May 27, 2005
Some people are born knowing their purpose in life. It is an plain as the nose on their face. They forge through life filled with the surety of who they are and what they are to do. Not so for all of us. We may be passing fair at some or many things but nothing seems to jump out. Somehow I don’t think my calling in life is to watch movies or read books or eat potato chips–much as I wish it were.
As I ponder my purpose in life, I know that God made me and He made me me. I have certain gifts. Even though clarity seems to elude me as to what they are and doubt comes because there are always people better at things than I, I’m meant to know them and then use them. It seems logical they are gifts tied in to what I like and find meaningful. Maybe I’m created to be the best widget maker I can be. Maybe not, since I don’t even know what a widget is.
I heard a speaker yesterday on Christian radio, and his message touched the place in my heart longing for a sense of belonging and knowing. He said that every job we are called to do is from God. And now pops into my head that old familiar saying, “There is no difference between the secular and the sacred. All ground is holy ground. Every bush is a burning bush.” There is intellectual assent to that, but we grade people’s jobs and lives just as we grade our sins. A pastor has a holier job than a widget maker, your sin is worse than mine, etc.
All that to say this. Maybe right now I am called to be a mother. Or a wanderer. Or a writer. Whatever it is, for however long the season may be, I want to know it’s God’s calling for me, not just mine. I don’t need to feel guilty because I’m not living up to some societal or ecclesiastical standard of what I’m supposed to be. My purpose lies somewhere in my life, and I must seek it as I would buried treasure. I have a feeling that when I find it I’ll say, “I knew it all along!” Until then I shall remain on the lookout–in every book and movie and potato chip and everywhere else–for the me I’m supposed to be.
May 24, 2005
Letting go of the dreams that have grown in the garden of my heart, one by one. Hoping as I cast them to the wind the seeds will take root in some other garden, grow and blossom. It may be some dream I cannot imagine or have stopped trying to grow will spring up unbidden in my barren plot. For now though, the ones I release cannot stay for they are not mine.