. The same was true when I was a young deputy. I worked too hard to give up just because I faced discipline. Right or wrong, I kept going.

The lesson is in the response.

Failure was a gift because, twenty-five years later, when I was hurt again, I still didn’t quit. I thanked them for their insight. I imagined how difficult it must have been for them to sit across from me. I loved them anyway, and it was okay. As the door closed behind me, God gave me peace—assuring me that other doors would open. I don’t need a big stage; sometimes, all I need is the audience of One.

I thank God every day for His correction. Ultimately, He is the One I answer to. But I also honor and respect those who come to me, as God calls us to be humble. Pride is what prevents us from accepting discipline, chastisement, or direction. I want accountability in my life, and I am grateful for those who care enough to correct me.

I won’t explain the "why"—I’m not called to.

That day, I went home. I cried. I slept. I am human.

But then, I got back up and kept pursuing the calling on my life.

Failure is never final.

-written 02/19/24