Where We Were Always Meant to Be

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place  (T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets)

My book group spent this past summer reading through Wendell Berry’s Jayber Crow, a fictional book of strung-together memories and reflections of a wizened old barber in the small town of Port William, Kentucky. The book is filled to the brim with thoughts on “rootedness” and “place.” Jayber Crow hasn’t ever left the state, and he’s barely left the small town, but the story should serve as a reminder that you don’t have to travel the world to think deep thoughts and reflect on what it is to love. 

It’s been a funny contradiction, a group of young women living in the hustle of Washington D.C., reading about the slow, sleepy town of Port William. For many in the group, it holds a longing for something that feels simpler than the world we currently inhabit. It’s easy to get sucked into feeling things are better anywhere I’m not. And so all of us wrestle through the occasional bout of discontent with grad school, law school, or day-to-day work struggles wondering if this is truly the place we were meant for. 

When you’re young it feels like the weight of the rest of your life rests on your minimal decisions and achievements. This starts at many stages, but it’s a recurring theme amongst the twenty-somethings I know in D.C., constantly questioning our location and vocation. For me, the stress of placement started in middle school (I’ve always been wound just a bit too tight). In eighth grade, I simply *had* to be in Algebra I; it was the fast math track. If I didn’t start Algebra I I couldn’t be in geometry my freshman year, and I needed to be in AP calculus by my senior year. In my little mind so much rested on my being in one math class. 

Picking “the wrong major” also felt like the ultimate sin. My major was what would determine my entire career. It never occurred to my eighteen-year-old self that people can, and do, change their career. As it turns out, my math class or my major didn’t end up having much of a say on where I’ve ended up. There’s a quote by the brilliant Bill Watterson, writer of Calvin and Hobbes: “The truth is, most of us discover where we are headed when we arrive. At that time, we turn around and say, ‘yes, this is obviously where I was going all along.’” But man, do I stress about the “arriving.”

That’s one of the lessons Jayber reflects on, how he was always going to end up a barber in a small town, even though he didn’t realize it in his youth. And for me, was taking Algebra I in eighth grade my automatic ticket that would make or break if I ended up working as a Capitol Hill staffer? Of course not. I’m not trying to get into the intense debates over predestination, but I do know there is great rest in the sovereignty of a God who has a plan for all our lives. 

A favorite verse that every senior at my old Christian high school used was Jeremiah 29:11, “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” And with good reason! It is a remarkably comforting verse — especially when read in its full context. The Lord has just told Israel that they should probably make themselves comfortable in Babylon; they’re going to be exiled there for a while. It’s news none of us would be happy to hear — how are they to honor God in a place like Babylon? 

In Jeremiah 40, the prophet Jeremiah finds himself in chains with the rest of the captives from Judah and Jerusalem going into exile. Nebuzaradan, the commander of the Babylonian imperial guard, recognizes that the holy city had not been destroyed because of superior military strength; God had allowed Jerusalem to be destroyed. He then suddenly frees Jeremiah with strange words, “Come with me, to Babylon, if you like.” Nebuzaradan promises to take care of Jeremiah (perhaps not the most comforting promise from the one who has destroyed your city and temple) but this strange, beautiful beckoning startles me. Even though Jeremiah does not ultimately travel to Babylon, Jeremiah will still deliver the Word of the Lord regardless of where he goes. That is the grace of this invitation, that God will work in our lives wherever we go; “if you’d like” is an open invitation and a nod to the freedom given to us. 

I’m not going to say Nebuzaradan is the perfect representation of Christ — he’s a Babylonian who has destroyed the temple — but his invitation has a gentleness to it that rings of Christ’s gentleness to those of us stressing over where we ought to go or where we ought to end up. I don’t hide that I occasionally refer to D.C. as Babylon. I meet many starry-eyed college interns dreaming of moving here. That is good. The world needs good people with energy and passion eager to endure D.C. in all its news cycle-driven chaos and humid, air-sucking summers. But that just never really was me. I wouldn’t say I got dragged here against my will. It was more so I stumbled here, unsure where else to go with a poli-sci degree. And so, here I am, five years later, quite embedded in this place. 

A piece of me would rather be told very directly where I ought to go and when I ought to go there, but there’s also a gift in a gentle reassurance “Come to Babylon, if you’d like, and I will take care of you.” “Come to DC, if you’d like, and I will take care of you.” I can fill in the blank for whatever stage of life I’m in. And I will ask myself many, many times: ought I to be here? Was this right? Did I mess this up? No, of course not.

We cannot outsmart an omniscient God, nor can we outrun an omnipresent God, nor can we escape his perfect love. God is at work in every city, in every church, and everyone. God is working in D.C. — yes, even D.C. — as he is everywhere. As we arrive in each new “place” we can say “oh, obviously this is where he was always leading me.” God has the timelines in hand; he has the places charted. Our place is not some unknown future place, but wherever we find ourselves now. Instead of anxiety and uncertainty, God says “Come with me, follow me,” an open handed offering to follow him to whatever place he has brought us to.