THE TALE OF A STORYTELLER'S CALLING

Joy Swartley Sawatzky

Those who know me well are not surprised by my imminent career change—only that it took me so long to get here.

But first the background. I had been meeting each month with a group of five other women to sit with the stories written down by Clarissa Pinkola Estes in Women Who Run with the Wolves. (Ballantine Books, 1992). This time as usual I waited until the evening before to begin preparing. I found myself wishing I had started earlier, since I had planned to have the group skip the chapter assigned for this month. The story was unfamiliar to me, and based on the title I was unsure it would take us in the direction I wanted for the group. Little did I know that this tale would give me words and images for the journey I have been on much of my adult life.

I am one of those career statistics, meaning that by age 48 I am about to embark on my eighth career change, more or less. It’s been a fascinating journey from the days in college imagining what my first job as a nurse would be like to my current contemplation of what it will be like to devote all my energy to storytelling.

Estes’s story "Manawee" is about a man who desires to court twin sisters but has to guess their names before he will be granted their hands in marriage. His own efforts fail, so he enlists the help of his little dog. It takes the dog three tries before he hears the names and finally gets home to his master to pass them on.

During his first try, he meets on his way home a lion who leaves behind a juicy bone. The smell is more than the dog can take, so he drags it off and savors it until all the flavor is gone, only to realize he has forgotten the names.

He tries again. This time he is distracted by a nutmeg pie, which he loves more than anything. By the time he finishes the pie, he has again forgotten the names.

He returns to hear the names for the third time, determined to let nothing prevent his arriving back home with the task completed. This time, the dog is accosted by a stranger who grabs him by the scruff of the neck and tries to shake the names out of him. Jolted within an inch of his life, he fights back, frees himself, and limps home with the names intact. His master gets to marry the sisters, and they all live in peace together "for a long time to come" (118).

Amid the many layers of meaning, the bottom line is that "even if we have failed time and again, we must try again, till we can pass it [the distraction] by and get on with the primary work." (p. 125) Ouch! That truth stings me. From my earliest awareness, I have never doubted that my life was meant to have meaning and purpose. The search took me through nursing, community development, chaplaincy, pastoral ministry, social work, housing for persons with HIV and AIDS, a senior management position in a retirement community, and now to this new stage.

I am almost embarrassed to admit to the degrees, certificates, and trainings I accumulated along the way as part of the process. Some of the changes I made had to do with trying to discern call, and some had to do with convenience. Certainly I was victim to the juicy bone and nutmeg pie many times over—those distractions that satisfy the gut but not the work of the soul.

If I dare to say storytelling is the thing I am really called to, what about all the other stuff I’ve done for 20-some years? I didn’t just accept whatever came along. I tried to listen to God through my own soul and spirit, to listen to the spiritual directors, therapists, and/or soul friends who were part of my life at any given time.

The question has always been the same: How do we know what is right for us at any given time? I didn’t say yes to everything that came along. I tried to discern each opportunity to the best of my abilities, drawing on the commitments and resources I had in place, and always against the backdrop of call. I see some of what I did as steps to get to the next level. The common theme, however, was the stories. I recently found journals that I have kept sporadically over the last 20-plus years. Already in Haiti in the early 1980s, I was doing things unconventionally, like developing a health and nutrition program using stories instead of didactic lessons to teach.

From that point on I played peek-a-boo with my gift, trying it out through preaching and speaking but often too afraid to push the boundaries—and always dismissing the idea that storytelling could be my primary calling. I did many things because someone else thought I would be good at it, and because I had nothing else to suggest.

So why does this time feel different? For one thing, this time with storytelling, I am indeed saying "Yes!"

Seven years ago my husband Walter and I moved to Souderton from what we called the "front lines" of a life constantly maxed out with meeting the needs of others. In Souderton we began a life that involved more caring for ourselves than we had chosen to do in the past.

For me this care involved serious and uninterrupted spiritual and personal soul-searching with trusted support. A result was finally being able to begin trusting my own instincts as one who knows who I am and what I have to offer, who understands what God wants to be for me in all of this, and who finally is able to accept the love and support of a husband who believes in me even more than I do.

Add to that a job that provided a constant place to practice all the things I was learning myself to be—complete with a boss who believed in me and demonstrated it by pushing and coaching me beyond the limits of what I would have said I was capable of. After almost five years of doing the hardest, most demanding work I have ever attempted, I found myself with a strength I would never have imagined possible for me. And so in the end, I have finally learned more often to recognize what I want for myself, not what someone else wants for me.

Leaving my current work to pursue storytelling feels like something I can’t not do (the double negative seems called for). There is this nebulous thing of timing. The timing seems so right. I can finally glimpse what my calling will look like.

I say glimpse because it is all still being formed. There are these floating puzzle pieces of who I am as a storyteller. I have a passion for spiritual things, for women in search of themselves, for senior adults and the end-of-life journey, for grace and for forgiveness. The audiences seem disjointed, yet I know my calling involves storytelling for the soul. Stories that crack the heart open and invite listeners deeper into their own journey.

Could I have arrived here any other way? Probably. Does it matter now? No. What matters is this: Somehow the tenacity I needed kicked in. I refused to let go. I am grateful and amazed at what lies ahead.

—Joy Swartley Sawatzky, Souderton, Pennsylvania, is a recovering career changer and a soon-to-be professional storyteller.