Made For Something. Not Getting To Do It. Now What?

Peter, The Good Doctor, and the question Jesus asks at the water's edge

I’ve been watching The Good Doctor.

I know, I’m way late to the party. But I’ve been doing that thing where you find a show and consume it at an alarming rate whilst telling yourself it’s practically educational. It’s medical. Basically a documentary.

Anyway.

For anyone who hasn’t watched it — The Good Doctor follows Shaun Murphy, a surgical resident with savant syndrome and autism, who is one of the most gifted doctors you will ever see on a screen. Medicine isn’t just what he does. It’s who he is. The way he sees the world, processes information, solves problems — all of it is wired into his identity.

And without wanting to give too much away (because you might want to binge-watch it educate yourself) there’s a moment in the show where Shaun faces the real possibility that he might not be able to practise surgery anymore.

His mentor and father figure (Toby Ziegler! But not, obviously, because this isn’t the West Wing, but Richard Schiff is brilliant) says:

You’re not just a doctor.

You’re a good friend, a good person.

There are so many things you can do.

It’s meant to be encouraging. And it is. And yet . . .

A little piece of you dies inside when you’re told that the thing you feel made for might not be available to you — and that there are other things you ‘could’ do instead. Because the other things, however good they are, are not the thing.

Substack and editing legend Will Parker Anderson recently wrote about the pain of no’s and almost’s — the goals pursued, the doors that seem to be opening and then don’t, the phone call that changes everything. He writes:

The word ‘no’ is a door slammed shut. That’s hard enough. But almost is even worse. It cracks open the door enough for you to see the cheerful gathering inside. You feel the warmth of the fireplace, hear the laughter of friends, and smell the aroma of the feast. And then the door slams shut.¹

Ooof.

Can I ask — is there a door like that in your life right now? Something you feel made for, that keeps not quite opening? A calling that feels deferred? A season where who you are and what you’re able to do feel frustratingly out of step?

Peter knew something about this.

In John 21, after the resurrection — after the empty tomb, after everything — we find Peter back on a boat. Fishing. The thing he did before Jesus called him. And now here he is, back at it, nets in the water, in the dark, catching nothing.

“I’m going out to fish,” he says. (John 21:3, NIV). And the others climb in with him.

There’s a lot of debate about why Peter went back. Despair? Confusion? The weight of the denial still sitting heavy? Probably all of the above and then some. But do you notice how Peter, who was called to something so significant — fishing for people — returns to the last thing he knew how to do. The safe thing. The familiar thing. The fish.

And Jesus meets him right there.

Not with a lecture. Not with a performance review. He shows up on the beach with breakfast already cooking, and before he gets to the classic triple-question-moment, he reminds Peter of another time when he was out in a boat, fishing, catching nothing, and he does it again. He gives them an impossible catch. A reminder. I am still the one who does this. I am still the one who called you. Nothing has changed.

Peter can’t get out of that boat fast enough. Did he wonder if he’d walk those 90m from the boat to Jesus on water? Did he remember how Jesus had told him he’d fish for people? Did he dare let hope arise that perhaps his future held more than fishing?

Feed my sheep.

The call didn’t change. The identity didn’t change. What Peter needed wasn’t a new assignment — he needed to be reminded that his worth was never located in the fishing or the ministry or how well he performed either. It was in this. In the relationship. In being known by someone who had seen the worst of him and still showed up on the beach at dawn with bread and fish (another reminder of times they’d hung out before) and a question that cut straight to the heart of everything.

Do you love me?
Like truly, more than just a friend love, actual agape, all-in-holding-nothing-back love?

Because that’s the anchor. Loving and being loved. Not the open door. Not a ‘yes’ arriving on time. Not the thing finally becoming available. The Father who holds all things, including us, together. Who gave the gifting in the first place. Who knows what lies before you.

What you do is not who you are.

Your worth is not located in your output, your role, your title, or whether the thing you feel made for is currently available to you. It was never there. It was always in being known, and loved, and called by name, by your Jesus who meets you at the water’s edge and asks the only question that actually matters.

Peter went back to fishing. Jesus met him there. And then sent him out to change the world.

His methodology hasn’t changed.

What’s the no or almost you’re carrying right now — and what would it look like to let Jesus meet you right there in it, rather than waiting until the door opens?

Let’s pray:

Lord, meet us at the water’s edge. In the seasons where what we feel made for seems out of reach, in the no’s and the almost’s and the doors that haven’t opened, remind us that our worth was never located there. You hold the threads. You gave the gifting. You know what lies ahead. Because You are our Father, we don’t have to be afraid. Ask us the question that matters most. And give us the grace to answer it honestly. In Jesus’ name we pray, amen.

May whatever your hand finds to do this week be something that brings the Father, and you, much joy. Do it from relationship, not for it.

Cheering you on,

Em 💛

This week from Grow + Go:

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The Art of Slowing Down with Rachel Bearn

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1. willparkeranderson.substack.com/p/nos-and-almosts