"Study of a Foggy Road," 8x10, oil on panel.
If you put five past versions of me behind a curtain and had to guess their ages, you could do it by asking each one a single question:
“What do you want to be when you grow up?”
The younger the girl, the more certain the answer would be. Five-year-old Bekah would confidently list off “a cowgirl veterinarian ballerina.” At ten, in my vast maturity, I’d settle on just “a veterinarian.”
At fifteen, “maybe an English teacher?” By twenty: “I’m not sure, but I think something with business.” And now, at twenty-five, you’ll just get a laugh.
As I grew up and my answers became more hesitant, my understanding of a career shifted. It morphed from something I simply thought I’d enjoy to a calling: something I knew I was made to do, and from which I gained purpose.
I was driving with a friend when this topic came up. We’re close in age and in a similar stage of life, and had both assumed that at this point we’d have our vocational callings figured out. As you probably guessed, we don’t.
“I just wish I had a direction,” they said. “Other people have this goal that gives them a trajectory, but I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next.”
Lessons from a barber
As I sat in the passenger seat, watching trees blur past, I thought of Jayber Crow.
I was knee deep in the Wendell Berry novel and gleaning all sorts of lessons from the eponymous main character.
Jayber was a small-town barber by trade—but also by accident. He never had some moment of vocational clarity, a certain education, or a specific goal. In fact, most of his early life was spent running away rather than towards something. And yet, once he had the perspective of old age, he said:
“Surely I was called to be, for one thing, a barber. All my real opportunities have been to be a barber… and being a barber has made other opportunities.”
Parallel to Jayber’s journey into accidental barbering was a journey towards the heart of God. His career path was really quite circumstantial—needs arose and he stepped in. He never made much, never held any positions of glamor or prominence, but the lessons he learned along the way illuminated and wooed him towards his Creator.
Perspectives
It was a foggy morning, and as we drove along, the headlights of oncoming traffic emerged as fuzzy yellow dots. We couldn’t see very far, but we could see just enough to know the bend of the road right in front of us. Only enough to make the next turn.
I thought of Jayber’s perspective at the point where he first took up barbering, and then as an old man. It must’ve felt like this, at first. Something like the foggy road—like my friend and I—trying to discern our destination, but only able to see what was just ahead.
I thought of the Bible stories I learned as a child, where Noah was told to build an ark, not able to imagine what he was preparing for. Or when Moses and fleeing Israel followed God’s directions to a dead-end peninsula, Egyptian armies in hot pursuit, not knowing that God would part the sea for their escape.
There’s a recurring theme of contrasting perspectives—the impossibly small perspective of humans, and the perfect view of God.
Jayber wasn’t bothered by what others may label as a lack of vocational direction or ambition. He simply engaged with the opportunities God placed in his path, and at the end of his life looked back at a map of divine direction towards a singular calling.
My friend and I haven’t received instructions to build an ark or lead an escaping people from captivity—or to cut hair. We simply have instructions to love and obey God. And while it might not seem like it, that alone offers plenty of practical applications.
I know that loving and obeying God means spending intentional time with Him, becoming a student of His Word and learning to follow the tugs of the Spirit to live like Jesus. It also means loving others—in my family, church, workplace, and community—with my words and actions.
This is my true calling. This is what I was made to do, and this is where I find my purpose amidst any and every vocational circumstance.
I’ll still be praying for direction, but as I do, I take heart. I may only be able to see the next bend in the road, but that’s all I need. I belong to the Sovereign God of infinite perspective, and as long as I’m pursuing Him, I can trust with peace and confidence that each turn has a purpose.
If you ask me now what I want to be when I grow up, I’ll still laugh. I don’t know! All I know is that I want to serve Jesus, and wherever that leads, it’ll be exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Food for thought:
Jayber Crow, by Wendell Berry
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