Following Paths of Failure

I have recently been re-reading my books from seminary. This was a unique part of my life. I met deeply unique creatures and was steeped in a culture that reveled in the Scriptures. From as young as I can remember, I loved the Bible—Old Testament and New. I loved the wisdom of Jesus, the emotions of the Psalms, the justice of the Judges. It all shone with brilliance to me, and still does, if I am honest.

I remember weeping to my mother about how I wanted to be a Bible professor. I set off to Providence in search of that dream. I completed my three-year degree in two years. This elevated track of study was exhausting, but it allowed me to enjoy languages—another passion—and to steep myself in wisdom. I continued on my track to seminary.

Seminary was decidedly different. Graduate studies had far less structure. Looking back now, I was ill-suited for it and treated it like a truant boy hoping to glide through. I did earn a master’s degree from Providence, but it was not what I had wanted. I earned a degree in Christian Studies rather than Biblical Studies because my teachers felt I was not taking my work seriously. They were, of course, correct.

This was the season when I used my student loans to buy a sword and skipped classes to play Settlers of Catan with my friends. The result was failure—rather spectacular failure. I applied to McGill University and was promptly rejected for not being competitive. I had never heard of a professor without a PhD. I tried retaking a course, but the wheels had fallen off the car, and the professor advised me to withdraw. What a blow to my hopes and dreams—and to my ego.

What is Tyler if he is not a professor?
That question stayed with me for some time. In the light of my failures, was I too a failure?

At that point, I went and got myself married to a woman who casually suggested maybe we should have babies. So here I am, fifteen years later, still thinking about failure—the deep disappointment that comes with letting go of a dream. And yet, looking at where my life has gone, I do not think I would trade what I have for what I lost.

I have found meaning in caring for people, both personally and professionally. Fifteen years of toiling in retail, with the judgment of “you could have been something” hanging in the air, does give one perspective. My life, in some respects, has been a failure. I did not earn a PhD. I did not mentor young people in a classroom. I did not travel as much as I hoped.

And yet, I do not believe my life has been wasted. I worked to keep a wife and children stable. I endeavored to care about the people I served and refused to sell out my morality. That is not to say I always acted rightly, but I sought to be better—professionally and morally. I tried to grow, to change, to challenge myself. May it be said of Gerry and Irma’s youngest son that he did not give up, either in the face of time or adversity.

As with all of this, I am inclined to ask what lessons I am teaching my children. We live in a world where our desires are treated as the fullest expression of the human experience. For a long time, I believed the only thing I had to offer was my mind.

In the course of my work, I once had a customer tell me he needed to upgrade his phone because he was burying his sixteen-year-old son that weekend. He spoke quietly of a heart defect and of doctors who failed to save his life on the operating table. I have helped bear the burdens of countless others like him.

The common nature of my work may seem to lack purpose, yet it has offered innumerable chances to bring meaning into the lives of others. A life of service may not seem glamorous or song-worthy, but it represents some of the most genuine parts of the human experience. Going to work each day is not what they will write epics about, but it is the engine of humanity. In doing it faithfully, I have come to believe that treasure is often found in unexpected places.

The lesson for my children comes from Rudyard Kipling’s If:
to dream, but not make dreams your master.