“Facing trials of many kinds produce perseverance.” ~ James 1:2-3
The ribbon lived
in a drawer he never opened. It was red—second place. To eleven-year-old Caleb,
that meant second loser.
His science fair
volcano had buckled moments before judging, the baking soda fizzing with a
weak, apologetic hiss. The judges offered pitying smiles while his best friend
took gold with a solar system that actually lit up. That night, Caleb shoved
the ribbon into the dark and told his mother he didn’t care. But of course—he
did.
Years later, that
lie became a refrain—when he was cut from varsity, when his first love chose
"friendship," and when the landscaping business he launched at
twenty-three withered under a brutal drought and a dead truck transmission.
Each blow felt like a verdict stamped in red ink: “Not good enough.”
Each time, he considered quitting.
After the business collapsed, he took a job
stocking hardware shelves. He called it "temporary," though the
fluorescent lights felt like a permanent sentence. At night, he dissected his
ghosts: he should have charged more, marketed more aggressively, prayed bigger.
One afternoon, an
older man asked about soil. Caleb walked him through nitrogen levels, drainage,
and the stubborn defiance of clay. The man watched him intently. "You
know your craft," he remarked. "You ever do any
consulting?"
Caleb almost laughed. “Used to,” he muttered, recalling his bankrupt LLC.
The man nodded slowly. "Sounds
like you earned your degree the hard way."
The words haunted Caleb. He began sketching
garden plans for neighbors on weekends—no overhead, just drawings and hard-won
wisdom. When something failed, he adjusted. When a yard flooded, he
recalculated the slope. When anything died, he treated the autopsy as a lesson.
The consulting grew. Then he added a small team and gained a
reputation for fixing “impossible” landscapes that could endure heat, flood,
and neglect.
At a small business awards banquet, one he never imagined
attending, someone asked him the secret of his success. He thought of the red
ribbon. The volcano. The truck that wouldn’t start. "Failure," Caleb replied.
The room chuckled, mistaking his honesty for humility. He didn't join
in. Failure had been the fire that burned away his ego and tempered his
judgment. It grounded him in the hard realities of the terrain. Every setback
had cleared the ground for something stronger.
Driving home that
night, Caleb revisited the mental drawer where he’d tucked away his misfires
and defeats. They no longer felt like scars; they looked like bricks. And brick
by brick, those "misfires" had built the foundation he now stood upon.
Failure, he realized, had never been the opposite of
success. It was part of it.
Heavenly Father, thank You for love that
endures, for promises that don’t break, and for the hope of reunion beyond this
life. Teach us to love faithfully, to trust You fully, and to live in ways that
prepare us for eternity. Amen
