What’s the point really? I find myself stopping so many times through out a typical week asking this question. Maybe I over analyze. In fact, I know that I do. I think it’s part of being a writer, but when I’m driving by myself and honestly stop to take a look at life, this question always comes up.
Writing for a newspaper in a town of about 800 people I often find myself writing about parades, pageants, and tractor pulls not the type of events that grab my interest. Please don’t get me wrong. I really enjoy my job. People in the community have been so supportive, and I have met so many interesting people like the lady I interviewed today who makes amazing cheese cakes.
But, at the end of the day I often feel restless. Maybe it’s because I didn’t grow up observing Deer Day and going on hay rides. Maybe it’s because for a long time my dream has been to work with orphans or refugees in Africa. But the truth is, I’m here not there and because of that, I often lose my sense of purpose.
Then there are those moments when it hits me. On a Wednesday night while working with a group of “Sparkies” at church. A kindergartener, whose dad is in jail, interrupts the lesson yelling, “I know something. I know something.”
“What’s that?” the leader asks. “Jesus ‘woves’ us,” he responds hugging himself.
Then there’s my little buddy Hailey who stops by the newspaper office with her bike. “Can you give me a ride home?”
“Sure, just give me a minute to finish some things up here.” She usually types on the antique typewriter in the office while she waits. Then I drive her and her bike up the hill.
“Your like my big sister,” she told me the other day. “I always wanted a big sister.”
Purpose— sometimes it’s not in the things you expect it to be in, but it’s there. Just look in a child’s eyes. That always gets me back on track.