Evolving Purpose

I glance at the oven timer. There's still an hour and a half until I have to pull the turkey out and baste that sucker with more honey-garlic-butter-pickling spice sauce. The kitchen, I decide, is in a reasonable state, considering I'm halfway through Thanksgiving day preparations. The dishwasher is running a load. What can be put away has been. The kitchen island is scrubbed clean of flour, powdered sugar, melted butter, and bits of herb.

I turn on the electric kettle and spoon chicory and cocoa powder into a mug, thinking about Askfriend's second set of questions. I add in milk, hot water, spices, and sugar, then sit down to compose an answer.

What do you believe to be your purpose in life? Does it change/evolve with time?

With the full understanding that every person over forty will roll their eyes at me, I still lay claim to the phrase, "As I get older..."

As I get older, memory softens at the edges and a haze blankets many details. Much of what I say about childhood and teen years is becoming guesswork and approximate reconstruction of the past based on a few solid events and rough sketches of who I was at various points in my life.

I knew that I wanted to be a published author. I also knew, as I had been told many times, that I ought not to expect to make a living off writing. Money, I was told, would have to be a secondary motivation, because the chances of one being the next JK Rowling were slim.

I was okay with that. My parents probably worried, but they themselves had left behind every stable option to pursue a blend of their dreams and God's calling, so they encouraged me to follow my gifting.

I didn't know much about how the world worked or what options were available to me. In retrospect, if I had known of the existence of trade schools, I would have been well served to enter a place where I worked with my hands under externally imposed structure, tracking me to a concrete career with excellent pay. As it was, I thought that the next best thing to making a living from writing would be to make a living as an editor, reading and correcting others' work for a paycheck while writing in my spare time. So I enrolled at Seattle Pacific University, hoping to get a degree in Creative Writing.

2007-2009 was a long, slow tailspin which ended with me quietly fading off campus, not even notifying SPU of my withdrawal. I was two years in, $20k in debt, and had no idea what to do with myself in this city two states from home.

During this time, I worked part time at a small Christian bookstore and part time at Subway. I learned how to pay rent, get groceries, survive with housemates, and generally how to function as an adult. Occasionally I tried to write an original story, but could not fight past the demons in my head. It was hard enough getting day-to-day things done. Instead, I wrote fanfiction and participated in online text-based roleplaying to satisfy (pacify?) my storytelling drive.

Pause. Rewind. Choose a second tack.

As I grew up, I watched the way my parents ministered at the churches where Mom gave concerts. When my Mom sang, people cried. They came forward and told my parents their stories. It was like watching war-ravaged civilians stagger toward medical tents, the way they embraced my parents. The stories they told quickly inured me to shock over the human condition.

As I grew, I found that people also came to me and told me things they "never told anyone before." They were often surprised at themselves for doing so, laughing sheepishly and saying that they usually weren't so quick to trust. I was fascinated by this phenomenon, but accepted that it probably had something to do with the way my family was, or maybe there some neon sign on my forehead that only I couldn't see.

I listened. I nodded. I extended tissue boxes. I held hands and hugged. I was not shocked, but I was sad with them. Yes, that is terrible. No, that shouldn't have happened. I'm so sorry. Tell me more. I didn't--and often still don't--have the right words to balm the wounds, but I could listen with my full attention. I took them seriously.

It's only natural, therefore, that I began to wonder if I had some future in ministering to broken people. I was broken people myself, and trauma victims seemed to sense that and be drawn to me. Was this not, itself, an indication of a direction to go? Brokenness always manifested in my storytelling, but in real life, was there not something I could do to reach out to the most hurting?

Unfortunately, I developed many untrue beliefs that put down deep roots alongside this desire. Planted in formative childhood relationships, these hazy impressions bore specific, bitter fruits in my adult friendships. Retroactively clarified, they were:

• My pain is not as important as their pain.
• My needs are not as important as theirs.
• Other people have world-changing potential, whereas I will probably not do very much with my life.
• Loyalty is of utmost importance for me to maintain--even if it isn't returned.
• If I protest anything or bring up any conflict, I will be abandoned.

Pause. Fast-forward.

My plans for becoming an editor at a publishing house withered. You can't hope for that kind of job without a college degree. So, I adjusted. My life path took the shape of finding steady work wherever I could and fitting writing in around the edges. Fanfiction writing, you understand, because original fiction just wasn't happening.

In the years that followed, I began reaching the limits of what I could pour out of my own broken cup into others. I was dismayed and often furious with myself for having any kind of upper limit to this ability. How dare I not have what is needed! The need is still there, irrespective of my ability to do something about it! It must be met! With this, I flogged my own tired heart.

It was not until I started dating Sergey that things began to change. When I poured my heart and efforts into him, there were somehow always more resources inside of me than there had been at the start. This equation did not fit into my understanding of the world and even frightened me with its unfamiliarity, but I needed it to continue. To date, this is the only human relationship I have where I am ever filled by pouring myself out into another person.

Not long into our marriage, I once again imploded spectacularly under the pressure of giving every internal resource I had to perceived needs around me. As Sergey and I picked up my pieces and began the long, slow process of reassembling me, he put forward an idea. A question.

