I've been thinking about purpose lately and I've found myself wondering what I want my purpose to be - because, in a lot of ways, I think we choose.
On a walk to the farmer's market a month ago, I asked Liz what she finds herself questioning most, four months after her mom's death. She told me she worried she wouldn't change because in her head, growing in a significant way would give purpose to the loss of her mom. Her response punched deep in my gut but all I could think to say was that it sounded like a stifling amount of pressure. So I awkwardly assured her that she's already changed - I do see a different sort of gentleness and compassion in her. But I hated saying it. The last thing I want is for Liz to put any sort of pressure on herself and it felt like by affirming the change I was confirming that she could make her mom's death worth something.
I thought about our conversation every day for weeks, taking entirely too long to realize that I face the same kind of fears for myself. Since I live with chronic pain, I feel like I should be helping people with the same story. There is a crushing pressure that I'm supposed to use my specific circumstances in a certain way. I constantly weigh quitting my job as a restaurant designer against working in healthcare design: committed to helping people who are sick find healing and know hope. Or focusing on humanitarian architecture centered around people with disabilities. Or quitting design entirely and trying counseling - something less first-world than design.
I thought about our conversation every day for weeks, taking entirely too long to realize that I face the same kind of fears for myself. Since I live with chronic pain, I feel like I should be helping people with the same story. There is a crushing pressure that I'm supposed to use my specific circumstances in a certain way. I constantly weigh quitting my job as a restaurant designer against working in healthcare design: committed to helping people who are sick find healing and know hope. Or focusing on humanitarian architecture centered around people with disabilities. Or quitting design entirely and trying counseling - something less first-world than design.
But I have to believe this isn't all a riddle. Even after all my weighing and wondering, I am not meant to sit around and piece together my life experiences to solve the puzzle that will lead to my purpose. I'm incredibly unsure of this, but I'm starting to believe my purpose is simply to know my friends and family in the most ordinary ways. I know that seems small when reading about ISIS, Syria, and Ebola, but I need to believe that living a life without a mom or with a swollen and arthritic body, and still caring to know and love the people around us can be a purpose that is worth something. Because that is the story Liz and I were given, and what are we without them? I know that if I was anywhere else in the world last April when Liz lost her mom, no matter how selfless or adventurous or purpose-filled my job seemed, the only place I'd have wanted to be was outside Barbara's hospital room holding Liz's hand. Anywhere else would have been wrong. That has to mean something.
Lately, a purpose-filled weekend looks like Jess and I spending three hours Saturday morning on the couch, coffee in hand, updating each other about our work week. When Abby and I make breakfast for dinner and scheme about beach trips down to the Keys and train rides up the coast to Maine. When Liz and I go shopping because we have a coupon and not because we need anything. Those moments are never just about work stories, vacations, or shopping. They are filled with laughter, honesty, the courage to admit pain, and the healing that comes from being heard. They're my favorite days. They aren't about giving and getting advice. They're about assuring each other we are loved by hearing each other. I think we are here to know each other and I think that may be all.
It all makes me wonder how often, when I think of God, I see him smiling at me? Since April, when Liz's mom died and my body started getting worse, I've been aching for Him to come down here - if only for an hour - to help me breathe deeply again. To tell me what to do with the sadness. If He came I wouldn't want to ask him anything. I'd just want to sit and maybe hold His hand, memorizing what it's like to be beside Him and not feel like I'm messing up, disappointing Him, or not doing enough. I wouldn't want Him to explain my pain or the decision to take Liz's mom away. I think if He did He'd seem smaller, because I hope it's not an easy explanation. And either way I don't need it.
It all makes me wonder how often, when I think of God, I see him smiling at me? Since April, when Liz's mom died and my body started getting worse, I've been aching for Him to come down here - if only for an hour - to help me breathe deeply again. To tell me what to do with the sadness. If He came I wouldn't want to ask him anything. I'd just want to sit and maybe hold His hand, memorizing what it's like to be beside Him and not feel like I'm messing up, disappointing Him, or not doing enough. I wouldn't want Him to explain my pain or the decision to take Liz's mom away. I think if He did He'd seem smaller, because I hope it's not an easy explanation. And either way I don't need it.
I think we'd just sit together and my world would feel whole again.
