Fall is hard for my friend Mallory*, as it was during this season that she buried her child. One day he was a college freshman in the Midwest, energized by classroom demands and delighted to have met like-minded peers. A smart, introspective kid, he told his mother he felt at home in his new surroundings, and he knew he had chosen the right school for his temperament and interests. Two months after Mallory waved goodbye to her son, he called to complain of a severe headache. A week after that he was back in Nashville, preparing for surgery.

On the dresser in my bedroom, next to the perfume bottles and the black-and-white picture of my mother as a sophomore at Ole Miss, I have a pottery jar with “blessings” stamped on it. It contains bits of paper on which I jot down reminders of what matters to me.

As adults we often introduce ourselves by what we do or where we work. Concerned about how others see us, we define ourselves by achievements and titles.

At some point though, a voice calls from within. It may start with doubts about the meaningfulness of our jobs, about whether we are fulfilling the promise of our gifts. We start asking questions of vocation rather than occupation, questions of who we are rather than what we do.