Last night, I swung steadily back and forth in our little red hammock while Chuck sat sprawled out in an aging camp chair. Mosquitoes and fireflies lackadaisically flew around us and it was one of those summer nights where everything feels right with the world. For an hour or so, we sat out there just talking about life. Talking about faith. And I started talking about something that’s been weighing heavily on my mind lately.
Sometimes I’m really afraid that I’m never going to have a job that I love. I fear that there’s nothing I’m good at. I’m afraid that my four-year degree left me lacking basic career skills. I fear that I’m inadequate and have nothing worth contributing to potential future employers. I know where I want to work, I just don’t know what I want to do. Tears filled my eyes as I confessed my shortcomings to my husband. And like he tends to do, he spoke exactly what I needed to hear.
He told me I do have a skill; a skill most people would love to boast of. My ability to write. And not only an ability, but an undying passion for writing. This is my gift. My job will be what pays the bills, writing will always be what wraps me in its warm embrace after a long day at the office. Someday when I figure out what my story is, maybe writing will be a career. But for now, writing is that which brings me the deepest and most profound joy. And so long as it provides me with that joy, I will continue to frantically type my innermost thoughts for the world to see. Paycheck, or not.
Thanks to my husband, it’s going to be a good, long while before I quit my day job. And for the time being, I’m totally okay with that.