What I Want to Be When I Grow Up

Growing up, I wanted to be a garbage truck man.

Not a garbage truck driver, mind you.

THE MAN.

The one hanging on for dear life on the rear of the trash truck as it perilously weaves in and out of neighborhoods.

Basically, the Indiana Jones of city workers.

The man who hops off when the truck stops and heaves buckets of mysterious waste into the mouth of a massive trash transformer.

When I was eight years old, my dad would ask me:

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Some kids said astronaut.

Or Michael Jordan.

Or President.

I said, half jokingly—and I was a sarcastic knucklehead back then too—

“A garbage truck man.”

And my dad, without missing a beat, would say:

“Be the best garbage truck man you can be then.”

Even though I was being a little tongue-in-cheek, there was something strangely captivating about that ancient occupation.

The danger of falling off into oncoming traffic at any moment.

The adventure of the open road winding through the neighborhood.

The weighty responsibility of rummaging through an entire city’s secret junk.

The wind and sun and elements hitting your face as you rode along.

And then there was the basketball goal at the end of our neighborhood cul-de-sac. Whenever we were playing pickup, the garbage truck man would occasionally stop and substitute himself into the game. We’d feed him the rock. He’d drive the lane. And he’d throw down a highlight-reel dunk.

Jeans.

Work boots.

Garbage truck and all.

Then he’d casually walk away, hop back on the truck, and keep going like a boss. It was only a nine-foot goal, but to a bunch of nine-year-olds, that was a big deal.

Fast forward a few decades. I’ve been an educator and coach for eighteen years now. My education career alone is old enough to buy a pack of smokes and join the military. I enjoy it. I really do.

But here’s the funny thing:

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

And maybe that’s okay. Because somewhere along the way, we can fall into a dangerous mental trap:

We confuse what we do with who we are.

We start measuring ourselves by titles, numbers, grades, accomplishments, salaries, followers, houses, résumés, and bank accounts. We find our worth in our works.

We unconsciously build an equation that says:

I do this = I am this.

I’m a teacher, therefore I’m valuable.

I’m successful, therefore I’m somebody.

I’m productive, therefore I’m worthy.

I’m failing, therefore I’m a failure.

I’m impressive, therefore I’m loved.

I’m struggling, therefore I’ve somehow become less.

It’s the default math of the human heart. And if we’re not careful, it becomes our default math every morning. But the gospel gives us a completely different equation. Jesus doesn’t simply come along and give us a better job description.

He gives us a new identity.

In Christ, what He has done becomes the foundation of who we are.

He chose us in Him. He adopted us. He brought us near. He made us His children. He joined us to Himself. He gave us His Spirit. He called us beloved.

And none of that began with our performance.

Before we ever accomplished anything, Christ had already accomplished something for us. Before we could do anything for Him, He had already done everything necessary to establish us in Him. That’s why the gospel completely dismantles the equation:

“I do this, therefore I am this.”

Instead, it gives us something far more beautiful:

“He did this. Therefore, I am this.”

I don’t become God’s son because I perform like one.

I learn to live like a son because, in Christ, I already am one.

I don’t obey in order to convince God to love me.

I obey from the security of knowing I am already loved.

I don’t serve so that I can finally have an identity.

I serve because my identity has already been given to me.

My works don’t establish my identity. My identity gives birth to my works. That’s a completely different way to live. And maybe that’s why I’m not quite as concerned anymore about figuring out exactly what I want to be when I grow up.

Maybe I’ll be an educator. Maybe a coach. Maybe a pastor. Maybe a Christian streetwear online store mogul.

Maybe, against all odds, I’ll finally fulfill my childhood dream and become a garbage truck man.

Who knows?

The titles may change. The jobs may change. The bank account may change. The résumé will certainly change. Even my ability to throw down a dunk on a nine-foot goal has changed considerably (that peaked in my 20s and tanked in my 40s).

But the thing underneath all of it doesn’t have to change.

Because my deepest identity isn’t something I have to build.

It is something I receive.

I am in Christ.

I am His.

I am a beloved son.

And that was never something I could earn in the first place.

So perhaps the better question isn’t:

“What do I want to be when I grow up?”

Maybe the better question is:

“Who has Christ already made me to be?”

Because when I know who I am, I can finally stop trying to become somebody.

I can simply learn to live from the Somebody who has already made me His.

I know what He’s done.

I know who He is.

And because of that,

I know who I am.

— Bryan Daniels

Chief of The Least is the blog of Identity Thread - apparel for people who want to wear their identity in Christ, not just their outfit.

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