Sweat, tears, and hope

Journalism in its traditional form may be dying, and I may have spent (some would say "wasted") my youth pursuing it. But my favorite cope has always been that there are a tremendous number of experiences and lessons that continue to bear fruit long after I sent my last newspaper to the presses. It is, after all, not a common pursuit among the folks among whom I grew up. 

In fact, my journalism profession tended to stick out for good or ill. Whenever I told someone I was a newspaperman, the responses always included raised eye brows, accompanied by a range of verbal utterances that uniformly indicated surprise, yet different levels of understanding and approval. Some showed interest and fascination. These people were often ignorant of the declining state of the trade and assumed it must be a satisfying and generally stable livelihood. Some paired their surprise with the general contempt that they had for journalists -- damaged public trust manifesting at the interpersonal level. Still others knew a thing or two about the economics of newspapers and would ask pointed questions in tones that were better suited for an adult chiding a teenager in the aftermath of some poor decisions. Their words may have been "That's an interesting career," but their expressions were more akin to "What the hell were you thinking?"

Now that I'm 40 years old and my seven years of newspaper wanderings are long behind me, I've had time to meditate on the lessons of my subsequent careers. I've discovered, above all things, that every occupation is a crucible of learning, a natural outworking of the toiling human condition. Every challenging moment is an arrow pointing to who we are as humans. And every attempt to improve our work and ourselves in general is an attempt to wrestle against our fallen humanity. 

By faith, we do it out of love, gratitude, and hope.