The world is not ours … But the corollary to the truth that we are not everywhere and everything is that we are somewhere and something. We inhabit the portion God gives us. Vocations have, and impart, boundaries. To be called to this means not being called to that, and vice versa. An acceptance of calling therefore means a curtailing of some possibilities for our lives.
The World is Not Ours to Save
You have a part that only you can play; and your business is to play it to perfection, instead of trying to force fortune. Our lives are not interchangeable.
In the multitude of middle-aged men who go about their vocations in a daily course determined for them much in the same way as the tie of their cravats, there is always a good number who once meant to shape their own deeds and alter the world a little. The story of their coming to be shapen after the average and fit to be packed by the gross, is hardly ever told even in their consciousness; for perhaps their ardour in generous unpaid toil cooled as imperceptibly as the ardour of other youthful loves, till one day their earlier self walked like a ghost in its old home and made the new furniture ghastly.
They love it, my students—memorize the words,
but miss the point about that less-traveled road,
claim Frost a hero for endorsing the holy my way,
though he called this poem “a tricky one, very
tricky,” less about not following the crowd, or
even which path, and more about just making
up your mind. If he could, the poet would nod
to Yogi Berra: If you come to a fork in the road,
take it. In the end, there will always be those
two paths: the one you choose, and the other one.
Pick one—one that loves you back, and if you
still seek some Yankee wisdom, try that other poem,
the one about not standing and waiting too long,
about miles and miles to go, about promises to keep.
Father Larry Janowski, O.F.M.
source Oct. 27, 2013 - http://www.vocationnetwork.org/articles/show/198
Heading home from work, irritated by my busyness and the sense of wasted days, shouldering through the strangers who merge and flow together on Michigan Avenue, merge and flow in the mirrored facades, I flash past the rapt eyes and undecayed face of my grandmother, lit and lost at once. In a board meeting, bored to oblivion, I hear a pen scrape like a fingernail on a cell wall, watch the glasses sweat as if even water wanted out, when suddenly, at the center of the long table, light makes of a bell-shaped pitcher a bell that rings in no place on this earth. Moments, only, and I am aware even within them, and thus am outside of them, yet something in the very act of such attention has troubled the tyranny of the ordinary, as if the world at which I gazed, gazed at me, as if the lost face and the living crowd, the soundless bell and the mind in which it rings, all hankered toward – expressed some undeniable hope for – one end.
–Christian Wiman, My Bright Abyss