I stalked across the hallway into my friend Ella’s office. I had to vent about Debbie and what a royal pain she was being–to me, her boss, of all people!
I was in my first year as chair of a technical college’s English and social sciences department. If I’d told Debbie once I’d told her a dozen times that I needed her to rewrite her syllabus to emphasize essay writing rather than grammar rules.
Why was she being so stubborn about completing this assignment? It bordered on insubordination!
“I don’t think she’s even started,” I said, slumping into the seat across the desk from Ella, a fellow department chair and one of many people I’d sounded off to about Debbie. By now I didn’t even have to tell her who I was talking about. “It’s been weeks. I don’t know what else I can do.”
Ella looked up from the papers on her desk. “I know, Jayne. You’ve told me.”
“I don’t know what her problem is,” I said. “She just doesn’t listen. She’s worse than my kids the way she defies me.”
Ella looked back down, like she was studying something intently.
“She knows how important it is,” I went on. “The university won’t accept our credits otherwise. Then the other day I heard she was complaining to another instructor about me. As if I’m the problem! She’s totally unprofessional. Now the faculty are taking sides. It’s affecting the whole department.”
Ella shook her head but didn’t look up. She was probably tired of my complaining, but I didn’t know where else to turn. It was all I could think about. Even at home when I tried to concentrate on prayer, my mind filled with frustration and anger. How dare Debbie treat me like this!
I stood up. “I’m going to talk to her again,” I said. “But I doubt it will do any good.” I left and walked slowly down the hallway to Debbie’s office, the last place I wanted to be on a Friday afternoon. What did we have to say to each other that hadn’t already been said?
I’d taught psychology for 15 years. I thought I knew a lot about what makes people tick. But I never dreamed management would be like this.
Even my husband, Frankie, who’d managed an auto-service department for years, was no help. I regaled him every night with my latest Debbie story, but I wasn’t sure he could relate. In 17 years of marriage I’d never heard him complain about a problem employee.
The worst part was that before I became department head Debbie and I were close colleagues. She’d been one of the first to congratulate me on my promotion. We had eaten lunch together occasionally, shared our work frustrations and news about our families.
I’d tried to be a comfort when she lost her dad to cancer and when her mom became ill. Couldn’t she see that she just needed to get this project out of the way?
I looked in her office. Her lips pressed tight together when she saw me. “Do you have a minute?” I said.
She opened her mouth, as if she were about to say something, then closed it and shrugged. “A minute,” she said, not bothering to put her pen down.
I sat and her eyes fixed on mine. “You know why I’m here,” I said. “I need you to get this assignment done for me. It’s way past due and now the dean’s asking about it. I can’t keep covering for you.”
“I’m working on it,” she said. “I just need a little more time.”
My hands clenched. The same lame response! “Debbie, you can’t keep putting this off,” I said, my voice rising. “You know how critical this is for the college and how important it is to me. It can’t wait any longer.”
Debbie threw her pen down. “You don’t understand,” she said. “You’ve never taught English. You’re asking me to change my entire way of teaching.”
I stood up. “You need to get control of yourself,” I said. “I’m tired of your excuses.”
I turned and stormed out, my heart pounding. The nerve of her! I went back to my office and took out a legal pad to plan for the following week, but it was impossible to concentrate. I’d bent over backward for her, given her more than enough time.
Maybe I wasn’t an English teacher, but I’d certainly written enough syllabi to know it shouldn’t be that difficult. Soon, in the eyes of the dean, I was going to be the problem. After all, I was Debbie’s boss. Why couldn’t I get her to do what I asked?
Frustrated, I stuck my legal pad in my satchel and left the office. I’d have to finish planning over the weekend. I hated taking work home, but I’d been so focused on Debbie I hadn’t gotten anything done. My back felt like coiled springs being twisted tighter and tighter.
Over dinner I unloaded my frustration on Frankie and the kids. “You’ll never believe what she did today,” I said. “She actually threw a pen on her desk while I was talking to her.”
Frankie looked over at me. “Can you pass the potatoes, please?” he said.
“I don’t know how she thinks she can get away with treating me like that.”
“Jayne,” Frankie said, “would you mind passing the potatoes?”
“Here,” I said, handing the bowl over. “I’m sorry. I’m just at my wit’s end.”
“Have you tried asking her why this is so difficult for her?” Frankie said.
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve talked until I’m blue in the face. What more can I say?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “But clearly there’s a communication problem.”
My teenage daughters and nine-year-old son were talking about something across the table. “Will you be quiet?” I said. “I can’t hear myself think.”
Everyone around the table went silent. I didn’t feel like eating. Frankie and the kids picked at their food too.
Usually dinners were full of laughter, everyone sharing stories from their day. But lately our conversations had been strained. It certainly wasn’t making my problems at work any easier to deal with.
That night in bed I said a silent prayer: I’ve done everything I know how, Lord. Please help Debbie with this challenge. I’d asked God before for help, but I knew any change was going to have to come from Debbie first.
I brooded all weekend. Sunday night I was in the living room, working on my to-do list for the week: complete the fall schedule of classes, hire adjunct faculty, plan a staff orientation meeting…
Frankie came in the room and laid a magazine article on the couch next to me. “I thought this might have some useful information for you,” he said.
I glanced down at the headline: Marriage–Surviving Life’s Stormy Seas. Why was he giving me this? Frankie and I didn’t have any problems. We had been married so long we could finish each other’s sentences.
I read further. The article related the biblical story of Jonah, how his stubborn actions threatened the lives of everyone around him on the ship that day. “Deep inside, Jonah knew he was to blame,” I read, “but he didn’t want to face it until it was nearly too late. Finally he asked, ‘Is it I, Lord?’”
I thought about the past few weeks and the squall growing around me. I’d spent more time talking about Debbie than with her. Our feud had embroiled other faculty members. It had spilled over to my family too. I was consumed with anger, snapping at my children. Is it I, Lord?
Frankie had asked me why Debbie was struggling with this task. I didn’t know. I’d been dead-set on getting Debbie to listen to me. But I hadn’t once tried to hear her.
I went back to my to-do list, crossed out the top item and wrote: Meet with Debbie. I couldn’t go any further without asking her to forgive me.
The next morning I went to her office before I even turned on my computer. Debbie looked up when I knocked on her door and I saw her body tighten.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I said. “I’m sorry. I know this change is difficult for you and I haven’t made it any easier. Please forgive me. If you have a moment I thought you might have some ideas on how we could do it better.”
The tension in Debbie’s face melted away. Two simple words was all it took. Why had it been so hard for me to say them? To simply ask for forgiveness? I sat down across the desk from her, now more a bridge than a barrier.
“Let me show you what I’ve done,” she said. “I was thinking that I would start out by having my students write an essay.”
“That sounds great,” I said.
“I’m sorry it has taken me so long,” Debbie said. “I know we both want what’s best for the students.” We talked for a few more minutes. I asked about her mother and she about my kids. Then I stood, walked around her desk and hugged her.
There was a connection, a unity of purpose and a peace I knew could only come from God. The storm had lifted.
The next time I had a disagreement with a colleague, I wouldn’t let it escalate. Like Jonah, I’d ask, “Is it I, Lord?” Then I would listen.
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