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At lunch during the last week of my first year in seminary, Rebecca, a friend and mentor, asked me what had been the hardest part of my first year at Campbell Divinity School.

Other attempts I have made to answer that question honestly have been watered down to make my experiences more palatable for those who ask. In more comfortable settings, I say something like, “Yeah, it’s been so hard and also, so good. It’s just a lot of schoolwork.” At other times, I overshare my confusion with certain contradictory teachings to help me verbally make sense of my cognitive dissonance.

So, when Rebecca asked, I weighed my options. I began with the standard, “It’s just been hard, but it’s been good too…” However, before I knew it, I was word-vomiting as tears filled my eyes.

That was not my plan.

As I sat across the table from Rebecca after accidentally bearing my soul, my mind flashed back to the fall semester. The deans checked in with the first-year students over lunch before our commissioning to gauge our emotions, preparing us for the service ahead. In response, I boldly chose to reply with the version of my answer that sounds like, “I don’t know… my calling feels like a burden. It feels really heavy.”

No one can prepare you for your first year of divinity school, because no one is, well, you. No one has felt your call or lived your story.

Beginning my Master of Divinity program felt like carrying a hefty weight. This wasn’t because God hadn’t called me, but because I was walking into a 2,000-year-old conversation with a strong, yet at times, naive desire to change the world and to live out my call authentically.

To my dismay, there was no roadmap to navigate the divinely given passions, for they are uniquely creative. Not everything came together when I walked into Campbell’s doors, eager to further my academic and ministerial journey.

The process of discerning God’s call can only be modeled, lived and experienced. 

Of course, this past year was challenging in its own way, because it was my call’s way. It was also full of honest heart, unwavering light, and holy strength.

So, there I sat, across from my new friend, hoping for a model to help me make some sense of why I was still in school and why I was still saying “yes” to a higher power.

Rebecca pulled out a marbled sculpture from her purse and set it on the table. It was a praying woman in a kneeling posture. 

Originally passed down from a mentor of hers, she shared with me the story of what it meant to her as we began to draw similarities between me and the kneeling woman. Then, Rebecca took the sculpture apart, explaining how it had been damaged in a box during a big move, but, if anything, the break added a theological zest and depth to its message.

On our table sat a woman who was praying and broken, yet still powerful, with a story to tell. Across from Rebecca sat the same type of woman. Rebecca’s encouragement brought me to tears.

I don’t know if I was crying because of how it felt to be wholly seen or because I had three finals left that week. Either way, I jokingly asked if I could take her figurine with me, but decided a picture as a reminder would suffice.

Divinity school has helped me begin to put words, actions and a thesis behind the “why” of my expansive call. However, you don’t have to start seminary to discern your “why” or know what it feels like to explore a sacred and holy call in our modern world. We all do that in our own calling’s way, don’t we?

No one has lived your call or your story. Only you and God get to embark on the journey of finding the words and actions to share what those two things truly mean for you and the world.

If we are wise, find ourselves available and even the tiniest bit brave, we’ll use the gaps between our callings and reality to lean in. We will make mistakes, heal, re-learn, unlearn and become undone. We will feel.

We’ll use our in-betweens to sit and revel in the mess of what it means to say “yes” to something greater than ourselves. We’ll use our chips, bruises and breaks to add depth to our stories—not because they make us the perfect and greatest leader or minister, but because they make us human. They enrich our ability to connect with and empower others, to connect with and empower ourselves.

The last week of the first year of divinity school, I walked out of Campbell’s doors with my chin up—not because I now knew more answers or because of the influence of academia, but because I had done the hard things.

Chipped and cracked, I am still doing the hard things. Kneeling in power and prayer, I am doing the hard things. 

You can too.