Maybe he won’t be a rockstar. Maybe he won’t bang his wooden sticks high over his head in front of a crowd. Maybe he won’t pound his foot on a pedal, and maybe he won’t bounce his head to waves of cheers.

But he could.

Maybe he won’t be an academic. Maybe he won’t cure cancer, maybe he won’t write for journals, and maybe he won’t roll up his sleeves on the front lines of science, and maybe he won’t cut his teeth behind microscopes.

But he might.

Maybe he won’t be a pastor. Maybe he won’t preach from a wooden pulpit worn from years of use. Maybe he won’t hold hands with sinners and preach about prodigal sons, Ruth, and floods. Maybe he won’t raise his voice in testimony and maybe he won’t lower his voice in prayer.

But he could.

Maybe he won’t be a doctor, a healer of wounds. Maybe he won’t stitch up the broken, maybe he won’t fight for lives, and maybe a white jacket isn’t in his future. Maybe he won’t snap on gloves and hold a scalpel.

But he might.

Maybe he won’t be an Olympic athlete. Maybe the Friday night lights are the only lights in his future, and maybe he won’t be cheered on by a nation. Maybe he won’t stick his feet in starting blocks, or tattoo rings on his ankle.

But he could.

Maybe he’ll never be a dad. Maybe he’ll never hold little hands in his and maybe he’ll never wake up in the middle of the night for a diaper change and maybe he’ll never stoop his shoulders at the end of the day in eternal gratitude for his full hands.

But I hope he will.

Maybe he’ll walk through this entire life without making a world-altering contribution. Maybe he’ll just step through his days and sleep through his nights knowing that he’s good.

And kind.
And brave.

Maybe he’ll help his neighbors and meet the needs of strangers.
Maybe he’ll hold his hands wide open.
Maybe he’ll close his eyes and say a whispered prayer for you and me.

And that?

That’s good enough for me.

This post originally appeared on Rebecca Cooper, Author

 

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