Grace Day #17: The Scenic Route
“In their hearts humans plan their course, but the Lord establishes their steps.” — Proverbs 16:9 (NIV)
The Journey
I lived my life by a Gantt chart. Since I was fifteen years old, I knew exactly who I was going to be: a high-powered corporate attorney in a glass corner office in downtown Chicago. I had the timeline mapped out: Graduate top of the class at 22, law school by 25, partner by 32.
I treated my life like a checklist, and for a decade, I checked every box. I graduated Summa Cum Laude. I got into a prestigious law school. I was the editor of the Law Review. The track was smooth, straight, and fast.
Then came the Bar Exam.
I studied for four months. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t see friends. I walked into that testing center with the confidence of a gladiator.
I failed.
I was stunned. It had to be a mistake. I registered to take it again six months later. I studied harder. I hired a private tutor. I took it again.
I failed again.
The rejection letter didn’t just tell me I couldn’t practice law; it told me I wasn’t who I thought I was. My identity, which had been wrapped tightly around my intellect and my future title, unraveled. I couldn’t face my classmates who were now posting photos of their new firms on LinkedIn. I felt like a fraud. A “has-been” who never even “was.”
Broke and desperate, I needed a job while I decided whether to attempt the exam a third time. A friend told me about a temporary opening at a small, underfunded legal aid clinic in a rough part of the city. They needed an intake coordinator. It paid peanuts. It was administrative work. It was, in my mind, “beneath” me.
I took it, but I wore my bitterness like a uniform. I sat at the scratched metal desk in the cramped waiting room, processing paperwork for people facing eviction, bankruptcy, and domestic disputes. I was efficient, but I was cold. I wanted to do my eight hours and go home to wallow in my failed potential.
One rainy Tuesday, a woman named Maria walked in. She was trembling, holding a plastic bag filled with crumpled papers. She didn’t speak English well, and she was terrified. Her landlord had shut off her heat illegally in the middle of winter to force her out, and her toddler was sick.
Normally, I would have just handed her a form and told her to wait for an attorney. But the attorneys were all in court. The clinic was empty except for me.
I looked at Maria. I saw the desperation in her eyes—the same desperation I felt, just over different things.
“Sit down,” I said, surprising myself.
I used my limited Spanish. I looked through her papers. I saw the violation immediately. It was a clear breach of the tenant rights code I had memorized during my “wasted” years of study.
I couldn’t represent her in court, but I could make a phone call. I picked up the phone and called the landlord. I didn’t use my “intake coordinator” voice; I used my “law school valedictorian” voice. I cited the specific statutes. I mentioned the daily fines for utility shut-offs. I suggested that if the heat wasn’t on by 5:00 PM, I would be personally driving Maria to the housing authority to file a formal complaint.
The landlord hung up on me. But two hours later, Maria called the clinic, weeping. The heat was back on.
“Gracias,” she kept saying. “You are… how you say… my angel.”
I hung up the phone and sat in the silence of that shabby office. I looked at my diploma on the wall at home, the one I thought was useless because it hadn’t gotten me the corner office.
I realized that for ten years, I had wanted to be a lawyer for the prestige. I wanted the suit, the money, the admiration. I wanted to win arguments. But in that five-minute phone call, I had experienced something far more intoxicating than winning: Justice.
I had used my knowledge not to enrich a corporation, but to keep a baby warm.
I stayed at the clinic. I didn’t take the Bar exam a third time—at least, not right away. I worked as a paralegal advocate for two years. I learned the names of the people in the neighborhood. I learned that “success” wasn’t about how high you climbed, but about who you lifted up with you.
Eventually, I did retake the Bar. And I passed. But I didn’t send my resume to the skyscrapers downtown. I became the lead attorney for the legal aid clinic.
I make a fraction of what my college friends make. My office doesn’t have a view of the skyline; it has a view of a bus stop. But I have never slept better.
I thank God for the two failures that stopped me in my tracks. They were the guardrails that kept me from driving off a cliff of arrogance. I thought I was taking a detour; God knew I was finally taking the scenic route to my true purpose.
Heart of the Matter
We often confuse our plans with God’s purpose. We map out a straight line from Point A to Point B, and when a roadblock appears—a rejected application, a breakup, a failure—we assume we have missed God’s will. We panic. We think we are lost.
But Proverbs 16:9 reminds us that while we do the planning, the Lord does the steering. Often, God uses failure to steer us away from a “success” that would have destroyed our soul. Sarah thought the corner office was the prize. God knew that if she had succeeded immediately, her pride would have calcified. He had to break her plan to save her purpose.
If you are currently standing in the wreckage of a Plan A, take heart. You are not off the map. You are simply on a route you couldn’t have drafted for yourself—one that leads to a destination far richer than you imagined.
Faith in Action
Take a moment to look back at a “failure” or a “closed door” from your past—something that devastated you at the time (e.g., a breakup, a job you didn’t get, a house you lost).
Now, look at where you are today. Write down three specific blessings that came into your life because that door closed.
- Did you meet your spouse because that other relationship ended?
- Did you find a church you love because you had to move?
- Did you develop empathy because of the pain?
Thank God for the “No.”
Prayer for the Day
Lord of the Detour, I confess that I love my own plans more than Yours. I get angry when the road curves or the door slams shut. Thank You for loving me enough to interrupt me. Thank You for the failures that redirected me. Help me to trust the Driver, even when the GPS says “Recalculating.” I surrender my timeline and my definition of success to You. Lead me where I am most needed. Amen.
Grace Note
“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.” — Joseph Campbell