For All the “World-Changers” Now Driving a Minivan

For all the world changers driving minivans: Ashley Hales for Mudroom

This is for all those kids who thought they were going to change the world.

We were told we’d change the world; that we’d help starving children in Africa, or preach the gospel to an indigenous tribe, or at least work in full-time Christian ministry. But now? We’re holding down jobs, staying home with children, or waiting around for the answer to True Love Waits, and life doesn’t feel quite so momentous.

We had big, thick words like “vocation” and “calling” to hold onto in those days. Words that would boom from mountaintop like the voice of God in thunder and awe—telling you exactly where and when and how you should go.

But what if “vocation” is not booming? What if vocation is small?

And what if, “calling” is actually doing something very tiny, so miniscule that no one even sees? What then? Is it still valuable?

Growing up, I have a fairly defined self-narrative; you probably do, too. It made me feel all warm and cozy. Mine goes like this: Ashley is smart. As she came of age, Ashley figured she was not popular or beautiful enough (the idols of the culture she grew up in), so she made her mark by doing really well in school. She left home, moved overseas, and got a PhD. In conclusion, Ashley is smart. This is how she will change the world. The End.

I had such a very clear idea of calling and vocation ten years ago. I was the smart one. (Replace “smart” with whatever adjective you like to use to identify yourself here). And then life happened in completely unexpected ways and I was broken apart as the babies came one after another. But I still reach after magic words that will tell me “this is the way, walk in it.” I still play semantic games to organize all the frayed edges into a narrative that somehow makes sense. That accounts for detours and desires and puts my life all to right. In my self-narrative it’s all neatly tied up with a pretty bow.

Because frankly, more times than not it feels like my self-narrative is split right open or veered off course. Because I am no longer the smart one. I drive my four children in a minivan with a cracked bumper littered with a few rogue rotten apple cores. I circle around a city next door to the one I grew up in. I live 10 miles from my childhood home. I am no longer the special snowflake I imagined myself to be. I do not live in an ivory tower, surrounded by books and quiet. I argue with a preschooler instead of crafting academic thesis statements and I am covered in the peanut butter smears of my toddler daughter. My life is entirely unglamorous.

I’m right in the middle of the narrative of an ordinary life. And when you’re stuck in the middle of the story, it’s hard to see how the loose ends fit together. Most of the time, I want to toss words like “vocation” into the kitchen drawer and open them only when life has slowed and I have time to be contemplative once more.

In the middle of the story, I frame my moves and the four kids, and my minivan-driving self into: “really I was meant to be a writer. This is all great material.” I tell myself that the academic part of me was the flirtation of my do-gooder self, but really, the writer was the thing all along. Maybe it was. Maybe it is. It sounds like something I can put in my bio—something witty about trading ivory towers for Lego towers. But maybe it’s more than just witty words.

Maybe vocation and calling is so much more than an equation to figure out. And maybe calling is big and vocation is small. Because calling is simple, but it’s fathoms deep. It’s borne out of knowing who I am—not the smart version, but simply the loved child of Jesus. My self-narrative is only this: I am the beloved child of God. He delights in me.

My calling is to follow Jesus. That’s it. That calling is a big and wild ride and makes sense of the countless twists and turns, of the cities and suburbs, of my love of story in whatever form that takes. It means I’m welcomed into a downwardly mobile narrative where freedom is found in giving up control to a Father who is so good. But this calling is also miniscule.

It means I practice showing up, doing the next (sometimes hard) thing. It means I am present to my children, my friends, my neighbors, instead of using them to fit into a story about myself. It means that I have the space and time to love.

So if you’re stuck in the middle—when you thought you should be “changing the world,” I want you to know that you are. Because all of it—the Legos, the dish-washing, the things that make you so passionate that you think you might explode when you’re doing what you’re created to do—they all are “calling.” They’re all ways you work out that you are immensely loved. And when you can rest in being loved then you can be present to your people.

