The World Needs You To Be You

I’ll be the first to admit that I have a terrible memory. And even though I am prone to exaggeration, in this case I am actually minimizing the depth of the terribleness. I’m not even sure there is a word to accurately describe just how bad it is. Abhorrent maybe. Disturbingly awful? 

Both of those come close.

It’s a family joke, really, the stuff of legends. The other day I forgot, for a few seconds, just where the garage door opener is in my car. Seriously, I looked all over for it. It was, of course, right where it’s always been, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember where it was. Which would have been fine except Connor was in the car with me and saw me struggling to find it. And Connor, as you may or may not know, has a big mouth.

So now everyone knows.

But it goes beyond things like this, silly little daily forgetfulness, but delves deep into the “I have zero memory of that” when it comes to important things, like special moments in my kids’ lives, milestones, funny memories. In some ways it’s fun like I’m Dory in Finding Nemo and always discovering new things. And in others, it’s really, really sad. Because I forget a lot of the things that matter and given my terrible non-existent scrapbooking abilities, that’s a lot of childhood just vanished into thin air.

And it was in one of those Dory moments this weekend where I found myself stumbling upon a relic of my past, long since forgotten, that literally brought me to my knees.

I was on the hunt for the remote to the upstairs tv (we lose them All.Of.The.Time), searching through some old drawers and trying to figure out just where on earth we hid it in an attempt to keep it away from our super sneaky ninja finder children. And as I was hunting and pecking through old papers and odds and ends I happened upon this unassuming manilla folder. It wasn’t labeled and there was nothing on it to give away it’s contents. So, of course, I opened it.

Like Pandora’s Box (sort of) a multitude of memories tumbled out, mostly in the form of old college papers and tests, the card from the flowers a secret admirer sent to my dorm my freshmen year of college (#truestory), a few letters from my now long deceased grandparents and other weird things that I’m not sure why 20-year-old Meaghan had the foresight to save. It is also important to note that I have exactly zero recollection of this folder even existing up until the very moment it resurfaced in my life.

And while it would normally be the letters from my grandparents that floored me, which they did to some extent, the things that did the most damage were the graded essays and exams and papers from my professors. They were mostly from boring subjects like women’s health and World History (sorry Historians and health professors everywhere), so it definitely wasn’t the contents that caught my eye. It was the notes from the professors, like manna from heaven that hit my weary soul right where it needed it.

Before I tell you what they said I’ll give you a glimpse of my weariness, a little insight into where my heart has been. I’m tired, y’all. I have been weary and burdened, not sure exactly where I’m supposed to go with this whole platform. I’ve been feeling fractured, torn between the food writing that I so love, which has launched into its own sort of quasi-career with a cooking show and various writing gigs and the writing here that used to stir my soul. And it was in that fracture, the grey and confusing middle ground,  that my words kind of dried up. What did I have to say anymore? I had no idea. I felt for so long that I was doing what I was supposed to be doing, following God’s will and doing exactly what I was meant to do. And then *poof* my words went up into smoke and God seemed silent. 

So I was plumb wore out (as my father-in -law would say).

And then those professors, long since forgotten (seriously can’t even remember their names) spoke to me and breathed new life into my tired and dried-up soul. They reminded me, from far away, that I was meant to do this, that this is my gift and I need to keep going. Sure, the topics I was writing about were boring and I probably made up more than half of what I was writing about (because it was college, y’all, and I wasn’t exactly trying to set the world on fire in World History). It didn’t matter, though, because their words were all playing the same tune.

“You have a gift with words.” “You are a funny and engaging writer.” “This is the best essay I’ve read as a teacher.”

Now, I am not one to toot my own horn, and considering it’s been a few (ahem) years since college I’m sure that the title of “best in class” has been overtaken but none of that matters, because what I read in their words wasn’t that I am amazing or great or a legend in my own mind (though an argument can be made), but rather, in this encouragement from my past I realized there is something here, it’s not my imagination. And I need to keep going. 

Finding that folder and reading those words was NOT a coincidence. 

I feel like I had been waiting and waiting for God to give me a whisper, tell me where to go and what to do. I’ve wanted him to give me my words back if they were meant to be. And God, like he tends to do, came in the backdoor and did all of that and more. 

The best part about all of this, of course, is that 20-year-old Meaghan didn’t even notice that her professors were saying these things, at least I don’t think she did. She didn’t take it as a sign that this is what she was meant to do or even, I guess, think too deeply into it. If I had to guess I would say she probably stored these away just in case she needed some sort of resume builder or ego boost. I’m not sure really. She did not, of course, drop everything and pursue writing with a whole heart (or even half of one really). She didn’t pick up her pen and begin to channel this gift, the things others saw in her, into something useful.

Nope, instead she pursued the safe route and found safe jobs and chased down the safe life with the nuclear family and white picket fence in mind.

And trust me, there is nothing wrong with that. I don’t regret for one second the path I took, in fact, I’d argue I wouldn’t be half the writer that I am today if it weren’t for those life experiences and mistakes and triumphs molding me and shaping me and sharpening me along the way.  There is nothing wrong with getting regular jobs and building families and working the nine to five life. It got me this far.

But the truth of the matter is, this gift has always been here. It’s always been mine for the taking. It was a common thread before I even knew how to weave this tapestry known as life. It was what God gave me, and it was just patiently waiting for me to pick it up and run with it, and it’s still waiting for me now. 

Keep going.

So to my 20-year-old self, the one who was at least smart enough to save these things and lug them around to five different states in five different moves, I say thank you. You’ve breathed life into this tired soul. You’ve reminded me to keep going, to write, and to do what, apparently, I am meant to do.

And to my 41-year-old self I say, Keep going. The words will come. Trust yourself and more importantly, trust God. He got you this far. He’ll get you to the end, whatever that looks like. He’s got this.

And to you, dear friends, I say this: The world needs you to be exactly who you are and use your gift, the one that’s been a common thread in your life and totally unique to you, to bless it. This isn’t about fame or wealth or even a huge platform to change the world, it’s about your circle of influence, your people, and how you can use what God gave you to make them all better, to help them, to give them encouragement. 

Even if you aren’t sure what exactly that thread is, trust me, it will find you. God is good like that. He will put roadblocks up if you’re not on the right path and he will use even the hard stuff, the difficult stuff, and the downright sinful stuff too, to get you on the right path. It’s there, I promise. 

You were always meant to be uniquely you so whatever it is you are doing or want to do, I say this, Keep Going. We need you. God’s got your back. (And I do too).

Peace, love and manna from heaven,

Meg 

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