My performance
review
By David Myers
I had just arrived
at work. I poured myself a cup of hot coffee flavored with Sweet n’ Low and
half a cup of cream, and reached for a chocolate covered donut that had my name
on it (I had written my name on it in candy sprinkles the night before).
I sat down at my computer and flipped the “on”
switch like a modern day Dr. Frankenstein. My computer yawned to life and
opened its big, Cyclops eye. I never knew for sure what mood my computer was
in. On a bad day, I could easily imagine it sprouting legs and terrorizing the
countryside.
I began clacking out a story when suddenly
something seemed amiss. Call it a feeling, a hunch, a sensation, an intuition,
something that rhymes with orange. … It was the same feeling I had the day I
realized I came to work without having changed out of my Ewok
costume from the night before when I entertained at a Presbyteral
Council meeting.
I glanced at my calendar. Underlined and in
big, thick letters it read, “Annual performance review.” I lowered my face into
my hands and moaned. To make matters worse, I was wearing a SpongeBob
SquarePants monogram on my shirt -- a gift from my
nephew. Great. Nothing shows that you’re a serious
professional more than having SpongeBob SquarePants grinning atop your breast pocket.
And here’s where I should mention that our
reviews are a bit different than your average performance review. We don’t go
to our immediate boss for our review, or to the bishop, or even to a human
resources department. Where do we go? Let’s listen in:
I knocked on the office door and heard a
crisp, “Come in.”
I ... I couldn’t believe it! Right there in
front of me sat St. Sebastian, his sandaled feet up on the desk, an arrow – no,
it was a No. 2 pencil -- perched over his ear. I have to say, having a martyr
give me my review didn’t seem quite fair. He gave his life converting people to
Christianity. I can’t even get out of bed on time.
“St. Peter Claver usually does our reviews,”
I said meekly.
“Flu,”
he replied, taking a drink from a
“Well, you see, my doctor said --”
“Uh,
oh,” he interrupted. “Says here you printed a large photo on Page 1 of what you
thought was a special fund-raising dinner. Turned out it was an X-ray of
someone’s elbow.”
“From a distance, the medial collateral
ligament looked very much like a family of five eating a bucket of chicken,” I
told him. He gave me a look.
“Ah, here we go,” he said a moment later. “It
says you are very good about helping others in the office. Especially with the
web….”
“Yes, I do try to help whenev
--”
“Hmmmm,” he interrupted.
“It also says that you would rather be watching SpongeBob
than working on the web. Is that true?”
Oh, man.
“I think I’ve seen enough. Listen, a good job
highlights your talents, but it also exposes your weaknesses, and we all have
weaknesses. You don’t think there were days when I was off converting Rome,
that I wouldn’t have rather been sunning on the Tiber River, drinking an ale,
or reading the latest writings of Roberto Borge, ‘funny
man to the pope?’ You don’t think that when I was having all those arrows shot at
me I wouldn’t have rather been taking a ceramics class?”
“Really?”
“Well … no.
Not really. That’s why I’m a saint. The fact is, we
all receive arrows -- sometimes by our own making, sometimes not. Know this: I
was ordered to die by the Emperor Diocletian in 287 AD. Each arrow shot through
my flesh, as painful as it was, contained the voice of God. ‘I love you,’ came
after the first arrow pierced my flesh. ‘You are precious in my sight,’ came another. ‘Forgive,’ came yet another.
“Each time
you fail – and each time someone fails you – listen for God’s word; What is God saying to you?”