During high school, I was not among the upper echelon of academics. But most of my closest friends were. I learned to cover my lacking with my natural good looks, winsome charm, and quick wit to survive. I also played a decent tuba in the school band and sang baritone in the choir.
The high school guidance counselor gave me one tiny word of wisdom. It was so small that I was able to ignore it. She liked me, she really did, and I liked her. But when she told me I might be better off If I chose to attend a trade school, I couldn’t accept it. I didn’t have a single friend who was going to trade school.
As the high school days drew to a thudding conclusion, I planned to attend Belmont College (now university). Every friend I had was going to college. It just seemed like the only option, at least socially. My parents somehow made the financial arrangements, so in the fall of 1966, I loaded all my stuff into my Studebaker Lark and joined in the migration. I arrived on campus with all the other hopeful blurry-eyed freshmen for a week of “orientation.” The week was great. College life was all I had hoped it would be, spending time with friends playing games, and getting to meet peers.
College was going to be a blast.
Then the last day of freshman orientation came with making a schedule and registering for classes. All was going well until I stood before the professor of English Literature 101. I have long lost her name, but I will not forget her smile as she handed by a syllabus of course requirements and another small slip of paper giving the reading assignment for the first day of class. I was not expecting that!
That assignment was the jarring reality. I was shocked and offended! That was on a Friday, and classes did not begin until Monday. The nerve! That was my time; she had no right to claim a portion of it for her required silly course. Upset, I could not refocus to read the syllabus. My first college semester began at that high point, and I never caught up. That first encounter in college life was a success socially, not so much academically. Maybe the counselor was right.
My first attempt at college was a total bust. I had everything I needed to be a college student, including parental support and a quick mind. But I lacked a couple of critical things.
A strategy for learning that worked within my weaknesses and strengths.
The self-discipline to prioritize time.
The maturity to take life seriously and a purpose
The congregant life was fantastic. The academic life, not so much. It took about four years before I was in a place that would ensure the success I was capable of—those four years included almost the entirety of my stent in the U.S. Army. I got out of the Army more experienced and not much wiser.
The one most significant difference was my soul. Just a few months before saying goodbye to Uncle Sam, I ran into Lord Jesus. He awakened something in me that changed me permanently.
The one change that came was a focus. I was hungry to learn; I longed to become what I was intended to be. That focus continues this very day. It is a force that causes me to write so I can see what I am thinking. It made me want to lay my discoveries before others to get feedback and not go off on some hyper jaunt on a worthless artificial spiritual tangent.
My high School counselor was right. And she was wrong. I should have gone to a trade school. I wish I had the mind to attend art school to learn sculpturing and drawing. That is where my natural talents lie. But she was wrong. God had a plan to take me in a different direction. My mom and dad gave me the genetic code to work with my hands. Jesus gave me the calling to serve him vocationally.
My calling by God trumped my genetic code. He made the impossible a reality. I am becoming whom He intended me to be.
It took me many decades to come to accept that as reality. I wish I had gotten it earlier, but that’s the past. I’m thrilled that I have that peace and purpose today.
There are two verses of Scripture that anchor my continuing metamorphosis, Mark 1:17 and Philippians 3:10-11;
“Follow me,” Jesus told them, “and I will make you fish for[a] people.”
I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, attaining the resurrection from the dead.
(The bold underscored are my emphases.)
Photo – Taken near Red Rocks, Colorado.
Baldwin Heirlooms 