purpose

I am currently reading a phenomenal book, The Purpose of Boys, and recommend this book to anyone trying to raise a son in this generation.
The theme of purpose has been dug up a new for me, third time a mom, as time for my own ambitions (whatever they may be) are zero to none. A holy man once said, “of all holy works, the upbringing of children is the most holy.” I have tried to let these words soak in, to believe this with all my heart that there is no greater calling that motherhood. Yet every so often, I am brought back to face my fear of being without purpose in the world, wasting away on house cleaning, and menial tasks, and a generally purposeless existence lost in the day-to-day. Perhaps it is just the reverberations of my turning a chapter in the age department. Now 30, I am feeling the pull to, like Jesus, start doing something significant. And while all my God-given biological make-up points to motherhood, I often slip into doubt, and wonder if there is “something more” that I should be doing with myself.
A great gift to me on my birthday was a collection of letters compiled by my husband, and written by those I love, answering the question “my best memory of you”. One of them was written by my father. His most outstanding memory of me was my talent for the flute, and my giving up that talent “for some inexplicable reason”. He wrote ”what a shame to not have continued with this outstanding talent.” I abandoned a serious pursuit of music half my life ago. But my dad’s words have struck deep, speaking to that inner fear of having no purpose, no “one thing” worth pursuing. Every so often, especially in recent years, my dad has asked me why I quit the flute, and I’ve stuttered to answer. At first, the question surprised me, then I realized I didn’t fully know the answer. But now I realize even in my foolish adolescent striving for attention and uniqueness, at 15, I needed to know that my purpose was not defined by what I do, but by who I am. It is no different at 30. Now entering the third decade of my life, I am under no illusions of so-called talent. But I still want more than anything to have purpose.
Purpose is all around me. My husband has just finished graduate school, and his next project is to publish fiction. Meanwhile, my 4-year-old son is a super hero fighting for good, who wants to be “a hospital man” when he grows up. And here I am on the sidelines, cheering them on (while breastfeeding my newborn), yet secretly jelous of their confidence in and certainty of purpose, and all the while questioning my own.