Occasionally, I find myself wondering about the lasting impact I’ll have on my children and future generations. In those moments, I’m reminded of a specific memory from my final days at Olivet.
No matter how I sorted them, my files would soon join the irrelevant ranks of floppy disks, Rolodex, and VHS, never to be viewed or valued again.
It was my last week, the end of a nine-year tenure for a job into which I’d poured my heart and soul. I was sorting through files, determined to leave everything in perfect order for the person stepping into my role. I wanted nothing more than to end well and set him up for success.
My plan was simple: I would review all my documented notes, experiences, and lessons learned, so I could pass along these valuable nuggets to the next in charge.
I started strong, combing through a drawer of conference notes, meeting debriefs, and post-event reflections. I sorted through employee files, determining which helpful details would be worth sharing (and what private information needed to die in the shredder.) Looking over past project triumphs, I smiled remembering all the sweat, tears, and paper cuts that had led to their completion.
Every single file contained valuable lessons—things that had worked, things that had tanked, and details I thought could save him from costly, time-consuming, and frustrating mistakes.
Halfway through my drawer full of meticulously organized files, however, it hit me…he’s never going to read these.
No matter how I sorted them, my files would soon join the irrelevant ranks of floppy disks, Rolodex, and VHS, never to be viewed or valued again.
Even if the next manager took a cursory glance through my documents, they wouldn’t carry the same weight or meaning that they had for me. After all, these weren’t his experiences; they were mine. All of the notes and tips in the world would mean nothing compared to him going through the journey himself. For good or for bad, he’d figure things out on his own.
Ultimately, I whittled my nine years down to a small stack of critical documents and a few noteworthy publications to send to the University archive.
Everything else went into three giant trash bags, which I then lugged down to the shredder.
Pain in the Process
I think about that moment a lot, especially when it comes to my kids.
I want so badly to save them from the heartache, mistakes, and bumps in the road that I’ve navigated in my 40-plus years on this earth. I’d love to say, “Just trust me and do it this way,” but I know it’s not that simple – it never has been and never will be.
I want to hand them shortcuts. I want to help them bypass the yucky chapters. I want to download all my emotional, relational, and spiritual files into their hearts and minds, but I realize there will never be a flash drive nearly big enough.
I want to protect my children from learning the hard way, but pain is part of the process. Without living through it, the lessons just won’t stick.
Truth is, my children each have to walk their own paths. Some lessons, especially the big ones, can only be learned through experience. The grief, the pain, the joy, the setbacks—all of it will shape their perspectives in ways that I simply can’t.
They have to make their own mistakes and celebrate their own victories. Ultimately, they must become who they’re meant to be on their own.
That, in my opinion, is the single hardest thing about being a parent: learning to let go and trust. After all, I can’t protect them from everything, so I choose to believe that the love and truths I poured out thus far have made a difference. I trust God to guide and hold them in the same way He’s done for me.
My kids will see things and handle things differently than I would. God gave them their own minds, hearts, and passions—some of which resemble mine, but many of which are bigger, different, and sometimes hard for me to understand.
And that’s okay.
When all my files are gone, they’ll find their way just like I did.
Pain is part of the process. Wisdom, joy, and character are forged in the struggle.
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