Dear Husband, I Know You Hate Your Job, But You Will Find Your Purpose

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Dear Husband, I Know You Hate Your Job,

But You Will Find Your Purpose

Dear Husband,

I know you are tired today. I know you are weary of the miles in traffic, the lifeless conversations, the endless hours of empty work. I know you hate your job. I know the misery extends far beyond a mere 40 hours a week.

I remember clearly the day you came home and announced you got the job. The excitement in your eyes was bubbling over, and I celebrated your great accomplishment with you for many weeks as you prepared for your journey. It brought new life to you to make such progress in your career. But somewhere along the way, the excitement disappeared. We no longer celebrate your accomplishments. You don’t laugh as often as you used to. You haven’t nestled into your position comfortably as we both expected you would. It is painful to watch you avoid your eyes in the mirror every morning. Deep inside I scream, and perhaps you do too. But I can no longer hear you. Our lips are silent as we both continue on with the day, while the utility bills and the mortgage payment beckon to us.

What brought us to this empty place?

I have asked myself this question over and over again, until the words break apart into syllables, and I am left with more questions than answers. Adulthood was supposed to be a wonderland of discoveries, journeys, and enlightenment. But at times it seems we are as detached from our present as much as we are from our past.

Do you remember many years ago, when we were kids riding bicycles to our neighborhood library? We didn’t visit for the internet or computers or tablets. We went to read the latest paperback books and National Geographic magazines. The smell of old books is still tucked softly away in our memories, reminding us of its existence when we breathe in at an antique bookstore.

My memories of the library will always coexist with images of long narrow card catalog drawers, filled with thousands of fingerprint stained index cards. I am reminded of them today because I know most days you feel finite and insignificant, like a tattered index card in the middle of a thousand others. I know you feel stationary, locked in a narrow box, glanced at every day, and filed away once again. However, every index card held an indispensable amount of letters and numbers; fragments of the giant card catalog system. Each card was vital to finding one book among thousands. Removing one would be like erasing a road on a map, destroying the directions to a destination.

What seems like a million disconnected days are ultimately a map to your greater purpose.

But you will not find your purpose in this mundane day-to-day routine — your purpose will find you. Your character, your strength, your humility, and your willingness to continue on despite your weariness are waters washing away the sediments of unimportant aspects of life. You know now what gives life to your soul, and you are painfully aware of what takes life away. Pain is a signal, a directive, a crying out that causes us to move, and when a light begins to break through your darkness, it will shine brilliantly to you. You will not miss it. Neither will it miss you.

Your patience expands with every day that drags on endlessly.

Your temperament softens in every moment when you feel as though you are defeated. Your humility strengthens you when you feel the fatigue of an eternal calendar. I admire you each and every day for the man you are becoming, like an athlete who has grown weary of the routine stretches and weights and miles of road ahead of him.

You, my husband, are my hero.

You may not have sight of the greater purpose in front of you, but I see you inching towards a finish line of success, and I am in awe of you.

I cannot wait to celebrate with you once again, and see your eyes bubbling over with excitement. Your gifts, talents, and passions will eventually be your light. And like one index card in the middle of a thousand others, you will one day soon give hope to someone searching for a story like yours.

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