"Is it so bad if that gift you have was meant for me?"

The question startled and confused me. Sergey has told me over the years how healing our relationship has been for him, in ways that I can only imagine and never fully understand. Sergey's pain is not loud. It is not obvious. He has always kept such things close and quiet, because he has found that wearing your heart on your sleeve attracts arrows.

But he, too, was bleeding on the floor, and my presence and affection soothed and healed without any backbreaking efforts on my part.

I wrestled with this idea. As I did, I realized that part of my misconception of the world centered on believing that the amount of effort I put forward or how much suffering I endured was somehow equal to the amount of benefit or love the other person received.

Effort + Suffering = Other Person Is Loved

Math has never been my strong suit, in school or in relationships. Seeing it laid out like that, I knew it was false because just being myself with Sergey eased his pain and sealed his wounds, and the same was true in reverse. This was the healing equation that so unsettled my map of the world.

I began to let go of the idea that I was destined to dole out healing and aid to people suffering trauma and incredible loss--not that I stopped listening. I did, however, begin to let go of the idea that it was my responsibility to seek them out and minister to those specific wounds. I realized that much of my own brokenness has obliterated the boundaries and firmness necessary to this kind of outreach. I still listen, I still hug, I still offer tea and baked goods, but I no longer take the person on my shoulders. That endurance is shattered.

I sank my arms up to the elbows in the garden of my own soul. I tended my own needs, hurts, and wants for many years. I helped restore a long-neglected house--what a metaphor for my own heart. I developed many new recipes and delighted in cooking meals for us in the home and baking treats for neighbors around us. I learned how to embroider, make silly hats, and knotted more blankets off my crochet hook than I can count. I sponged information from many dozens of books. I learned how to keep a large house in order, clean, and organized. I learned--and am still learning--how to be friends without trying to fix and save.

And as I feel this season of prolonged healing draw to a close, at what feels like the edge of a new season in my life, I have 59k words of an original novel written.

I do think these things are connected. I think there was a lot of healing I had to go through and many misbeliefs to confront before I could face the multiple failures burying "that thing I'm supposed to be doing with my life." In addition, I do not have the pressure of having to work every day. I am not saying that this sort of time and space is a requirement for healing, but it has certainly helped, and I am deeply grateful to Sergey for this gift.

As I began writing, Sergey and I found that he had what I lacked: an analytical, worldbuilding mind. He protests that it isn't all that much, that he needs a prompt for it to work. But that is perfect. I lob him the rough concept I'm looking to develop. Immediately he kicks back an hour of monologue-ic brainstorming about the concrete intricacies of how that scenario would work. I record this session, then use that as the bones for which I write a story arc, adding description and emotion, major and minor characters, and the drive toward healing that each little story desires for itself.

Does my purpose evolve or change over time?

Thirty minutes ago, I basted the turkey and put it back in the oven. Opened the dishwasher so the hot water could evaporate from the dishes. Poured a glass of my favorite cranberry wine. I haven't worked on the current arc of The Remara Phenomenon today, but I'll get back to it soon.

My energy level and emotional state fluctuates, so what I can get done from day to day is different. However, I'm much better at planning that out. Over the last two days, I've done half the prep-work for today's feast so that today, even though I'm responsible for cookies, lemonade, caprese salad, mashed potatoes, and turkey, I'm not exhausted. The kitchen is semi-chaotic, but not a disaster. The dining room looks beautiful. I'm so proud to be responsible for hosting Thanksgiving for the first time in my life.

First, I am a housewife. I make this building a home by gently nagging contractors to repair, cleaning and decorating the rooms, and filling the building with the smell of good food. I exercise and play and read and watch things with my husband almost every day. I am the face of this house to the neighborhood, earning as much goodwill as I can while sidestepping old feud lines. I pour energy and love into my relationship with Sergey and receive overflowing portions in return.

Second, I am a writer. My new blog is a less ranty, more coherent and hopeful strain of the sort of writing I began on Tumblr. This helps me practice creative non-fiction, though Sergey has given up hope that I will learn how to express my ideas concisely. There are still a couple of fanfictions I work on, but they have sunk to the lowest priority. Finally, I am stepping into the calling that has hounded me for most of my life: telling stories.

What has changed? Well, the housewife bit was definitely never a possibility in my mind, and at first it certainly didn't have the number one slot. However, I find that placing it in priority slot #1 has opened the path for me to write the way I'm supposed to. With Sergey, I also have a sanity-check for when I am expending too many of my internal resources. My desire to touch hurting hearts has been removed from the driver's seat of my entire life and placed, instead, as a supporting voice. If anything, it has begun to weave itself more and more into my writing, and I think that is the best place for it.

Today I hosted Thanksgiving dinner for the first time. And that is a tiny miracle in itself.

Formation. Collapse. Reconstruction. I suppose you could encapsulate it as an evolution. I like to look at it as an ongoing healing, because I doubt the journey is anywhere near complete.

And with the prospect of living overseas looming, I can't wait to see how my purpose next evolves.

Happy Thanksgiving.