Before I began writing The Meaning of Home, W. Bruce Cameron's breakthrough novel A Dogs's Purpose was already in bookstores. He tells the story of a dog who, through five reincarnations in dog lives, eventually returns to heal and rescue the broken man who was the boy he first loved. A dog's purpose, the character Bailey concludes, is to loyally accompany his human companion always and through anything, come what may. By being at the man's side giving him unconditional love until death, Bailey felt peace in the knowledge of a job well done.
I'd wager there isn't a human being who ever lived who hasn't asked, "What is my purpose? Why am I here?" I'm not an atheist. I wholly believe in God with all my heart, so I've never considered myself an accident or some random collection of biological matter. No, God put me here, but to do what?
I wanted to be a writer when I was young, but it was an immature yearning. I had no idea what I wanted to write and how to make a living at it. My writing lacked purpose.
In college and law school, I became involved in politics. Upon my law school graduation, I was all fired up to make my mark, ready to sally forth into the world like my favorite novel character, Don Quixote, righting wrongs and doing noble deeds in my quest to reach the unreachable star. It was my purpose. It was my calling. But after two six-year terms as a Township Supervisor and an unsuccessful campaign for District Justice, my political star had fallen ( a topic for another blog some day). Doors closed, "friends" no longer supported me, but more importantly, my daughters needed a Daddy.
I returned to my earlier love of writing, not the mechanistic, unappreciated legal writing of my law practice, but fiction writing . . . novels. I sought instruction, attended workshops, honed my craft. Surely, perseverance would eventually pay off. I thought sure this must be the reason God breathed life into me, to touch hearts and bring hope through my words. But when my wife, Carolyn, passed away suddenly just a week before I self-published The Meaning of Home, my purpose for being here, once again, seemed brutally distorted like driving in the rain without windshield wipers.
Since Carolyn's death and the publication of The Meaning of Home, I've continued writing. Although the sales of my novel aren't going to end my dependency on the practice of law for a living anytime soon, quite frankly, writing has helped me heal. It helps me sort through the jumbled emotions of grief and identify true thoughts from the Enemy's lies. To be sure, there have been periods when I've stopped, when I've allowed my depression to convince me that nothing I write really matters because no one is reading it anyway. Until it occurred to me God reads every word. God knows every thought.
Up until now, my idea of what my purpose in this life is, or should be, has been all about me. If I righted wrongs or accomplished noble deeds in my political career, I adored the headlines in the newspaper and had my heart set on advancing to a bigger stage. In my hopes of becoming a bestselling author, I dreamed of the book tours and the movie rights. Who doesn't love being asked for an autograph? My purpose was all about what I wanted my purpose to be without considering what God intended my purpose to be when he formed me.
Maybe my purpose is not much different than Bailey's purpose . . . or Charlie's purpose. God doesn't make us love, but he wants us to . . . unconditionally. To love him as our Creator and to love others the way he loves us. If I change the focus from self to others, does it matter if I am known by fewer than many? Does it matter how many people read my words if they reach the people that God intended? Can I love and be loyal, to God and to those he has placed in my life, without considering what's in it for me? If so, maybe then, when I breathe my last, I will have peace in knowing I fulfilled my purpose.
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