By Vanesa Brashier, publisher of Bluebonnet News
At 17, I thought I had my life figured out.
I graduated from Hardin High School a year early, but even before that, I was driving to Lee College at 15 to take college classes. This was long before online dual-credit courses. If you wanted to take a college class, you got in the car and drove there. My dear cousin, Shobie Jones Nichols, who later became an educator, was taking dual-credit classes during part of that time, so we often rode together. Other nights, I made the drive alone.
I joke now that my parents must not have loved me very much because they let their 15-year-old daughter drive to Lee College in Baytown at night. In fairness, though, the world felt like a different place back then. At least that’s how I remember it.
To make those trips possible, I was issued a hardship driver’s license at 15. Looking back, it’s almost funny to think about. I wasn’t old enough to vote, but I was absolutely convinced I was old enough to chart the course for the rest of my life.
Lord, was I wrong. It turns out 15-year-olds don’t know nearly as much as 15-year-olds think they do.
By 17, I was living in Houston and attending Texas Bible College, which has since relocated to Lufkin. I believed God had a purpose for my life, and like so many young people, I was trying to figure out what that purpose might be. I thought I had a pretty good idea, but then life interrupted my plans.
A serious car accident brought me back home, and my life took a direction I never expected. Looking back, I can see God was writing a story I could never have imagined. The life I planned at 17 wasn’t the life He had planned for me, and His plan was far better than mine.
Last week, while waiting for an outpatient surgical procedure at Townsen Memorial Hospital in Kingwood, I was reminded of something I’ve believed for years. God never intended for us all to have the same gifts.
As I watched the people caring for me, it struck me that every one of them brought something different to the table. The woman who checked me in kept everything organized. The pre-op nurse prepared me for surgery. The anesthesiologist explained the procedure and answered my questions. The surgeon and surgical team performed the operation. Another nurse cared for me in recovery, and finally a nursing assistant wheeled me out to my daughter’s truck.
No two people in that hospital were doing the same job, yet every one of them played a part in my care. Remove any one of them, and the whole process would have suffered. It made me wonder how often we overlook the people who quietly make our lives better.
I’ve always believed that telling people’s stories and keeping my community informed is one of the gifts God gave me. That’s why I write. In fact, if I wake up and don’t have something to write about, my whole day feels a little off. It’s simply how I’m wired.
Then there are the people whose gifts make my life a little easier every single day.
Take the employees at Whataburger, for example. Let’s just say I’ve been there often enough that Cheryl Semien in Liberty and Wes Pickett in Cleveland don’t need me to explain what I want anymore. A No. 11 grilled chicken wrap, tortilla, no bun, with fresh vegetables has become my unofficial meal plan about once a week. I like to think it’s because I’m memorable. The truth is, I’m probably just predictable.
Either way, they greet me with a smile, remember my order and somehow make a busy day feel a little lighter. They may never write a newspaper story or perform surgery, but they have a gift for making people feel seen. That’s no small thing.
As much as I love writing, I also know my gift isn’t your gift—although I certainly wouldn’t complain if a few more people discovered a love for journalism.
If my car won’t start, I’m calling my son-in-law David. If my computer decides it’s smarter than I am—or I need someone to patiently talk me through a technical problem or fix a spreadsheet—I’m calling my husband, John.
My daughters each have gifts that make me proud. Jayda has a heart for caring for people. She’s the kind of mom who makes a house feel like home. Sierra has discovered a gift for mentoring others while balancing a career, a family and full-time college. Alexia, who stepped away from teaching to raise her newborn son, has a way of bringing joy wherever she goes. She even worked alongside me for a while during college, so I’m still holding out hope she’ll catch the journalism bug one day.
Then there are my sisters.
I’ve spent years trying to stump Stephanie on the piano. I finally thought I’d found the perfect challenge: Billy Joel’s “New York State of Mind.” I played it once. She asked me to play it again. After hearing it a second time, she sat down and played it. I still have no idea how she does that.
I have perfect pitch. Years of singing in church choir taught me to recognize when a note is off almost instantly. I can also type 90 words a minute on a keyboard, but put me in front of a piano and suddenly my fingers forget they’re attached to the same brain. I can play Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” but no one is going to mistake me for a concert pianist.
My sister Angie has always had a gift for seeing ministry where the rest of us simply see things. We both bought vintage cookie jars at an online estate sale. I saw inventory for my Etsy store. Angie saw Vacation Bible School. She filled the jars with homemade cookies—with a little help from Mom—and turned them into a fundraiser to buy supplies for the children at her church. Every so often, she also becomes Hubert the Crow in the church’s puppet ministry. I have no idea where that crow voice comes from, but the children absolutely love it.
God did not wire any of us the same way, and I am thankful for that.
As for me, I know my lane. If your pipes burst, I can probably walk you through fixing them, but these days you’re on your own when it comes to crawling under the house. My crawlspace days are behind me. If your transmission goes out, don’t call me unless you’re looking for emotional support. But if you need someone to sit through a four-hour government meeting, ask a lot of questions and turn it into a story people can understand, that’s where I come in.
The older I get, the more I appreciate that God never intended for all of us to do the same thing.
The world needs the surgeon, but it also needs the receptionist who greets you with a smile. It needs the nurse who calms your fears, the mechanic who keeps your family safe on the road, the teacher who changes a child’s future, the banker who encourages a coworker, the mom raising the next generation and, yes, even the writer who can’t seem to go a day without chasing another story.
Seventeen-year-old me thought she had her future mapped out. She didn’t. God did.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped wishing my gifts looked like everyone else’s and started thanking God for the ones He gave me.
The world doesn’t need another copy of someone else. It needs the mechanic, the surgeon, the teacher, the cashier, the grandmother, the stay-at-home mom, the carpenter, the worship leader, the farmer, the writer and every other person faithfully using the gifts God placed in their hands.
Finding where you fit isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about becoming the person God created you to be.
Indeed