I'm Not Haven Kimmel (and Neither Are You!)

On a recent afternoon, while waiting in a doctor’s office for the nurse to call my name, I had about 20 minutes on my hands. Instead of worrying about lab test results, I decided I would try to use my time more wisely, a big deal for someone like me, someone who could letter in fretting if there were ever such a sport. Instead of worrying, I attempted to clear my mind to see what might bubble up in the stillness.
A few years ago, I learned about the art of sitting in silence while attending the Earlham School of Religion, a Quaker seminary in Indiana. I don’t think I had ever been so still — of body and soul — and certainly I had never worshipped in a manner that did not involve singing and preaching and kneeling and such. Although it felt awkward at first, after a few tries I allowed myself to relax. When I did, I came to treasure my hours spent in what the Quakers call “unprogrammed” worship. There is no set service. You speak aloud if moved to do so. Otherwise, it’s you and the Divine.
So there I was, sitting in the doctor’s waiting room, back straight, hands in my lap, palms open and turned upward. I have a friend who does this when she prays, and it strikes me as a gesture of openness. After a few minutes I swear I heard a voice say to me, “You are not Haven Kimmel.”
Now, I may not be Mensa material, but I know I’m not Haven Kimmel, right? Lately, though, I’ve been preoccupied with that fact … that I’m NOT Haven Kimmel. Not only is she one of the most thoughtful and impressive writers around, but she also seems to be a fascinating person in her daily life — smart, funny, caring, hip. And seeing that she’s the author of the bestselling A Girl Named Zippy: Growing Up Small in Mooreland, Indiana (Broadway Books), among other fine books, she’s also, well, famous. (The Solace of Leaving Early ((Anchor)) is my personal favorite.)
I guess because the big publishing deal hasn’t come my way and Oprah can’t get through to me, I’ve been feeling a bit, well, underwhelmed with myself lately. So much so, in fact, that late at night (wow, is this embarrassing!), I find myself reading Haven Kimmel’s blog and remarking at how many comments she gets. One of her entries received more than 1,300 comments! How is a girl who is not Haven Kimmel supposed to compete with that? There I am, incredulous, right there in bed, with my unsuspecting husband, Precious, snoring beside me.
I read reviews of her books, resoundingly positive, and wonder how she does it. (My guess is that she doesn’t waste time envying another person’s life.) I savor her talent as I turn the pages of She Got Up Off the Couch: And Other Heroic Acts from Mooreland, Indiana (Free Press), the sequel to Zippy. I check her travel schedule posted on her website to see when she’ll be back in Nashville.
After the doctor told me I was not yet menopausal (those night sweats and mood swings really had me — and Precious — fooled), I returned a phone call from an acquaintance I haven’t seen in years. We traded stories about our lives and then — I swear this really happened — she said she envies my life and that she wishes she could have studied journalism and theology and worked in publishing.
“You’ve done all the things I wanted to do,” she said. You could have knocked me over with an orange hula hoop if I hadn’t been sitting down in the car.
There you have it. While I was wasting precious time — minutes that I can never get back — being jealous of another person’s gig, someone else was admiring mine. I feel sure this restlessness is not what God intends for me, as sure as I know that my hips are wide and my eyes are green. God does not want me to begrudge a person her profession or her personality. Or her spot on the New York Times list. I bet God doesn’t want me to begrudge myself either, if that’s even possible.
When I heard that voice telling me I wasn’t Haven Kimmel, I didn’t get freaked out or burst into tears. (I did, however, glance around the room briefly to see if anyone else who wasn’t Haven Kimmel had heard the news.) Instead, I smiled, grateful for the reminder to be secure and accepting of who I am ... and who I am not. So no, I’m not Haven Kimmel, and neither are you. And that’s just the way it should be.