To me, one of the most useful recurring Biblical themes is the concept of forty days. Forty days, on more than one occasion, is the amount of time that Biblical characters were tested, or faced hardship. During Noah's flood, for instance, it rained for forty days. Christ was tempted in the desert for forty days. Elijah took a forty-day journey while he fled Ahab for fear of his life. On the entirely secular level, the idea of "forty days" highlights the temporal nature of suffering. Regardless of the facets and nature of one's hardships, suffering must come to an end. It may not be an end that one would find particularly pleasant (as in "... at least they're not in pain anymore."), but an eventual end to hardship is nonetheless guaranteed. When the concept of "forty days" is commingled with the concept of an eternal God, eternity itself, or a great big world out there with a whole bunch of people whose real problems put your piddly little issues to shame, a measly forty days of suffering is actually something of a bargain.
"Forty days" has become a sort of a mantra for me. It's an acknowledgement of inalienable truths, if I may be so bold. It's an acknowledgement that we need to suffer. There are times when we need to prepare to suffer. And we need to realize that sought-after experience, after all, is merely hardship that has spent its time in the cask. I, at least, find this philosophy useful.
Good Midwesterner that I am, I had been preparing myself for a type of suffering that I was not used to upon my move to Cali. Unemployment is something fairly novel to me. Becoming accustomed to unemployment is something that scares me to no end. An unfortunate facet of moving to California, as became evident from the fruitless applications which I had submitted in the months prior, was that I would be, for the first time in six years, unemployed.
I would be unemployed with bills-- Character building, set in stone... bills.
Pleasantly, I have always been predisposed to the appreciation of beauty over glamour. (For reference, Beauty: Graciously working twelve hours a day to feed your family. Glamour: Sammy Sosa complaining about the Chicago Cubs not paying him enough to feed his family.) I feel like this stance had both provided me with a practical advantage upon my arrival to LA, a city only rivaled by Wausau when it comes to glamour, as well as unfortunately dulling some of the excitement and novelty of Tinsel Town.
For instance, when I went to Hollywood for the first time to meet some of Chris's friends, one of them asked me excitedly, "What have you always want to do in LA? What's the first thing?"
"Get a job," I replied.
And I meant it. Like so many other transplants to the cultural and artistic hub of the West, I had visions of Paparazzi bulbs flashing like lightning as tabloid reporters would bombard me with inane questions: "Nate! Nate! How did you find a company so well-recognized that still provides for upward professional growth during a recession?" "Can you comment on your benefits? Is it true that your 401k is matched 100% up to 8% of your pay?"
But, as the natural course of change and hardship would allow, I found myself with an internal battle between resolve and practicality. Every day that the phone didn't ring only amplified the ups and downs of life. I had begun the "forty days" that I knew I would have to endure from the onset. Regardless of principle, regardless of plan, experience, and work ethic, my idea of "a good job" became more subjective day by day. I'm excellent with calculus... And a forklift... I guess I could learn how to wash dishes... Imagine how chaotic this world would be without doormen... Begging is technically a job; it's kind of like sales.
I should interject here to say that I had no right-- absolutely NO RIGHT-- to complain. This, of course, had always been a leap of faith. I probably could have done a few things to lessen the blow. I, however, had merely rowed my ducks fairly decently and made my move.
So be it.
But, getting back to my pity party, I strove to maintain my schedule and regiment while pursuing my dream-job. Or something that would pay the bills. Or begging, which, as I understand, is as respectable as entrepreneurship in many cultures.
The best piece of advice that I had received concerning this transitional period came from my friend, T. Heinle, who had warned me: "Don't rediscover youtube. It will be all downhill from there."
Youtube wasn't even in my vocabulary at this point, though. No, I was one of an elite group of Americans that would use their time off to hone his or her professional skills, catch up on reading, and attain outstanding physical fitness while applying for various positions. It would be like a vacation; a well-deserved vacation during which I wouldn't leave the house, and after which I may end up homeless. It was just like a vacation.
Of course, 100 slowly-read pages into my self-betterment I began to panic. Over twenty days, I filled out something to the tune of forty applications. I started getting superstitious ("I'll get the call the day after I finish this book, that's the way it always works out"), sometimes for the worse ("I'll get the call the day after I starve to death, that's the way it always works out"). I channeled the healthy dose of Midwestern guilt and sensibility handed down from generation to generation of German, Scandinavian, Polish, and French families, and I applied it to even the most modest of purchases: "OK, Mr. Hughes, go ahead and buy the pre-made salad. But that's a buck ninety-nine that you'll never see again."
But through the murk, still there were golden moments. And I always tried to remember that it was only a period of "forty days". I applied for jobs that, simply put, were out of my league. Gladly. I submitted for freelancing positions. I applied for the X-prize foundation, and knew, even as I pressed the "submit" button, that despite the New York Fashion Week slimness of my chance with them, that I had been able to apply-- to even just apply-- to a foundation that spurred common man into Outer Space. I applied to charities that I wanted to volunteer with, even if they couldn't put me on the payroll.
For brief moments, I felt like I was five years old again. Back then, I wanted to be a race car driving astronaut that played for the Green Bay Packers in his downtime from Indiana Jones-style archaeology. To be completely honest, I kind of still do.
But with the click of the "submit" button, it was back to my less glamorous, but still beautiful reality: discovering the ins and outs of an exotic place far from home; flirtations with possible employment during impromptu phone interviews. Brick walls, and brick walls, and brick walls.
But then I got the call. And then I got another. And then I got another.
"Forty days" is an abstract concept that helps me get through my periods of hardship. It's something that reminds me that all hardship, no matter how deeply etched into us, is destined to be temporary. It's a reminder that healing is always offered through God; through those that He puts into our lives. In no way is the "forty days" ever-- ever-- to be taken literally. However, I left Wisconsin, effectively becoming unemployed, on the twenty-fourth of July. I got my first firm offer on the second of September.
You do the math.
Pictures are fine, but no autographs, please.
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