Sauna Thoughts: Final Form

A Sauna Thought on Purpose, Providence, and Looking Backward

Lately, I've been thinking about the topography of life.

At 45 years old, I can finally see enough of the map behind me to recognize the terrain.

There were valleys.

There were hills.

There were mountains.

There were wrong turns.

There were detours.

There were seasons where I felt completely lost.

And looking back now, I don't think I was lost at all. I think I was being led.

Sometimes I think about the alternate versions of my life.

At 45 years old, I could be standing in front of a lecture hall at Carnegie Mellon University.

Maybe I'm teaching graduate students who are preparing to become educators themselves.

Maybe I'm mentoring future teachers, conducting research, attending conferences, and helping shape the future of music education.

Maybe later that afternoon I'm presenting ideas to educational leaders, administrators, and school districts throughout Pittsburgh.

Honestly, that's not some imaginary fantasy, because path genuinely existed.

Years ago, one of my professors and mentors invited me to dinner.

She was preparing to retire.

She wanted me to consider taking over her position.

Looking back, I still find that hard to believe, because at the time, I felt young.

Inexperienced.

Unprepared.

Who was I to take over a program at Carnegie Mellon?

Today, I sometimes wonder what that life would have looked like.

Not because I regret my choices, which I don't, not even a little.

But because life is fascinating.

Every decision creates a different future.

There are versions of ourselves that never come to be.

And sometimes it's interesting to imagine them.

The funny thing is that people often assume my story is one of choosing purpose because I lacked opportunity.

That's not true at all.

I've been blessed with opportunities.

I've been fortunate enough to receive recognition over the years.

Teacher of the Year.

Innovator of the Year.

Artist of the Month.

I still receive occasional emails and messages from former students who are now adults with families of their own.

Those messages mean more to me than any award ever could.

The point isn't that achievement is bad.

The point isn't that success is bad.

The point is that neither of those things were ever my north star.

Purpose was.

Impact was.

People were.

Faith was.

Years ago, I had what many people would consider a dream job.

I taught choir at Morro Bay High School and Junior High on California's Central Coast.

The school sat near the ocean.

Sometimes after a particularly great rehearsal, I'd tell the students to grab their things, because we were going to the beach.

And we'd walk down to the water.

Sometimes we'd rehearse outside.

Sometimes I'd bring a guitar.

Sometimes a drum.

The students loved it.

I loved it.

It was one of those rare positions people tend to hold onto until retirement.

The kind of job that doesn't open often because nobody wants to leave.

Then my grandfather became ill.

Very ill.

My grandparents asked me to move in with them.

And so I quit.

Looking back, I understand why some people thought I was crazy.

I had stability.

A great career.

A beautiful town.

The ocean.

A future.

One of my supervisors couldn't understand why I would leave. From his perspective, it didn't make sense. But what I was wrestling with wasn't a career decision, it was a calling decision.

At that point in my life, I wasn't married. I didn't have children. I knew where I was needed. So I went.

What fascinates me now is what happened because of that decision.

If I stay in Morro Bay, maybe I never move in with my grandparents.

If I never move in with my grandparents, maybe I never meet Ki.

If I never meet Ki, Avé doesn't exist.

Noa doesn't exist.

Taj doesn't exist.

The Matthew Mark Foundation may never exist.

This exact version of my life may never exist.

One decision.

One turn in the trail.

And an entirely different landscape unfolds.

That's one of the reasons I love the old saying that you can only connect the dots looking backward.

When you're living life, it rarely makes sense.

When you're living life, you're usually standing in the middle of the valley wondering where the trail went.

But years later, standing on a ridge, you can finally see how everything connected.

I think that's one reason I love the poem Footprints in the Sand.

Most people remember the famous part where there is only one set of footprints.

The person asks the Lord why He abandoned them during their hardest seasons.

And the Lord replies: "Those were the times I carried you."

As I've gotten older, I've started paying attention to a different part of the story.

The path itself.

The terrain.

The route.

The hills.

The valleys.

The unexpected turns.

The places where I thought God was absent but was actually leading me somewhere I couldn't yet see.

There were seasons that felt painful.

Confusing.

Lonely.

Disappointing.

There were seasons where I wondered what in the world I was doing. And now, looking backward, I can see God's fingerprints all over them.

Not because every season was pleasant.

But because every season was shaping something.

Or someone.

Scripture often describes God as a potter and us as clay.

I've always loved that image.

The clay doesn't shape itself.

The clay doesn't always understand what the potter is doing.

The clay simply remains in the hands of the One doing the shaping.

"Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in My hand." (Jeremiah 18:6)

What a beautiful thought.

Maybe we're never really finished.

Maybe God is always shaping us.

Always teaching us.

Always sanding rough edges.

Always preparing us for the next season.

There's another verse I've come to appreciate more with age:

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths." (Proverbs 3:5–6)

When I was younger, I thought that verse meant God would show me a perfectly clear roadmap.

Now I think it means something different.

The path often isn't clear.

The next step is.

And sometimes that's enough.

Sometimes faith is simply taking the next step and trusting the path will reveal itself later.

Jesus said that a prophet is not without honor except in his own town.

I've always found that interesting.

Not because hometowns are bad.

But because familiarity can become a lens.

Sometimes we need to leave.

To travel.

To wander.

To explore.

To fail.

To grow.

Sometimes we need distance to discover who God created us to be.

And sometimes, after all that wandering, we finally come home.

Not necessarily to a place.

But to ourselves.

Which brings me back to my original question.

Is there such a thing as a final form?

Maybe that's the Dragon Ball Z fan in me talking.

Super Saiyan.

Perfect Cell.

Final Form Frieza.

Every character seemed to be chasing some ultimate version of themselves.

And maybe that's what many of us are doing too.

We spend our lives chasing the next version.

The next achievement.

The next goal.

The next milestone.

The next promotion.

The next title.

The next thing.

But what if life isn't about becoming more?

What if life is about becoming more fully who God created us to be?

Today, my days look very different than they might have.

I could be lecturing in a university classroom.

Instead, I often find myself teaching kids how to ride mountain bikes.

We talk about body position.

Braking.

Cornering.

Confidence.

Sometimes we talk about prayer.

Sometimes we talk about kindness.

Sometimes we talk about loving God and loving our neighbors.

Sometimes we simply laugh together and enjoy the sunshine.

And honestly?

I wouldn't trade it.

Not because one path is better than another.

But because this one became mine.

And I love it.

So have I reached my final form?

I don't think so.

God is still shaping me.

Still teaching me.

Still refining me.

Still preparing me for things I cannot yet see.

Philippians tells us that He who began a good work in us will carry it on to completion.

That means the work isn't finished yet.

Not at 45.

Not at 65.

Not at 85.

The Potter is still working.

The trail still continues.

The story isn't over.

But for the first time in my life, I feel less like I'm searching for the path and more like I'm walking it.

Less like I'm trying to become someone else and more like I'm becoming who I was always meant to be.

Looking backward across the topography of my life:

I can see the valleys.

I can see the mountains.

I can see the detours.

I can see the places where I was carried.

I can see the places where I was shaped.

I can see the places where God gently redirected me.

And I can honestly say this:

I don't regret the roads I didn't take.

I simply thank God for the road that led me here.

And here, for now, feels exactly where I'm supposed to be.