“Sorrow has its reward. It never leaves us where it found us.”
— Mary Baker Eddy
Three years ago today, my journalism career unceremoniously ended with the announcement that my section of the newspaper had been eliminated, taking my job with it.
Earlier this week, history repeated itself, with the same company doing the same thing to a different group of journalists.
I am going to be fragile today, I thought as I dragged myself out of bed this morning.
But I wasn’t. March 4 had been my own personal Day the Music Died for three years, and as I stumbled toward the shower, the Father whispered into my thought:
Reclaim this day.
That pink slip three years ago wasn’t the first March morning I’d seen explode into heartbreak with the loss of a job.
On March 13, 1998, my then-principal informed me that my contract was not being renewed. Her words and tone led me to believe I wasn’t worthy to stand at the front of a classroom, so I left the profession, vowing never to return.
Longtime readers of this blog know how my layoff from the paper set in motion a series of events that led me back into a sophomore English classroom.
That process also put me in touch with a former colleague I hadn’t seen in years. I contacted her for a reference when I applied for my current job, and we quickly renewed our friendship.
I came home this afternoon to find a Facebook message from her.
My friend’s daughter is a teacher, and a callous administrator had just chosen this, of all days, to tell her that her contract wasn’t being renewed. Could I give her a pep talk?
Twice in one week — just as I was settling in for a good pout and some righteous indignation over a pair of outdated grudges — history has repeated itself, and I can either whine about the unfairness of it all, or I can get off my duff and use my experiences to help victims turn into survivors.
March 4 has officially been reclaimed.