Sitting at the big round table at Cracker Barrel today, I had a breakthrough moment where something I’ve been struggling with suddenly vanished into insignificance. (I also had a ginormous serving of food that probably could have and should have fed an entire third-world country, but that’s a whole ‘nother story!)
I’m sharing this struggle because I’m certain that I can’t be the only one.
I want to matter. I don’t give a frip about money or position or recognition or accumulated hoo-ha. I simply want to matter. For many years I have said that “when my time comes,” I want a simple grave marker the size of a 4 x 6 card for a tombstone, but I want it to say my name, my dates of birth and death, and then, in order to show that what I did mattered and mattered for the right reasons, I want the words of John 17:4 included: “I have brought You glory on earth by finishing the work You gave me to do” (NIV).
Yet lately, from the confines of a three-story home filled with beautiful globally acquired treasures and people that I love, I’ve realized that…I pretty much don’t matter. Now before you send me counseling materials and dial the help-a-friend hotline for advice, let me explain.
In my current situation, serving as a caregiver for my aging parents in their home, it’s hard to believe that crushing pills, applying lotions, providing physical support for someone else’s frail and weakened body, turning the TV on precisely one minute before the evening news, reading a one-page devotional each evening, or helping with numerous other seemingly menial tasks actually matters anywhere outside these walls. And yet, I realize that it doesn’t have to. It has to matter to my parents and to God. And I believe that it does.
But I shamefacedly and openly confess that this leaves me feeling lonely, insignificant in the big picture, and wondering if I’ll ever really “matter” beyond this street address.
And then, in a God-directed moment, a former student/now friend who once worked in my office at a small college in the north woods of Wisconsin and now serves as a missionary in Puerto Rico with her dear family sent me a message the other day to see how far my “new” town was from the toll road. To make a long story, well, not as long, I’ll just say that I ended up getting to meet my friends at Cracker Barrel for lunch today. I had never met their three awesome kids, so that was an “Auntie Brenda” blessing just thrown in as a bonus!
As I talked with the husband about some editing work my freelance business has done and will be doing for him, it hit me: You, Brenda Strohbehn, get to have a part in something that matters. From inside the walls of your home, your work, your words, your life get to intertwine with unknown numbers of people as you pray for, edit, and encourage the publication of this printed material—material that matters.
And that matters.
Moms with little kids at home and whose days are spent “confined” by going only the distance between the kitchen, the bathroom, and the living room certainly feel this way at times. But don’t you see, my amazing faith-friends? That matters! The work you do there matters in perhaps a globally impacting way down the road as your child travels for business when he or she becomes an adult and shares the wonderful truths that you taught him or her in that confined space at a time when thought you didn’t matter. It matters when your child, as my friends now are doing, becomes vocationally committed to sharing the Good News with others in lands that God says matter.
Every person, doing the work that he or she is called to do, matters. What you’re doing today? It matters. Because what Christ did matters, doing the work He has given you to do in this moment matters.
The only time it can’t matter is when you’re unfocused and distracted into thinking that it doesn’t matter.
Wha-what? Seriously. I had over 300 pens and mechanical pencils—just mine! Unbelievable. I’m a writer with a school supply fetish. What can I say? And because I love “pretty things,” I often pick up lotions and creams to try, but I never end up using them because I have so many already and receive great ones as gifts. As for the nail polish, well, I think it’s kind of like not shopping for groceries when you’re hungry: don’t buy nail polish when your nails are long and “just the right length” for funky colors. They’ll break the next day, and you’ll be stuck with three shades of teal polish that you bought on a great “3 for $___” sale because one of them may or may not match the unique shade of teal sweater that you bought on sale but have nothing to wear with!
In fact, my thoughts on living where I can make a difference had nothing to do with my physical location. They came from a recent conversation with someone who lives in the past. You know the type: they frequently relive the “glory days” or bitterness-producing moments of times gone by—times that they can’t seem to let go of for one reason or another. Generally, these individuals hang on to the thrill, adulation, or victory of a momentous event. Or perhaps they hold on to a disappointment, a tragedy, or a loss that left a permanent mark on their personal timeline.