The Impossible Job Description

Finding a Place of Quiet Rest

Sometimes you spend your whole life looking for something without knowing exactly what it is.

You know something is missing. You feel it. You struggle with it. You try to explain it, but the words don't come easily.

You watch other people navigate life, and they seem to know what they're doing. They seem to understand the rules. They know what to say, how to respond, and what is expected of them.

And you wonder why nobody ever explained those things to you.

I've known that feeling for most of my life.

Growing Up Without Instructions

I grew up in an atmosphere of fear.

It wasn't just the fear itself that affected me. It was the silence surrounding it.

Terrible things could happen, and life would simply go on. Nobody acknowledged what was happening. Nobody explained it. Nobody helped me understand what I was supposed to do with the things I was experiencing.

I just dealt with it.

Or at least I thought I did.

Looking back, I realize that I learned how to function in circumstances I didn't understand. I learned how to keep going, how to meet expectations, and how to appear capable even when I was terrified inside.

Somewhere along the way, I came to believe that I was supposed to know things nobody had ever taught me.

I was supposed to have answers.

I was supposed to be strong.

I was supposed to know how to handle whatever came my way.

And eventually, I was supposed to help everybody else.

That's an impossible job description.

Everybody Else Seemed Prepared

I wrote a song called Impossible Job Description.

It begins with a picture of someone waiting in line to make a presentation.

Everybody else seems prepared. They know what they're presenting. They understand their assignment.

Then somebody calls his name.

And he has absolutely no idea what he's supposed to do.

He doesn't know the product. He doesn't know the plan. He doesn't even know what he's supposed to say.

But he's expected to stand up and deliver.

So he improvises. He smiles. He pretends he understands.

All the while, he's terrified.

When I wrote that song, I wasn't really writing about making a presentation.

I was writing about my life.

The chorus says:

It's an impossible job description,

Know the lines you've never learned.

Have the answers before the questions,

Put out fires before they burn.

Fix yourself and everybody,

Never let them see you fall.

Stand up straight beneath the pressure,

Like you're strong enough for all.

For a long time, that's what life felt like to me.

And here's something I've come to understand.

You can become very good at meeting expectations without ever feeling that you're good enough.

You can accomplish things, help people, take responsibility, and appear confident while privately wondering whether somebody is going to discover that you don't know what you're doing.

The performance becomes familiar.

But the fear remains.

When Faith Becomes More Than an Answer

I've spent much of my adult life studying, teaching, and trying to live by the teachings of Jesus Christ.

I've found answers in Scripture that resonated deeply with me.

Those answers haven't disappeared. I still believe them.

But believing something and coming to full maturity in that belief aren't necessarily the same thing.

I haven't arrived.

I'm still learning.

I'm still discovering places in my life where old fears, old expectations, and old ways of thinking can take control.

The world is distracting. My own flesh is distracting. Evil is real. And there are times when those influences temporarily dominate my thoughts, my will, and my emotions.

But something has changed.

I now have a place to return to.

And I have learned something about returning.

Sometimes it begins with a decision.

A decision to let go.

A decision to trust God.

A decision to remember what I already know.

Not because everything suddenly makes sense.

Not because the problems disappear.

But because I remember who God is and what He has promised.

The Promise That Changed the Job Description

One of my favorite parts of Impossible Job Description comes from the story of Moses.

God called Moses to go back to Egypt and confront Pharaoh.

Moses didn't believe he was qualified.

He questioned his ability. He questioned whether anyone would listen to him. He struggled with what he was supposed to say.

And God's answer was remarkable.

He didn't tell Moses that he was exceptionally talented.

He didn't tell him to stop being afraid.

He didn't tell him that he already possessed everything necessary to accomplish the assignment.

He said:

“I will be with you.”

Those words became the heart of my song.

You didn't tell him he was ready.

You didn't say that he was strong.

You said, “I will be with you.”

Maybe that was all along.

I'm beginning to appreciate just how much freedom there is in that promise.

I don't have to know everything.

I don't have to fix everybody.

I don't have to pretend I'm stronger than I am.

And I don't have to understand everything that has happened in my life before I can trust the One who has promised to be with me.

That doesn't make the past right.

It doesn't mean the wounds never hurt.

And it certainly doesn't mean I never struggle again.

It means I no longer have to carry the impossible burden of being sufficient for everything.

Learning to Hear My Own Voice

Something happened recently that brought all these thoughts together.

I've been trying to learn to perform some of my own songs again.

I've written and recorded a great deal of music over the years, but I've often been dissatisfied with the sound of my own singing voice.

When I'm playing and singing, I feel the music. The expression comes naturally. I know what I'm trying to communicate.

But when I listen to a recording, I hear every imperfection.

The notes that aren't quite right.

The tone I don't particularly like.

All the things I wish sounded better.

Recently, I began experimenting with recording my voice differently.

With some help, I made a few simple adjustments to the recording.

Nothing extraordinary.

No artificial voice.

No attempt to turn me into another singer.

Just some improvements in the way my natural voice was being recorded and reproduced.

And something surprising happened.

I listened and thought:

“That sounds like me.”

And for the first time in a while, I felt hopeful about the possibility of singing my own songs.

The recording wasn't perfect.

It wasn't ready for the radio.

But it was me.

And I began to wonder how often I've been unable to appreciate something in myself because I've been measuring it against an impossible expectation.

Music has become a metaphor for so much of my life.

Maybe I don't need to become someone else.

Maybe I need to learn how to work with what I've been given.

Maybe I need to stop expecting perfection before allowing myself to participate.

And maybe I need to extend to myself some of the grace I've spent a lifetime encouraging others to receive.

A Place of Quiet Rest

I've discovered something that I wish I could have understood when I was a frightened little boy.

Rest isn't necessarily a condition you achieve once and then possess forever. Sometimes it's a place you learn how to return to.

There are still distractions.

There are still struggles.

There are still moments when I feel the old pressure to have all the answers.

But I don't have to remain there.

I can stop.

I can remember.

I can let go.

I can trust.

I can return to that quiet place of rest, near to the heart of God.

And there's something especially meaningful about that quietness.

When I was young, silence often meant that nobody was acknowledging what was happening.

Now, quietness can mean something entirely different.

It can mean that I am no longer struggling to prove something.

I am no longer trying to control everything.

I am no longer pretending to have answers I don't possess.

I can simply be present with God.

And rest.

For Those Who Are Searching

Maybe you've spent much of your life feeling that everybody else received instructions you somehow missed.

Maybe you learned to survive circumstances nobody helped you understand.

Maybe you've spent years trying to be strong enough, good enough, capable enough, or worthy enough.

Maybe you don't even know what you're searching for.

You just know that something inside you is tired.

I won't pretend to have all the answers for you.

I've spent too much of my life thinking I was supposed to have them.

But I can tell you something I've learned.

You don't have to pretend you're ready for everything life brings.

You don't have to know every line before the curtain opens.

You don't have to carry everyone else's burdens.

And you don't have to reach some imaginary level of perfection before you can begin to experience peace.

For me, that peace is found in Jesus Christ.

Not because I've mastered the Christian life.

Not because I've overcome every fear.

But because I've come to trust the One who said:

“I will be with you.”

And when life distracts me, when I become overwhelmed, when old fears return, I can remind myself of what I already know.

I can return to that quiet place.

Near to the heart of God.

That's where I'm learning to rest.

And that's where I want to live.

---

The final words of my song, “Impossible Job Description,” express something I'm still learning to live:

I don't know my lines.

I don't know the plan.

I don't have the answers

Everybody thinks I have.

But You said,

“I will be with you.”

So call my name.

I'll go.

— Gary Leftwich