There’s a time to do whatever’s in front of you—and then there’s a time to focus in.

When you first start following Jesus, your job isn’t to have your life’s purpose figured out. It’s to say yes—to love the person in front of you, to serve wherever you’re needed, to do the next right thing. That’s how faith grows roots.

But as you keep walking with God, something begins to happen. Patterns emerge. You start to notice what gives you energy and what drains it. You begin to sense the kinds of work that make you come alive—the moments when heaven’s light shines through you most clearly.

That’s when you start to focus in.

The goal of discipleship isn’t to do everything for God. It’s to do the right things—the things that fit how He made you. Max Lucado explains:

Look at you. Your uncanny ease with numbers. Your quenchless curiosity about chemistry. Others stare at blueprints and yawn; you read them and drool. “I was made to do this,” you say.

Heed that inner music. No one else hears it the way you do.

At this very moment in another section of the church building in which I write, little kids explore their tools. Preschool classrooms may sound like a cacophony to you and me, but God hears a symphony.

A five-year-old sits at a crayon-strewn table. He seldom talks. Classmates have long since set aside their papers, but he ponders his. The colors compel him. He marvels at the gallery of kelly green and navy blue and royal purple. Masterpiece in hand, he’ll race to Mom and Dad, eager to show them his kindergarten Picasso.

His sister, however, forgets her drawing. She won’t consume the home commute with tales of painted pictures. She’ll tell tales of tales. “The teacher told us a new story today!” And the girl will need no prodding to repeat it.

Another boy cares less about the story and the drawings and more about the other kids. He spends the day wearing a “Hey, listen to me!” expression, lingering at the front of the class, testing the patience of the teacher. He relishes attention, evokes reactions. His theme seems to be “Do it this way. Come with me. Let’s try this.”

Meaningless activities at an insignificant age? Or subtle hints of hidden strengths? I opt for the latter. The quiet boy with the color fascination may someday brighten city walls with murals. His sister may pen a screenplay or teach literature to curious coeds. And the kid who recruits followers today might eventually do the same on behalf of a product, the poor, or even his church.

What about you? Our Maker gives assignments to people, “to each according to each one’s unique ability” (Matt. 25:15). As he calls, he equips. Look back over your life. What have you consistently done well? What have you loved to do? Stand at the intersection of your affections and successes and find your uniqueness.

You have one. A divine spark. An uncommon call to an uncommon life. “The Spirit has given each of us a special way of serving others” (1 Cor. 12:7 CEV). So much for the excuse “I don’t have anything to offer.” Did the apostle Paul say, “The Spirit has given some of us …”? Or, “The Spirit has given a few of us …”? No. “The Spirit has given each of us a special way of serving others.” Enough of this self-deprecating “I can’t do anything.”

And enough of its arrogant opposite: “I have to do everything.” No, you don’t! You’re not God’s solution to society, but a solution in society. Imitate Paul, who said, “Our goal is to stay within the boundaries of God’s plan for us” (2 Cor. 10:13 NLT). Clarify your contribution.

Don’t worry about skills you don’t have. Don’t covet strengths others do have. Just extract your uniqueness. “Kindle afresh the gift of God which is in you” (2 Tim. 1:6 NASB).[1]

Frederick Buechner put it beautifully: “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.”