Dreams, Crowns, and a Better Destination

People say you should have a mission, and that sounds sensible enough, except no one ever explains how you are supposed to pick just one. There are so many perfectly dramatic options. For instance, I could decide that my mission is to go to Mars. With the kind of telescope they must have up there, the magnification would be spectacular. I imagine I would look back at Earth and suddenly feel very sentimental about clouds and oceans and front porches and the way sunlight lands on kitchen tables. I would probably wish I had paid more attention to all of it while I was still standing on it. That seems like a respectable mission, heroic even, if a bit inconvenient for grocery shopping.

On other days, I might choose something lighter. Perhaps my mission is to make people laugh, the way Lucille Ball did, with perfect timing and fearless silliness. I could practice saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the right moment and turning ordinary situations into comedy just by being thoroughly, enthusiastically human. There is real generosity in laughter. It loosens the shoulders. It gives people a little breathing room when life feels tight. That kind of mission has charm, and frankly, the world could use more of it.

Then again, if we are dreaming boldly, why stop there. Maybe my mission is to become the first American Queen of Belgium. I do not speak the language, have no royal training, and would almost certainly wave at the wrong times. Still, there would be ceremonies, polite nodding, and perhaps a very official-looking wave that says, “I have no idea what is happening, but I am delighted to be here.” It would make for excellent stories, and possibly excellent hats. That sort of mission has flair, even if it comes with a strong chance of diplomatic confusion.

There are missions that sound impressive, missions that sound useful, and missions that sound entertaining over coffee. You can collect them like postcards. Astronaut. Comedian. Accidental European royalty. Each one comes with its own costume and soundtrack. But somewhere between the rockets and the royal balconies, a quieter question starts tapping on the door. It asks not what would look grand, but what actually changes something when no one is watching.

Because the moments that stay with us are rarely the dramatic ones. They are usually small and oddly ordinary. A conversation that arrives at exactly the right time. A story that helps someone feel understood. A reminder that they are not as alone as they thought. A moment of stillness when the noise of the day finally backs off and something gentler has room to speak. These are not the things that earn medals, but they are the things that shape lives.

So instead of chasing a single dazzling title, I find myself drawn to the quieter work of walking alongside people where they already are. Of paying attention. Of noticing the beauty that hides in plain sight and the courage that shows up in small, stubborn ways. Of offering words, creativity, and encouragement that help someone lift their eyes just a little higher than yesterday. Not because everything suddenly becomes easy, but because direction matters, and so does hope.

This is why stories matter to me. They slip past defenses and settle into places arguments cannot reach. This is why handmade things matter to me. They carry fingerprints and intention and the simple truth that someone took time when they did not have to. This is why reflection matters to me. It slows the world down long enough for meaning to catch up with us. None of these are grand on their own, but together they form something steady, something that quietly points forward even when the road feels long.

If I am honest, I suspect most of us already know what matters. We just forget it in the middle of schedules, headlines, and the constant hum of needing to be somewhere else. So the work I choose is not about inventing meaning, but about reminding. Reminding people that their lives are not accidental. That kindness counts even when it goes unseen. That truth is worth seeking even when it is inconvenient. That joy is not frivolous, and reflection is not wasted time.

So yes, I could aim for Mars, but I would rather help someone notice the sky from their own backyard. I could aim for applause, but I would rather share a laugh that makes a hard day feel lighter. I could aim for imaginary crowns, but I would rather help someone remember that they already carry dignity and worth without any ceremony at all.

And if I say it plainly, the direction underneath all of this is simple. My real mission is to get to heaven and bring as many people with me as possible, preferably with a smile on all our faces along the way. That may not fit neatly on a business card, but it shapes everything I choose to create. It means pointing toward what is lasting. It means offering light when the path feels dim. It means believing that every small act of encouragement, every story that helps someone breathe easier, every reminder of hope is part of a much bigger journey.

In the end, my mission is not about where I might go alone, but about how we travel together. It is about choosing kindness over cleverness, meaning over noise, and hope over despair. If something I make helps someone take even one step forward with a little more courage and a little more peace, then the mission is already doing its quiet, steady work.

No rockets required.
No royal titles necessary.
Just a shared road, lifted eyes, and the deep, stubborn joy of knowing where we are headed, together.