My poor parents. They put up with so much. They really do. They worry and stress and worry and stress over my siblings and me. And then I go and quit my job in this terrible economy and they worry and stress. And I'm supposed to be the smart child.

My poor parents. I convinced them when I was little that I was going to be a big success in life and make lots of money. And I did get the good grades and I did go to college, and even grad school. And I did also surprise them with opportunities. But then I made this bizarre decision not to go into lucrative fields like law or business, and instead devoted myself to social causes that made no money. So much for "success."

My poor parents. My parents knew it was coming. They knew how unhappy I was. And I kept getting reminders not to quit my job without having another one. They've always given me that speech. And it's true. This time it had an extra twist: "you're not a young man anymore; you're getting old; you're not a spring chicken; jobs are harder to come by; etc." How nice. They mean it in the right way and they're right. They worry and stress. As I told my mother, I wanted to give her something new to pray about this week.

My poor parents. My mother said to me when I told her that I keep doing this. "Have you ever had another job secured before you've quit?" And I thought about it, and she's right. I never have done that. How strange. I've just known when things weren't working any longer and moved on. I think it all started early on right after college when I took on a temp position. Picture it: June 1992, Kansas City, Missouri, I'm 21 years old having just graduated with a Bachelors in the lucrative field of Sociology. I begin my first assignment with a temp agency. I quit on the third day because it was terrible. My parents are stressed and worried. I'm just want to volunteer at good cause places. (That was my plan after college. Great lucrative plan it was.) I get a call from my supervisor from my internship over my last semester of college and she lets me know that they've decided to hire me part-time. Hooray! I was so excited. It was no money and only part-time, but it was my dream. I'm driving in my old, used, hand-me-down Skylark through the highways of Kansas City. I put in the old tape player my favorite song of the time: Mariah Carey's "Make It Happen" and listen to it over and over and sing along driving around, happy as can be.

My poor parents. They've always put up with my insane career decisions. They've always been supportive and loving, but they stress and worry. And I'm supposed to be the smart child. Indeed, my poor parents.