Tag: christianity

For much of my life, I wanted to fulfill my calling.

God had given me certain abilities and opportunities. I felt responsible for using them well.

So I worked.

I set goals. I accepted challenges. I tried to develop whatever gifts I had been given. When a door opened, I walked through it. When there was an obstacle, I tried to overcome it.

There was genuine purpose in this way of living.

But recently, I have begun wondering about one word.

Fulfill.

To fulfill something means that there is something to accomplish.

A destination.

A task.

A responsibility that eventually needs to be completed.

Without realizing it, perhaps I had gradually turned my calling into something like this:

Calling → mission → goals → effort → achievement → contribution

Then naturally came measurement.

Am I doing enough?

Am I using my abilities fully?

How much am I contributing?

How many people am I helping?

Am I wasting what God has given me?

Even calling can quietly become another form of striving.

Recently, another phrase came to me:

What if I do not need to fulfill my calling?

What if I simply live in my calling?

The difference sounds small, but to me it feels enormous.

If I need to fulfill my calling, the calling is somewhere ahead of me. I have to move toward it.

If I live in my calling, I am already inside it.

Then the question changes.

Instead of:

What must I accomplish with my life?

I can ask:

How should I live today?

Perhaps my deepest calling is much simpler than I made it.

Receive God’s love.

Allow that love to change me.

Give it to the people around me.

If that is my calling, I can live it almost anywhere.

I can live it while doing difficult work.

I can live it while encouraging someone.

But I can also live it while eating with my family.

Even while accomplishing very little.

This changes how I see outcomes too.

A grant may be funded or rejected.

A professional role may become larger or smaller.

These things still matter, but perhaps they are results of living, not measurements of whether my calling was fulfilled.

That feels freeing.

An institution cannot take away my calling.

A title cannot give it to me.

A closed door cannot end it.

Aging cannot make it obsolete.

Even if one day I can no longer do many of the things that once defined my contribution, I can still live inside my calling.

Perhaps this is also why small moments are becoming more important to me.

If calling is something to fulfill, I naturally look for significant impact.

If calling is something to live, one moment can be enough.

One person.

One conversation.

One act of kindness.

One ordinary evening with my family.

For much of my life, I tried to use everything God gave me to fulfill my calling.

I am grateful for that season.

But perhaps the next season is simpler.

Receive God’s love.

Give it to whoever is in front of me.

Do faithfully what is mine to do.

Release the outcome.

I do not need to finish my calling.

I simply need to live in it.

Today.

And tomorrow, live in it again.

For much of life, we learn that progress comes from taking control.

We identify where we want to go, make a plan, work hard, solve problems, and adjust when things go wrong. When we face difficulty, we try to overcome it. Sometimes we even learn to turn adversity into fuel.

This capacity is enormously valuable.

But there is another capacity that many of us develop much later:

knowing when to stop trying to control the outcome.

We often think of “following” as receiving direction and then taking action. A mentor gives advice. Experience tells us what to do. Faith, values, or intuition point toward a particular path.

Then we take the steering wheel.

We decide where we are going and work to get there.

But there are periods in life when the road ahead is no longer clear. We may not know which choice will prove right. Other people’s decisions may affect our future. Something we have built may change unexpectedly. Aging may gradually remind us that effort cannot solve everything.

At such times, trying harder does not necessarily create more control.

This is where surrender becomes important.

Surrender is often misunderstood as giving up. But they are not the same.

Giving up says:

“Nothing I do matters.”

Surrender says:

“I will do what is mine to do, but I will stop demanding control over what is not mine to control.”

That distinction changes how we move through uncertainty.

Imagine driving a car. Under normal circumstances, responsible driving means paying attention, choosing the direction, and holding the steering wheel firmly.

Life requires the same thing. We should make decisions, accept responsibility, develop our abilities, and act when action is needed.

But life is not entirely steerable.

Other people have their own wills. Institutions behave unpredictably. Bodies age. Relationships change. Accidents happen. Opportunities appear and disappear. Even our carefully constructed plans eventually encounter forces larger than ourselves.

The important question therefore changes from:

“How can I regain control?”

to:

“What is actually mine to do, and what is no longer mine to control?”

That is not passivity. In fact, it may require more courage than action.

When we cannot control the destination, we can still choose how we travel. We can remain attentive. We can respond to what appears. We can listen more carefully. We can continue acting where action is possible without insisting that life produce the outcome we expected.

For a religious person, this may be called surrendering to God. Someone else might describe it as accepting reality, trusting life, or recognizing the limits of human control.

The language matters less than the underlying shift.

There is a time to steer.

And there is a time to recognize that holding the steering wheel more tightly will not determine where everything goes.

Perhaps maturity is not becoming better and better at controlling life.

Perhaps it is developing the wisdom to know the difference between what we can shape and what we must learn to follow.

A woman from my home church passed away recently.

She lived a full life.

For many years, she served quietly as the wife of a pastor. She did not stand at the front to give sermons. She did not speak with a loud voice. She did not try to teach through many words.

But for me, she was one of the most important mentors of faith.

⸻

When I became a Christian at 23 years old, I did not understand much.

I did not know much about God.

I did not know much about Jesus.

I did not know how faith should shape a life.

There were many messages around me.

Christians should do this.

Christians should believe that.

Christians should live this way.

Messages are everywhere.

But the opportunity to actually experience God’s love through another person is rare.

She gave me that opportunity.

⸻

She never tried to correct me first.

She never pressured me.

She never gave me a list of what I should do.

She simply welcomed me.

She smiled.

She listened.

She encouraged.

She made me feel accepted.

When I visited her home or spoke with her, I always felt warmth. She often told me kind words. She made me feel that I was seen and valued.

That was not a lecture.

It was love.

⸻

Over time, I began to understand something.

God’s love cannot be fully taught as information.

It must be embodied.

A person can explain love with words, but another person may allow us to feel it through presence.

She did that.

Her life was quiet, but it carried a message deeper than many speeches.

Her smile was a message.

Her listening was a message.

Her acceptance was a message.

Her kindness was a message.

⸻

Looking back, I now see how much she shaped me.

She showed me that faith is not only belief.

Faith is atmosphere.

Faith is how another person feels in your presence.

Faith is whether someone leaves your home feeling lighter.

Faith is whether love becomes visible without needing to be announced.

⸻

She may not have had a public title beyond her role.

But her influence was deep.

The love she gave did not stop with her.

It continued in the people she touched.

It continued in my faith.

It continued in how I try to listen, encourage, mentor, and care for others.

That is legacy.

Quiet legacy.

Invisible, but real.

⸻

Her passing makes me sad.

But it also fills me with gratitude.

She did not explain God’s love to me.

She let me experience it.

And perhaps that is one of the highest ways to live.

Not to speak many messages,

but to become, quietly and faithfully,

a place where others can feel God’s love.