What is Your Calling?

It starts when we’re young.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Most kids give the standard gender based answers, with the few creative kids popping out alternative ideas making the question more of a study of how they see life rather than what they want to be doing when they get paid for their work.

Somewhere along the way, the question changes, either from the outside or from our own spirits begging us, “Why am I here?”

“What is my purpose?”

“What is my calling?”

When I was in the church, the word “calling” was a big one. It wasn’t just what you were good at or what you enjoyed, but it was what God had gifted you to do so that you could in turn serve Him and His people. I thought I had it signed, sealed and delivered.

Music.

And how did I come to the point of thinking that music leadership might be my calling?

Because I was one of the lucky ones who was lead by amazing musicians who definitely found their calling early on in their lives. They weren’t just doing their job, expanding a hobby, bringing home the bacon, no, these men were doing exactly what they were supposed to be doing, what they loved to do and what they expertly inspired others to do.

Two of those men of which I speak crashed together last weekend at my mother-in-law’s visitation. I expected to see one man, as he was a member of our home church, but the other, my high school band director, was a major surprise. He had both my brother-in-law and me in band years ago. I’m not sure if that’s what brought him out or not, but there he was, walking into the funeral home right behind Wes Orr. Wes being my godfather, my private trumpet instructor, the man who kicked my ass so hard I couldn’t HELP but blast out power notes on my horn. He taught me about talent via bible passages and how if you have them, you’re not to waste them. He taught me breath control and diaphragmatic support. He taught me to not just be a girl who played the trumpet, but to be a musician.

What did my high school band director teach me? To just “do it” – long before Nike ever used the slogan. There were no excuses to failure, you just shut up and did the job. He taught me a gentle touch with my instrument; he taught me a command of my instrument. He taught me how to breathe so I could march and play without sounding like I was doing so on a washing machine. He taught me to duck walk for my bra that had been strung up the flagpole by the seniors at band camp…and to do it with as much pride as I could possibly muster. He taught me to work hard, play hard, laugh hard and most importantly, to demand nothing but the absolute best of myself and those around me. He taught me to not just be a girl who played the trumpet, but to be a musician.

There was a third man who shaped me as a musician and I tell you, had he walked into that funeral home, poor Alex would not only be mourning his mother right now, but he’d be mourning his wife as well. As it was, my head almost exploded from the awesome all in one room. I’ll save my choir director for another post another day.

Anywhoodle, these men arrived at the same time, not together, and then…they did something even more amazing.

They TALKED to each other! *gasp* I know!!!!

And I, being the fully evolved adult that I am, stood just far enough away from them that I could gawk and stare and let saliva drip from my open mouth as they talked about whatever it is they were talking about. I’m sure it had to have been about their time together during creation when they collaborated and designed the trumpet and then spiritually guided every composer hence to write music to accentuate the beauty of that brass instrument.

Or, you know, they could have been talking about the Burger King dinner they had before coming to the funeral home. I wasn’t close enough to hear because I couldn’t let them see my drool. Seriously, how embarrassing would that have been!? Besides, who wants to humanize the gods of your life by smelling onion breath anyway?

So, I stared and my children noticed my haze and tried to pull me from it, but instead were trapped by one of those [teenage whine] Mom Lectures [/teenage whine] about who these two men were and why I was wondering if we’d need to get my heart resuscitated in the near future. They politely listened and in short time, were personally enamored with Mr Nawrocki, my high school band director. They already knew Mr. Orr and passed their “Is Mom crazy, or is this guy cool?” test.

Nawrocki passed with flying colors. Of course. I left him alone with them because as those of you who know him – he is a TALKER!! Oh my goodness.

There is a point to this, trust me. My point is this. These men knew their calling. They found it, embraced it, ran with it, excelled at it and passed the baton on to numerous other band directors, music directors, professors, studio musicians and the like through their expert teaching. I planned to follow suit, choosing voice as my instrument (for reasons I cannot explain, although I’d love to be able to) and headed off to college to be the next DanOrrThrower. Or, something.

But…the best laid plans of mice and men…and all that jazz. Things got bumbled and jumbled and I lead in the church which felt right, but the bumbling and jumbling only got bumblier and jumblier and here I sit, 44 years old and I’m asking myself all over again…

What is my calling?

And I don’t have an answer.

And I’m so bloody envious of those two men. Those two men who primed me and prepared me and shaped me to be what they were to me to someone else…and somehow…it didn’t happen.

Yet, I sit one on one with various young people…my kids, my son-in-love, my kids’ friends, students in the churches I led and I feel a sense of peace I cannot explain. When I’m teaching them and talking to them one on one, either about music or about life, I feel like something supernatural is happening. I can speak their language without (I hope) sounding like an old fart trying desperately to be cool. I come up with magical analogies to help conquer musical mountains they’re struggling to climb. Just this evening, my son was working on his trumpet audition music for concert season and his pitch and tone were mushy. He wasn’t quite hearing it or seeing what I meant so I said, “Your sound is a bit like a water bed at the moment. You need a firm mattress.” I walked out, he played again and voila – his intonation and tone crisped up and settled into one place. Perfect? Nope, not yet. But better.

I’m good at that, taking an intangible concept and make it feel like you can touch it and reshape it. But the logistics of going back are insane. The anxieties are 15 more blog posts long. The expense of re-certifying is out of our reach. My reasons are innumerable…not all of them valid.

Is it my calling?

Do I have one?

How do you know?

Aren’t you supposed to have this all figured out by the time you hit 40?

Why can’t Nawrocki and Wes just tell me a story and put it all into perspective for me again?

What IS my calling?

What is yours?