So take a deep breath, world-changer, you’re doing it. It just might look small and intimate instead of far away and glamorous. Show up, do the next thing, build the Lego tower. Breathe. There’s not more to do to work out your calling. It’s simply resting in this: You are loved. That is what changes the world.

Ashley Hales

Ashley Hales

Writer and Editor at aahales.com
Ashley Hales holds a Ph.D. in English from the University of Edinburgh, Scotland. But she spends most of her time chasing around her four children and helping her husband plant a church. She writes at AAHales.com and loves to make friends on Twitter.
Ashley Hales
  • Yes. This. 🙂 Me too’s make me breathe easier. Thanks.

  • This post is perfect! It’s all there: the Legos, the mini-van, the equation, the mental maneuvers to try to make it all fit and make sense. Then the big exhale at the end when we realize that there is no final exam. Thanks, Ashley. Your really are pretty smart . . .

    • Ha! Thanks for reading and being here Michele. I so appreciate you and your encouragement right in the middle of the story.

  • I. Love. This. My daughter would be all about making that Lego Tower.

  • EmilyWilson

    It’s fascinating how much I identify with this story, even though the exact opposite happened to me. I went after the suburban, minivan, stay-at-home-mom life. I married, we bought a nice house, and then discovered we were infertile. So now I’m pursuing a Ph.D. in English and Education at the University of Michigan. I think people often only believe that there is one story about their lives that has a “happily ever after” ending. But God redeems all kinds of stories and gives each one meaning and significance because of how he weaves them into the Great Story of mercy and grace that he is telling through the lives of each of us, his children. Thank you for this lovely read.

    • Oh Emily, thank you for sharing your story. It’s funny isn’t it, this life not turning out at all like we’d planned? Yes I so want my story to be a part of his Great Story. Congrats on the PhD track!

  • Fiona Lloyd

    This really resonated with me, Ashley – my kids are flying the nest, and I sometimes wonder what I’ve done with the last 25 years. I’m trying to remember my heavenly Father still loves me and delights in me in the midst of the mundane.

    • Isn’t that the best? That you’re free to be loved and rest in it no matter what you have (or don’t have) to show for it? And by the way, being present to people totally changes the world. Well done.

  • Ashley this is so helpful. I did most of your things but in a different order. Smart, career, kids, PhD. with a few years of caring for sick kids in the middle. Most of it I fought. It never happened as I wanted it, or at the right time or in the right way. I’ve now come to recognise that our narrative simply is that we are loved by God, and I want the other part of mine to be that I am following him. Even when that following looks like standing still held captive by the arms of a child, or ageing parents, or a sticky floor which I can’t ever quite get round to cleaning ! 🙂

    • What you say about fighting it is so true of my experience, too. I’m trying to practice the discipline of presence and man, it’s hard. I love the tandem narrative of loving and following. And oh, I hear you about the sticky floors!

  • And if you are the one who wanted to the perfectly appointed Victorian and countless kids and a warm, Waldorf homeschool in your living room and instead found yourself preaching the Gospel to an indigenous tribe? It is still the same. The calling is big but the moments are the key. It still looks a lot like warming lunch and wiping faces and doing the next thing for the next person who needs you. And the narrative is still the same: “You are so loved.” I love this friend. And I love you.

    • Yes, love this, too, Colleen. How our stories are just never what we thought. Yes and when we’re stuck right in the middle it all looks eerily similar — the small moments as you say. Love you too friend.

  • “And when you can rest in being loved then you can be present to your people.” And the ordinary becomes not so ordinary, because we are changing the world, each of us, a little at a time, by being faithful to our ordinary callings. Blessings to you, Ashley! xo

    • Thank you, Gayl, and so very thankful for you!

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  • Katie Varela

    Ashley, I love this post. Lately I feel surrounded (online, anyway) with voices saying “God made you to do something BIG!” and “Follow the calling God has for you to *do* something with your life!” But I don’t think God calls every person to do something BIG (not, at least, how these people are defining it). Many days, I think He has called me to do something small, and doing something small well isn’t bad.