Obedience and Surrender

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A Call—Is It For Me?

By Elizabeth Cody Newenhuyse

So why work? Do most women work to put bread on the table—or to buy a third car? Is it true, as I have read, that the majority of women would work even if they didn’t have to for financial reasons? What about a sense of calling?

Meet Beth. Beth is tall, dark-haired, a talented musician. She teaches Sunday School and chairs her church’s Christian education board. She has two school-age children, reads Dobson and worries about society’s moral decline.

Beth also works outside the home 30 hours a week for a Christian ministry. Money is very tight for her family; Beth’s salary covers the rent on their home (they cannot afford to buy a house) and provides new shoes for her daughter. Beth’s husband, Ron, is a salesman whose income is irregular—one year good, another bad. Last year was bad.

A few months ago I was in a group with Beth, talking about some of the struggles Christian families face today. Beth led off the discussion: “My greatest problem is that I’m a working mom, and I have to deal with people’s attitudes toward that. I sense criticism. So I always tell them, ‘I have to work. My husband’s income just doesn’t cover our needs.’ ”

As she spoke so candidly, I felt my face redden in anger at the judgments some cast at the working woman. I had to speak up: “You know, Beth, why is it we always feel compelled to add the “I-have-to-work” apology? Why can’t we Christian women be honest about enjoying our work? Talk about what we do?”

“You’re right,” Beth said with surprise. “I enjoy my work, and I think I’m good at it. But somehow, that isn’t enough for some people.”

This notion of “calling” is complicated; it is often a word that gets bandied about too loosely. We sometimes say, “I feel the Lord has called me to do this,” when what we really mean is, It’s what I want. We tend to stumble into a few quarries before we settle on the right path—or paths—for our lives. But still, there are clues and confirmations.

When I was four, I taught myself to read. I would show my mother words in magazines and newspapers and ask, “What does this say? What does this say?” It was as if I couldn’t wait to get to school to unlock the puzzle of those black squiggles. I became an avid reader, one of those kids who always has her nose in a book. English, spelling and composition were almost embarrassingly easy for me, and I was happy doing them. I wrote occasional stories, but didn’t know yet that people could put words on paper and get paid for it.

Years later, I had a conversation that had a powerful effect on my life. I was working on my first book and it wasn’t going well. “How does one write a book?” I asked an author friend, a successful novelist, poet and theologian with a hefty body of published work. “Am I doing what God would have me do?”

My friend sat back, fixing me with his blue eyes. I waited. He paused, then said, “You should be writing books. You must write books.”

Something inside me lifted, shifted. It was one of those moments not often given to us. Usually we stumble along in a haze, guessing at our next move, grabbing at handholds and hoping for the best. Yet every once in a while the haze lifts and light slants down, and we climb toward it.

There can be a beauty, a reassurance in the order and predictability of work. For some women I know (men too), work is a haven. These are people coping with horrendous burdens at home—an alcoholic husband, a mentally ill wife, a sullen teen. For such, the cheerful chatter of workmates may sound like the laughter of angels.

So we perform our tasks with a measure of gratitude. We may offer up a silent prayer at the beginning of our workday: To You, the glory. We look for ways to serve God, to help others. And yes—we enjoy what we do. Unapologetically.

Excerpted with permission from The Woman with Two Heads ©1991 by Elizabeth Cody Newenhuyse.

ELIZABETH CODY NEWENHUYSE, an author, speaker, and editorial consultant, lives with her husband and daughter in Illinois.