Theologians often discuss the nature of humanity. Are we basically good? Created in the image of a loving God? Or are we fallen, fundamentally selfish and sinful? A recent drive home to East Nashville gave me the opportunity to think about these questions again.

Unlike many of my childhood friends, I clung to my belief in Santa Claus long past any appropriate developmental timeframe. I liked the idea of a jolly person wandering around the world handing out gifts, and I didn’t see the harm in continuing to entertain the possibility even after smelly Oliver made fun of me on the playground.

Even though it’s too early for New Year’s resolutions, my friend Heather and I are trying to improve ourselves. From centering prayer to tai chi, we’re open to just about anything that might enhance our bodies, minds and spirits. We’re not trying to make ourselves into different women; just trying to maintain what we’ve got so it will last as long as possible. As it is with many pursuits in life, sometimes it takes a while to find the options that suit you best. Such is the case with us.

As Southern women, we learn early about the virtues of hospitality. Our elders teach us how to address invitations, set tables and present food on trays with doilies.
    Later, we come to realize that some people practice the art of hospitality. What we experience in their homes has less to do with what food is served and more to do with the spirit of the place. The host is able to create an environment where judgment is suspended and conversation flows with genuine give-and-take. We know we are safe.

Fall is hard for my friend Mallory*, as it was during this season that she buried her child. One day he was a college freshman in the Midwest, energized by classroom demands and delighted to have met like-minded peers. A smart, introspective kid, he told his mother he felt at home in his new surroundings, and he knew he had chosen the right school for his temperament and interests. Two months after Mallory waved goodbye to her son, he called to complain of a severe headache. A week after that he was back in Nashville, preparing for surgery.

On the dresser in my bedroom, next to the perfume bottles and the black-and-white picture of my mother as a sophomore at Ole Miss, I have a pottery jar with “blessings” stamped on it. It contains bits of paper on which I jot down reminders of what matters to me.

As adults we often introduce ourselves by what we do or where we work. Concerned about how others see us, we define ourselves by achievements and titles.

At some point though, a voice calls from within. It may start with doubts about the meaningfulness of our jobs, about whether we are fulfilling the promise of our gifts. We start asking questions of vocation rather than occupation, questions of who we are rather than what we do.