The Promotion
He was called “Director of Vision Integration.” Fancy title. No team. No budget. No clue what it meant. They gave it to him after the last round of layoffs, like a consolation prize. HR said it was “symbolic of his enduring legacy.” He knew it was symbolic, alright—like a participation trophy for surviving decades in a cubicle.
His office was a windowless box beside the IT server room, the hum of machines his only applause. Every morning, he microwaved instant oatmeal and fed the crumbs to a pet rock named Dave. Dave didn’t judge. Dave didn’t leave.
He once had a wife. Two kids. A house with a patchy lawn and a leaky faucet he swore he'd fix "next weekend." But chasing startup dreams and spiritual callings had eaten his time—and his paycheck. The bills mounted. His kids stopped answering calls. His wife, long tired of living in rented rooms and donation bins, left a note that read: “I needed a partner, not a poet. We deserved better.”
He stayed behind, clinging to the dream that one day his big idea—a revolutionary app for digital confessionals—would catch on. It didn’t. Turns out, people still preferred whispering to a priest over typing sins into a login screen.
By the time he reached sixty-two, he was renting a studio apartment with spotty Wi-Fi and tap water that smelled like pennies. His meals came from discount bins and church potlucks. Every now and then, a former coworker—now VP of something—would send a cheery “thinking of you” email. He always replied too late.
The worst part wasn’t the loneliness. It was irrelevance. The tech lingo had evolved without him. He watched Zoom tutorials twice at half-speed. Gen-Z interns spoke in acronyms that left him Googling in shame. He had once been the go-to guy. Now he was the ghost who haunted Slack channels.
Still, he showed up. Early. Every day. Ironed shirt. New password memorized. When layoffs came again, he started cleaning out his desk before they even told him. But this time, the head of HR—an unnervingly cheerful millennial in sneakers that cost more than his rent—called him in.
“We’ve noticed your consistency,” she said, tapping on a tablet without looking up. “And your... well... your loyalty. Would you be willing to mentor some of our junior staff?”
He blinked. “You want me to teach them... what, exactly?”
She smiled like it was obvious. “How to survive. How to not burn out. You know—old person stuff.”
He almost laughed. Almost cried. Instead, he just nodded.
That week, he started hosting “Wisdom Wednesdays.” No one came the first two times. Then, one intern—hungover and curious—wandered in. They talked about burnout, and coffee, and how not every dream has to be monetized. More came. Then more.
One afternoon, as the last kid packed up, he stayed behind. “You know,” she said, “I thought you were just another boomer stuck in the system. But... you actually listen. You care. It matters.”
That night, he fed Dave a crumb of granola and whispered, “Did you hear that, buddy? It matters.”
“Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.” (Proverbs 16:18, AMP). But what follows the fall, the Buddha might say, is the chance to rise again—quietly, humbly, with empty hands and a teachable heart.
Maybe he didn’t build the empire he dreamed of. Maybe he failed his family in ways that couldn’t be undone. But he was showing up now—grateful, grounded, and finally, after all these years, useful.
Not bad for a man with a title no one understood and a pet rock named Dave.
The Fall of the Visionary Mentor
By quarter two, “Wisdom Wednesdays” became standing-room only. They gave him a real conference room, with a nameplate and a carafe of cucumber water. Someone even suggested recording his sessions for the intranet. He started wearing blazers again. Swapped oatmeal for protein shakes. Got a haircut that said, “I'm relevant.”
The interns hung on his every word. “Tell us again how you survived the dot-com crash,” one would ask. “What was it like before smartphones?” another would marvel. He smiled, humble-bragging about fax machines and PalmPilots like sacred relics.
Somewhere between week nine and week ten, something shifted.
He stopped listening. He started preaching.
Gone were the quiet circles of shared struggle. Now it was lectures, PowerPoints, acronyms he made up on the spot. “Success is about SACRED: Simplicity, Authenticity, Clarity, Resilience, Empathy, and Diligence.” He printed it on laminated cards. He spoke of legacy. Of duty. Of “the calling to be a corporate sage.”
He quoted scripture like a badge: “A good name is more desirable than great riches...” (Proverbs 22:1). But he forgot the second part: “…and loving favor is better than silver and gold.”
And favor, quietly, began to fade.
The kids still came—but now with glazed eyes and polite nods. His inbox filled with calendar declines. His last “Vision Alignment Retreat” ended with an awkward group stretch and three ghosted feedback forms.
Then came the whisper: he’d called himself a “spiritual mentor” in an email chain to HR. Someone flagged it. HR asked for a “tone adjustment.”
He was furious. “I’m offering life-saving wisdom,” he barked. “They’re lucky to have me.”
But no one was lucky. Not anymore. He had become the thing he once pitied: a man preaching into a void, addicted to his own relevance.
That night, Dave—the rock—was missing. Probably tossed by the janitor. Maybe stolen by a disgruntled mentee. It felt like a betrayal. Or maybe it was just Tuesday.
He sat in the empty conference room, lights flickering overhead, and remembered a story his grandmother once told him—a parable he hadn’t thought about in decades.
“In the old country,” she said, “there was a priest who healed the sick and taught the people. They brought him bread and wine, and his name echoed through the valley. But he began to believe the power was his. One day, the village burned and he stood before the fire, shouting prayers. But nothing came. Not because the gods were cruel. But because he had stopped listening. And the gods do not bless the proud who forget the silence.”
He poured his cucumber water down the sink. Sat cross-legged on the carpet. No slides. No titles. Just breath.
The next Wednesday, only one person showed up—a new janitor, curious about the “old guy in the yoga pose.” They talked about sandwiches. About old music. About how hard it is to lose something you loved before you ever knew how much it meant.
