A decluttering expert said something this week that I haven't been able to get out of my head.We often buy things not for the person we are today, but for the person we hope to become. Running shoes for the future athlete. A bread machine for the baker who’s definitely going to make fresh sourdough every weekend. An expensive sketchbook for the artist who’s just waiting for the right moment to begin.
As I looked around my own house, I realised I’d been doing exactly the same thing.
Not just with possessions.
With my life.
For years I’d been making plans for someone who always seemed just around the corner. He somehow had enough time to keep half a dozen YouTube channels alive, maintain every hobby he’d ever enjoyed, answer every email the day it arrived, write books at remarkable speed and still have time left over for everything else.
The strange thing is that I’d started measuring myself against him.
No wonder I always felt behind.
Learning the craft
That realisation changed the way I looked at almost everything. I no longer felt guilty about projects that no longer fit the life I’m actually living. I stopped worrying that I wasn’t moving fast enough. Even my fantasy novel began to look different. Instead of asking why it still wasn’t finished, I found myself enjoying the slow process of becoming the writer who can tell this story well.
That reminded me of one of Tolkien’s favourite ideas. He described artists and storytellers as sub-creators. God alone creates from nothing. We receive creation as a gift and shape it through imagination, craftsmanship and patience. I’ve always loved that image because it shifts the focus away from producing something as quickly as possible. Craft isn’t measured by speed. It’s measured by the care you bring to it.
Perhaps that’s why I find so much joy these days in things that don’t seem particularly efficient. Painting medieval-style creatures in watercolor. Recording conversations with fantasy authors. Walking through the woods until a new idea appears. None of those activities produces a finished novel by the end of the day. Yet all of them are teaching me something about storytelling.
The real Father Roderick
That person I kept trying to become doesn’t exist.
Oddly enough, admitting that felt liberating rather than disappointing.
It made me ask a much simpler question.
Who is the real Father Roderick today?
The answer is becoming clearer. I’m a priest. A storyteller. A podcaster. And, increasingly, a writer. That doesn’t mean the earlier chapters of my life were mistakes. They brought me here. But some ambitions no longer fit the person I’ve become, and letting them go creates room for the ones that do.
Perhaps that’s why I’m ending this month with far more excitement than I expected. I haven’t finished my novel. I haven’t crossed a major milestone. What I have done is something that may turn out to be far more valuable.
I’ve stopped chasing the person I imagined I could become.
I’m beginning to pay attention to the person God is inviting me to be.
And that feels like the best possible place to begin the next chapter.
Fr. Roderick Vonhögen
P.S.: This article is based on the latest episode of my podcast The Walk. If you’d rather hear the story in my own voice, you’ll find the podcast player at the top of this page.
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