The Why

We often talk about work as the thing we do to earn a living... the profession we list on a form, the business we build or the title printed beneath our name. We measure it in hours, accomplishments and income. When we ask one another, “What do you do?” we usually expect an answer that fits neatly into a sentence.

The Beauty of Choice

Someone once asked my son what I do for work. His answer was simple: “Whatever she wants to.”

I laughed when I first heard it, but the more I thought about his answer, the more meaningful it became. In many ways, he was right. I get to choose work that brings me joy and, hopefully, creates joy for the people with whom I share it. There is tremendous beauty in that choice.

I do not say this to boast. I say it with a genuinely grateful heart because I know what a blessing it is to shape my days around work that enriches my life rather than merely filling my time. Life has not always been easy, and the path that brought me here was certainly not straight. There have been seasons shaped by responsibility, loss, uncertainty and simply doing what needed to be done. Perhaps that is why I no longer take the freedom to choose... or the life surrounding that work... for granted.

Lately, I have been considering the question beneath my son’s answer: Why do we do the work we do?

Work That Cannot Be Measured

Certainly, we work because there are bills to pay and responsibilities to meet. Money is necessary. It provides security, creates opportunities and helps us care for ourselves and the people we love. But I believe some work feeds something within us that money cannot measure.

Meaningful work makes us curious. It gives us a reason to pay closer attention. It brings us into rooms we might never have entered and introduces us to people whose stories become woven into our own. It carries us to new places, creates experiences and gives us something meaningful to share. The work changes us while we are doing it.

Sometimes that work takes the form of art. Art allows us to express what cannot always be easily explained. It can preserve a memory, hold a story or give form to something we have carried silently within us. It creates a place where another person can recognize a piece of their own story and feel less alone. At its best, art helps people feel seen, held and heard. It reminds us that something does not have to be loud or practical to be meaningful.

Sometimes the greatest reward is not what we produce or earn. It is the person we meet along the way, the conversation that lingers long after it ends or the moment someone feels seen because something we offered reached them at just the right time. It is collaborating with a creative friend to make the most thoughtful gift we can imagine for someone who is grieving. The finished gift matters, but so does the love held within it... the desire to help a hurting friend feel remembered and cared for.

The Substance of a Life

The richness of this life is also found in moments that have little to do with what we traditionally call work. It is encountering a 91-year-old Marine and his dog while walking a trail and pausing long enough for our paths and stories to meet. It is having coffee with a friend at our favorite coffee shop, sharing a meal with people I love or receiving a message from the friend who thinks of me whenever the moon is full or something beautiful is happening in the sky.

It is having a supportive family and partner who make room for who I am and who I am still becoming. It is the love of a church family and the comfort of knowing I have praying friends. It is my five-year-old great-niece running toward me and wrapping me in a hug every single time she sees me. She does not care what I have accomplished, what I have earned or what I managed to cross off my list that day. She is simply happy that I am there.

And at the end of the day, wealth can be as quiet as stepping outside and listening to the sound of night settling around me.

These moments may not look significant on a ledger, but they are the substance of a life.

The Work of Loving Well

Not all important work happens within a profession. Some of the most meaningful work we will ever do happens within our relationships. It is the work of showing up... of listening, forgiving, encouraging, praying and making room for one another. It is sitting beside someone when there are no words that can make things better. It is tending our friendships, our families and the love we have been given. It is helping the people who cross our paths know they are seen.

Some family members are given to us through blood, history and shared beginnings. Others enter our lives along the way and become family through choice. They are the people who stand beside us through changing seasons, celebrate what is being born in us and help carry us when life becomes too heavy to hold alone.

A Different Measure of Wealth

When I think about wealth, this is what I see: I do not measure it only in dollar signs, bank accounts or possessions. A bank statement may tell me what I have accumulated, but it cannot measure the quality of the life I have been blessed to live.

My wealth is found in the people with whom I share this life, the places our paths take us and the experiences we create together. It is found in unexpected conversations, familiar tables, shared meals, open doors, prayers spoken on my behalf and arms that are always happy to welcome me. It is being present enough to recognize, This is one of the good days.

My wealth is also found in the path I get to walk. It is the freedom to remain curious about where that path may lead next and the ability to choose work that brings joy, meaning and connection into my life and the lives of those who share it with me. I do not take that freedom for granted. The work itself matters, but so do the people it brings into my life, the places it carries me and the experiences that unfold because I was willing to follow where it led.

Perhaps that is why we do the work we do... not simply to make a living, but to make a life. A life filled with meaning, rich in connection and open to the beauty around us. A life in which we remain present to one another and recognize the blessing of being here together.

At the end of my life, I do not believe I will measure my wealth by how much I accumulated. I will measure it by the love that moved through my days, the lives that touched mine, the moments I was awake enough to notice and the people who shared the journey with me.

The Why Beneath It All

So when my son says that I do “whatever I want to,” I receive his answer with humility and a grateful heart. I get to choose work that brings joy, and I get to share that joy with others.

I am grateful for this life. I am grateful for the path I get to walk. And I am grateful to finally understand that my why is not a title, product or accomplishment.

My why is to live awake, love people well and create meaning from the moments we share... so that, in whatever way our paths cross, people might know they are valued, feel held and be given the space to be truly heard.

By that measure, I am wealthy indeed.

The Messy Middle: Learning Patience While the Vision Unfolds

Repurposing an old desk

I wish I could say my studio is becoming the beautiful, welcoming creative space I imagined.

I can say that, but right now, it is still unfinished... ever so close to the finish line.

There are cabinets to complete, lots of sanding... things without homes, projects waiting for my attention, and more work than I know how to fit into the days ahead. Every time I walk into the room, I can see what it could become. I can picture cleared tables, organized supplies, finished pieces, quilts spread out, patterns to cut and enough breathing room for creativity to flow again.