The man smiled. Not as a teacher. Not as a title. But as himself.
“The truly wise,” Grandmother once whispered, “are those who never stop learning, especially from their own foolishness.”
Sermon Reflection: When the Message Gets Lost in the Messenger
In the beginning, his mission was pure. To pass along what he'd learned through mistakes, trials, and small victories. He showed up with authenticity, speaking less like a prophet and more like a fellow traveler.
But ego is a patient predator. It doesn't shout—it whispers. It waits for applause, for approval, for those moments when we feel “chosen.” Then it slips in and says: “You are the message.”
And that’s when we stop listening.
When he named his principles, printed cards, and sought recognition, he forgot the sacred silence between lessons—the humility of being human. He began to speak from his throne instead of his wounds. He taught from a platform, not from presence.
The story mirrors Grandmother’s old parable of the Nordic Priest who lost his connection to the divine when he mistook the ritual for the spirit behind it. Just as the gods withdrew from the valley priest who no longer listened, so too did the favor withdraw from our executive-turned-orator when he stopped offering space for truth to breathe.
But the divine has a soft spot for those who break and bend and kneel again.
The janitor’s presence was no accident. He didn’t come seeking wisdom—he came to satisfy curiosity. And in doing so, he offered something rare and holy: a moment unfiltered by expectation.
Their simple conversation—the sandwich, the music, the shared human ache—was more ministry than any TED Talk or laminated acronym could ever be.
“The truly wise are those who never stop learning, especially from their own foolishness.” That line isn’t just Grandmother’s proverb—it’s the thread running through the entire story.
If the fire of purpose flickers out, sometimes it’s not the crowd or the applause that reignites it. Sometimes, it’s the sound of a mop bucket rolling in at the right time, and someone who just wants to know why you’re still here.
And that’s when the real teaching begins again.
The Circle Returns to Ember
I’ve been here a long time. Long enough to watch the carpets change color three times and see four CEOs pass through without ever remembering my name. But him? I remember him.
Fresh out of college—well, “college adjacent,” I guess. Said he had “some credits.” Always wore sneakers that squeaked when he walked too fast. Came in loud, full of ideas. Talked big. Bigger than the paycheck he was getting.
The managers offered training sessions, mentorship programs—heck, even a lunch-and-learn with an actual venture capitalist. He signed up for all of them. Showed up to none.
Sat in the back corner, doodling logos for companies that never existed. Scribbled big, impressive names: “QuantumFlux,” “DataEden,” “MoralUX.” Sounded like they’d already IPO’d in his head.
Meanwhile, the quiet ones? The ones who actually paid attention? They’re gone now. Off starting tech firms. Some came back to give keynotes at the same events he never attended. They send Christmas cards to the office—always addressed to HR. Never to him.
He never left the building, but the world left him behind anyway.
They gave him promotions—new titles that meant nothing. “Digital Liaison,” “Innovation Lead,” “Emerging Strategy Advisor.” Sounded like spells from a bad fantasy novel. But his desk stayed the same. So did his paycheck.
Funny thing is, I never judged him. We all have our ember. That little coal from the fire we built when we were young and too dumb to know what couldn’t be done. For some, it dies. For others, it hides in the ashes, waiting for a breath of humility to coax it back to life.
That breath came when he stopped preaching and started sweeping—when he noticed people again. Not just their titles or Twitter bios, but their names. Their habits. The way they carried grief behind forced smiles in the break room.
He came down to the boiler room one evening. Didn’t say much. Just sat on an upside-down mop bucket, sandwich in hand. Finally looked at me like he saw a person, not just a background character in his story.
I told him something Grandmother once told me, back when I was a foolish young janitor with a guitar and too many opinions: “A circle is only a circle because it remembers where it started. And it returns—not because it failed, but because it knows where the fire lives.”
He nodded. Didn’t write it down. Didn’t tweet it.
Just chewed slowly, eyes staring into a corner of the room I didn’t understand. Maybe that was the ember waking up again.
You see, wisdom ain’t about arriving. It’s about returning—with less pride, more silence, and a willingness to listen to the people who always noticed when you were too busy trying to be noticed.
And now? He walks slower. Talks softer. Started mentoring the interns—this time without expecting applause. They don’t know his story. Don’t need to.
But sometimes, when the elevator doors close and they think no one’s watching, I see them glance at his doodles on the whiteboard... and smile.
Benediction From the Broom Closet
I push a cart, not a keyboard. My office smells like bleach, not ambition. But from behind this mop handle, I’ve seen things most corner offices miss.
I’ve watched interns grow into executives, and executives shrink into echoes. Seen coffee runs turn into companies, and lunch breaks turn into legacies.
And I’ve seen folks stay still—eyes on old glory days, heads full of "what could’ve been" if they’d just taken the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator that never came.
Here’s the thing most folks don’t realize until it’s too late: Time is not cruel. It’s just consistent.
It don’t wait for your excuses. It don’t pause while you polish your title. And it sure as hell doesn’t care about your office plaque if your heart’s still stuck in 1998.
You can hide in the shadows of the breakroom, hope nobody notices your relevance is rusting—but the future don’t need your permission to move on.
I ain’t bitter. Just observant. And maybe a little tired of sweeping up the dust of dreams that never got off the ground ‘cause someone was too proud to start over.
So here’s my benediction, to anyone who’s still listening: “The fire don’t die because it burned out. It dies because no one fed it.”
Feed yours. Try again. Listen more. Say less. And if you ever find yourself staring at a title that don’t mean what it used to, ask yourself:
“Am I still growing... or just collecting dust?”
And if the answer stings a little—good. That means the ember’s still alive. Blow on it. Let it burn again.
I’ll be here, same hallway. Different faces. Same mop. Watching.