Do your thing

I’ve watched two stories this week about incredible athletes. The first was a film about a rock climber. The Spouse is fascinated by people who accomplish amazing athletic feats. So much so, he has been excited for weeks now about setting aside time to watch Free Solo, an Oscar-nominated documentary that profiles rock climber Alex Honnold. The film follows Honnold as he sets out to be the first to solo climb all 3000 feet of the El Capitan rock formation in Yosemite. If you’re like me and don’t know much about rock climbing or Yosemite, this means he is attempting to climb a solid piece of granite the height of three Empire State buildings without a rope or a partner. It’s pure insanity and difficult to watch even on a television screen.

The second story is one I saw this morning when Lindsey Vonn did an interview with Hoda Kotb about her recent retirement from downhill skiing. Vonn is the first American woman to win Olympic gold in downhill and a World Cup champion in all five disciplines of alpine skiing. She’s widely considered to be one of the greatest skiiers of all time. And she is reluctantly retiring at age 34 only because of the toll injuries have taken on her body. Kotb says in the interview that she thinks Vonn’s career is best summed up by these words from a Washington Post editorial, “Many years from now—long after the cheering has died away—the moutains will remember her.”

Both of these athletes’ stories are compelling. Of course, their skill and bravery in their respective sports is superhuman. I don’t envy the specific paths they have chosen or the feats they’ve accomplished. Nothing in me desires to dangle from the side of a mountain or propel my body down one at 90 miles per hour. Alex Honnold is a militant atheist and I don’t know where Lindsey Vonn stands with her theology. It’s not that I look to either or them for spiritual inpiration. What I stand in awe of is their unquestionable awareness of what they have been created to do.

They know their thing, and they are writing fascinating stories with their lives. Undoubtedly, “Many years from now… the mountains will remember them.”

Meanwhile I am 41 and still in search of my “thing.” What I know is that I have not left my mark on any mountains. It’s far more likely to be said of me that, “Many years from now… Target will remember her.”

I’m both serious and ashamed of this.

Awhile ago one of my ever inquisitive children started talking about careers. She loved her teacher last year, she loves her teacher this year, and she just can’t imagine how anyone wouldn’t desire to be a teacher.

Her: Why don’t you want to be a teacher?

Me: Well, I don’t think I would be very good at teaching.

Her {apparently not satisfied with my answer}: Why?

Me: Umm, I’m not sure. It’s just never been my thing.

Her: Well, what is your thing?

{* crickets *}

Me: I’m not sure yet. But right now my main thing is raising you.

And, with that the conversation switched to more pressing matters like what snack she would be having when we got home.

There’s nothing quite like a child’s honest interrogations to make you start thinking. About everything. Some days it’s like living with a therapist. Mine is just shorter, younger, and has a higher-pitched voice than most.

When I pause to consider that conversation and super-athletes like Honnold and Vonn, I’m not sure I’ve ever truly landed on a “thing.” For now, I just keep coming back to this place where I document our stories and experiences in hopes that one day I’ll either have a clear vision concerning my “thing,” or that I’ll discover I’ve been unconsciously doing my “thing”… or at least something worthwhile all along.

As I was going through school, I imagined one day working in women’s ministries, specifically writing curriculum or doing something {editing, marketing, copywriting/design} within the arena of Christian publishing. With my sights set on a city like Nashville and my focus on getting the appropriate education, I thought a career in that particular industry would come in due time.

But as is often the case, I thought wrong. I met a guy, fell in love with him and his heart, and the direction of our lives steered us back toward home. Rather than becoming a curriculum writer, I fumbled around in marketing and copywriting and soon became a full-time mom to three girls. I don’t write devotions or lessons or edit copy for publication. I tell stories about the people around me and the seasons we’re going through—just for fun.

It occurred to me a few years ago after I had just written a deeply profound post about our dog’s unfortunate haircut, that maybe my purpose, at least for now, is simply to write stories about the everyday as it unfolds around me. There is something strangely unifying about children and dogs, too, for that matter. Stories bring together what philosophical debate tears apart. Stories make us laugh or cry or pause or remember. They remind us how human we are. How emotional we are. How alike we are at our core. I know stories have their place.

What I struggle to believe about what I do with my days or what you do with yours is that our “things” or our callings may be less important than we make them out to be. I’ve long treated God’s calling on my life as something of a scavenger hunt. I look around for clues. Should I go to school here or there? What should I major in? Should we live in this place or that one? Where should I work? Of course our answers to these questions have an effect on our lives. But maybe the most important “thing” I can be doing is much simpler.

Love God. Love your neighbors.

This “thing” applies whether we’re writing or teaching or doctoring or mothering or caregiving or working at a job we don’t even like. Too often I forget that my goal isn’t for the figurative mountains or the literal masses to remember me. My goal is that many years from now, my family and those around me will remember me as one who lived and loved well. Or at least as one who tried to do so.

Maybe you climb up mountains. Maybe you ski down mountains. Maybe you’ve never even seen a mountain.

The hills may forget us, but we can rest assured God never does.