Well, I didn’t get the job.

In preparing for the dreaded phone call, I was all set to say something snarky and flippant, like, “Oh, that’s too bad, you’re really missing out.” But when the interviewer called to give me the bad news, my passive aggressive heart couldn’t bear to cause any sort of confrontation, even with the voice of a woman I’d surely never see again. Instead, I just said, “Okay, thanks for telling me.”

Then she insisted on explaining why I didn’t get the job, even though I was ready for the conversation to be over approximately three seconds after it’d begun. Apparently one applicant had more online experience (unlikely), and one applicant had tutored previously. (Yes, I lost to TWO applicants—Lame’s my name, don’t wear it out.)

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I have lately begun to embrace—truly embrace—the idea that I can try my hardest, and do my best, but in the end some things will still be out of my control.

What will be will be—I think that’s how it goes.

I can take my decisions to the Lord, and I can say, “Hey, God, I’d really like to land this job that pays over $20 an hour. I believe it is a righteous desire to make that much money; I think it would help our family. Here’s what I would do with that money if you could land me the job: Pay tithing. Pay taxes. Pay off George Jettson. Pay tuition. And then, if there’s anything left, I’m not gonna lie, God: I’d probably buy some new clothes…but I would buy them at the thrift store, does that help my case?”

[My prayers tend to drag out a little; sometimes I wonder if God saves them for his secretaries to muddle through.]

And after all that—after all those pleas and petitions, and after doing my best and getting to the interview early, with an ironed shirt and flossed teeth—if I still don’t get the job, I can safely assume that I wasn’t supposed to get it.

Because the only alternative is to believe that my life is one heaping sack of screwups and failures and might’ve-beens…and that’s no way to live.

Instead, I choose to believe that not getting this job is some sort of blessing. Like maybe I would’ve wrecked my car on my way to work some frigid December morning. Or maybe I would’ve gotten raped in the parking lot after work one night. Or maybe it would’ve put us into a higher tax bracket. Or maybe I just need to learn to live without money. (And if that’s the case, it’s gonna be a long, hard life I think.)

I don’t know the meaning behind it, but I do know this:

Disappointment is temporary.

And that helps me sleep at night.

(But it doesn’t do a dang thing for quelling my dreams of wealth untold.)

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