Working draft

In the Doane Memorial Music Building on the campus of Moody Bible Institute in Chicago, Illinois, there is an elevator manufactured by the Otis Elevator Company. Inside that elevator, there is a doorbell. A bell with a very distinct chime. I know this bell. I owe this bell. This bell altered the course of my life.

I was starting my career at the bottom, but I didn’t care—in two weeks, I was going to buy a stereo.

The first official job I ever had was working maintenance at Moody Bible Institute during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of high school. The Specialty Crew posting came with a radio, a set of keys, a blue cotton t-shirt … and a 5:30 a.m. wakeup call. I was starting my career at the bottom, but I didn’t care—in two weeks, I was going to buy a stereo.

By 7:15 a.m. that first morning, I’d met my supervisor, signed some forms, and received my first assignment: vacuuming the hallways on every floor of Doane Memorial. By 7:20 a.m., I was stepping off the elevator on 1, a strange warbled door chime still ringing in my ears. The maintenance closet was to my left. I found the key and unlocked the door. I pulled on the light and backed the vacuum cleaner out into the hallway. I yawned.

At 7:22 a.m., I noticed the drinking fountain across from the elevator, flanked by a fake potted plant and a cheaply upholstered bench with a wooden backrest. The hallway was hot and stuffy. The collar of my blue cotton t-shirt was too small. A cold sip of water sounded like a good idea.

By 7:25 a.m., I was fast asleep on the upholstered bench with the wooden backrest, the lightbulb in the maintenance closet still swinging from when I’d yanked the chain.

You can ask, but I’ll never be sure how it happened. At that moment in time, I’d had tons of experience delivering papers, washing cars, pulling weeds, mowing lawns, and babysitting the kids across the street. I was confident I’d make a good impression. Too confident. On the seventh day, God rested, but me—I did it on day one.

It must have been 8:15 a.m. when the elevator chime woke me up with a start. I heard keys jingling and muffled voices. The door was about to open.

I shot off that bench like I’d been struck by lightning. When my new boss and the Director of Buildings & Grounds stepped off the elevator, there I was, holding the cord of the vacuum cleaner, sweat glistening on my forehead. I greeted them, heart pounding, then rolled the vacuum back into the closet, turned off the light, shut the door, and followed them to my next assignment.

I worked Special Crew that whole summer, as well as the summer after that. I successfully vacuumed the Doane hallways countless times. I met some interesting people and had some memorable experiences (like playing the grand piano in a completely empty Torrey-Gray Auditorium, or watching the Bulls shoot hoops at Solheim Center). I was just a kid back then, barely stepping into life. Unsure of who I was, struggling to find my place. No clue what lay on the path ahead.

I fell asleep on the first assignment of my first day of my first job. More than two decades have passed since that close shave, but I think about it often. I picture myself asleep on that bench, and I think about work.

If I’ve learned anything about myself over the years, it’s that I like comfort. No—I love comfort. People who know me well might tell you that my ability to de-escalate my surroundings is a good thing. And I’d say, sure—it can certainly be helpful. But on a deeper level, I am wrestling with the long, slow habit of laziness.

I have traveled paths of least resistance. I have sought after fabrications of security and escape. From the turrets of a crumbling castle, I have looked out at the world and shaken my head. In faith, in relationships, in leadership, in decision-making, in health and wellness, in finances, and in many other critical spheres of life, my unwillingness to embrace difficulty and discomfort has caused me pain. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Right at the beginning of the Bible, we see work as it was meant to be—beautiful, expansive, fruitful, relational, satisfying, and good (Genesis 1-2). By Genesis 3, that work is ruined. Pain enters the world because man decides God’s design isn’t good enough.

Work means a lot of things to a lot of people. It is a word with many interpretations. Humanity is transfixed by it. In work we seek identity and excitement, purpose and power, vindication and escape. I’ve participated in this circus myself, and so far, my efforts seem to enslave me as much as they set me free.

Like me, many people have an abundance of opportunities surrounding them at any given time. Some have room to wax poetic and debate and go live on social. But for others, work is something else. Work is survival. It is sacred. It is simple.

Over the last couple of years, I’ve been trying to intentionally put down comfort and pick up work—to break out of pride and sloth and self-worship to pursue purpose and discipline and growth. I yearn to experience restoration in my work.

I hope you’ll join me as I dive in. I pray that together, we will discover the work we were made for—meaningful toil in light of eternity.