Perhaps that is part of what makes the present reality so difficult. The vision is clear, but the path between here and there has felt crowded... with decisions, deadlines, responsibilities, limited resources, and the limits of my own energy.

It seems everything takes longer than you think it will.

Yet even in the middle of the unfinished room, I feel deeply grateful for the vision behind it.

Millenial expertise!

My son has been able to see possibilities in this space that I could not fully see for myself. He has imagined more than a room that will meet my immediate needs. He has envisioned a space that can grow with me... a place that will support my art, my work, my business, and whatever the future may ask of me.

His vision reaches beyond what I need today... it will support me in the future in ways I cannot even imagine.

He has considered how I create, what I need around me, and how this studio can serve not only the work currently waiting on my table, but the work that has not yet revealed itself. There is love in that kind of vision. There is care in building something with the future in mind, especially when the person building it believes it will make my work and play so much easier.

I know this studio will eventually meet needs I may not even recognize yet. It will hold new ideas, new collections, new opportunities, and new seasons of creativity. It will give me room to make, organize, photograph, gather, and grow. Soon the cabinets will be finished. The tools and materials will have homes. The surfaces will be ready. The vision that currently exists in pieces will become a space I can step into and use.

But that day is not today.

And it will not be tomorrow.

I am living in the messy middle... the space between being able to see the vision and being able to fully live inside it.

And in the midst of it all, life is still happening.

There are appointments to keep, people who need care, work commitments that cannot be ignored, meals to prepare, relationships to nurture, and ordinary responsibilities that continue whether I feel ready for them or not. There are days when I begin with a list of everything I hope to accomplish, only to discover that the day already has plans of its own.

It is easy to look around and think I should be further along.

We should have finished the cabinets by now. We should have created more inventory. We should be better prepared for the events ahead. We should have the room organized, the displays planned, the photographs taken, and every unfinished project neatly checked off my list.

But “should” rarely accounts for the fullness of a real life.

It does not account for caregiving. It does not account for appointments, interruptions, unexpected needs, or the emotional weight of trying to hold many meaningful things at once. It does not account for the fact that I am not simply building a studio or preparing for a show. I am also building an ever-evolving business, creating a body of work, caring for people I love, continuing my education, tending to my own well-being, and trying to listen for what God is asking of me in this season.

This month is beautifully full.

It holds opportunities I am grateful for, work I have chosen, people I love, and creative commitments that matter to me. But beautiful fullness still requires something of me. It requires time, energy, flexibility, discernment, and the willingness to adjust my expectations when the day does not unfold according to my plan.

The reality is that I may need to set up and work somewhere else for a little longer.

I may need to carry my supplies into another room, clear a temporary surface, or create in a space that does not yet look the way I imagined. It may not be convenient. It may not be organized, photographable, or inspiring. But the work can still happen there.

Creating in a temporary place does not mean the larger vision has failed. It simply means I am allowing the needs of this season to shape how I work within it.

I am not struggling because I lack vision or willingness.

I am struggling because the vision is large, the work is real, and I am one person living a full and sometimes complicated life.

Maybe the answer is not to find a way to do everything at once. Maybe the answer is to stop measuring today against the finished room in my imagination.

The studio will not become everything I envision overnight. It only needs to become a little more functional than it was yesterday. One cabinet can be completed. One surface can be cleared. One collection can be gathered. One garment can be finished. One decision can be made.

And while the studio continues becoming, I can continue creating.

I am learning to begin each day with a gentler question:

What can I do today to move myself forward toward my goals?

Not what can I finish forever.

Not how can I catch up with every plan I have made.

Not how can I prove that I am capable of carrying it all.

Only this: What can I do today?

Some days, moving forward may look like hours of focused work in the studio. Other days, it may mean making a phone call, ordering needed supplies, completing part of a project, or writing down the next three steps. Some days, it may mean moving my materials somewhere else and creating what this beautifully full month requires in a temporary workspace.

There will also be days when caring for someone I love is the most important work before me. On those days, progress may be quieter and harder to measure... but that does not mean the day was wasted.

Taking life one day at a time does not mean I have abandoned the larger vision. It means I am learning how to honor that vision without sacrificing myself to it.

One task closer to the finish line!

There is still much to do. The studio is not finished. The work is not finished. I am not finished.

Unfinished is not failure.

It is simply what becoming looks like in progress.

The messy middle may be what I can see most clearly today... the displaced supplies, incomplete cabinets, interrupted work, and plans that keep changing. But it is not the whole story.

The whole story also includes a son who could see what this space might become and cared enough to help envision it for my future. It includes the hands and hearts helping to bring that vision to life. It includes the opportunities already waiting for me, the work I am still called to create, and the certainty that this space will serve me well for many years to come.

That knowing changes how I see what is unfinished.

Instead of looking only at what remains undone, I can be grateful for what is being built. Instead of demanding that the space meet every need today, I can trust that it is being prepared to meet the needs the future holds. Instead of allowing the temporary inconvenience to overshadow the gift, I can remember the love, thought, labor, and belief woven into this room.

For now, I will keep returning to the next faithful thing. One appointment. One responsibility. One cleared surface. One finished cabinet. One creative idea brought into existence, even if it must be created somewhere else.

I may not know exactly how I am going to make all of it happen. But I do not need the strength, time, or answers for every day ahead.

I only need to ask what is mine to do today… and then begin there.

Yes, I am standing in the messy middle.

But I am also standing inside a vision that is slowly taking shape... a vision born from love, built with intention, and designed to hold more than I can see from where I am today.

And when I remember that, the gratitude and the knowing far outweigh the mess.