The Call

What is this thing known as a calling, anyway?

What is a call, really?

Is it a way of matching your skills to the job market?
Can you find it in an employment guide? 
Is it a multiple choice test that tells you what type you are and where you’ll find others just like you from 9 to 5, Monday through Friday?
Is that where you find your calling?
Is a calling a feeling of joy, of completeness in your work?
Is it what Karl Marx thought we lacked when he said we were alienated from our labor?
Is a calling a way of saying,
“This is part of me, this thing I’ve created. This thing you see here—it’s a way of seeing me”?

Is a calling straight from cherubim and seraphim,
Is it burnt lips and angels singing,
Is it a direct command and expected obedience?
Is it a voice in the night, a whisper through the dark, so compelling that you eventually find yourself saying, “Here I am; send me!”?

Against a dark field, five neon arrows in blue, pink, and yellow point in the same direction.

Or is your calling the work of the thousand arrows of your life,
the arrows that point to your hometown and your family,
the ones that point to your education and that weird summer job,
the ones that point to your greatest weakness and your greatest strength,
the one that points to the darkest moment of your life,
and the one that points at your most profound joy—
all these arrows of yours coming together in a way you never thought possible,
coming together to point at a path you never saw before,
a path suddenly flooded with light,
a path suddenly garlanded with your name?