You Are Where You’re Supposed to Be

Two Sundays ago, I was sitting in a pew at the neighborhood church that Stanton, the girls and I attend. The pastor announced the next song; I flipped to it in the hymnal. “Lord, When You Came to the Lakeshore.”

The choir director began playing the melody of the song. In that moment, my memory flashed back about 20 years.

My very first job, at age 15, was as an organist for a small church near my Pennsylvania hometown. I probably was in a bit over my head, friends. I knew how to play the piano, not the organ…so I learned as I went. In the beginning, I played the organ like a piano—focusing on one keyboard only. As time went on, I began adding in sounds from the other keyboard, plus the pedals.

The biggest challenge, though, was trying to direct the choir. The choir consisted of four or five regular members (median age: 76), all of whom harbored strong opinions about which songs we should be singing. They didn’t mind so much that I was young and inexperienced; they just wanted to belt out “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” every.single.Sunday.

At this point, you might be wondering how I got this job. (You also may be wondering if I was qualified…) Answer to the first question: My friend’s mother was the original organist at that church, and needed some help with some of the services.

I ended up playing the organ for that church all through high school. I also ended up (eventually) becoming fairly close to my septuagenarian choir members. I invited all of them to my high school graduation party, and they all came. As I’m writing this, I’m smiling at the memory. George, Annette, Eddie…they were all there.

They didn’t mind so much that I was young and inexperienced; they just wanted to belt out “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” every.single.Sunday.

Back to that song, though: “Lord, When You Came to the Lakeshore.” At my hometown church, there was an old lady who always sat in a front pew.

If you’ve ever attended a worship service somewhat regularly, then you know that many people usually sit in the same spot week after week. Similar to having “your” seat in a college classroom, or “your” table at a coffee shop. You get comfortable; you gravitate toward the familiar.

This lady, friends—I wish I could remember her name. I can’t. But she had white hair and wrinkled skin, and she was nice. She also wore a hat, every Sunday.

One Sunday before the service, I was downstairs where the pews are. I was making my way up to the choir loft, where the organ was, along with George, Annette and the gang. I stopped to say hello to the lady. We chatted a bit, and she asked me if I wouldn’t mind playing her favorite hymn, “Lord, When You Came to the Seashore.”

There was still some time before church started, so I said sure. She squeezed my hand. I went upstairs and played that song. When I was done, she turned around in her seat and smiled her thanks.


I like the song “Lord, When You Came to the Seashore.” It’s straightforward to play (which is helpful). The melody is pretty, the lyrics uplifting. I got into the habit of playing it every Sunday before church started, partly because I liked it but mostly because the lady did. Every time after I played that song, she turned around and smiled.

I waved back: “You’re welcome.”

Twenty years later, in a different place, in a different church, I was the one sitting in the pew, and I heard that familiar melody I once knew so well. The title of the song was slightly different—“Lakeshore” instead of “Seashore”—but it was the same song. Hearing that song took me back to 15.

I had to blink myself back to the present. I also had to blink some tears away. Because almost certainly, my old friend has passed on by now. I’m not sure where my “Battle Hymn of the Republic”-loving choir members might be either.

I do know, though, that that small church doesn’t exist anymore.

Has something like that ever happened to you too? You hear a song, or a line from a movie, or something like that…and suddenly, you’re time traveling?

Hearing that song took me back to 15.

For me, time traveling—nostalgia—isn’t constructive. I start to miss people. Places. More than anything, I feel my mortality. I look at pictures of my high school graduation party, for example; I see a younger version of myself (alongside George and Annette); I have to acknowledge, “I’m getting older.”

Sometimes I’m surprised by the people and places I miss. Maybe you are too.

As we move along in our lives, we still may carry within us pieces from our pasts, from our childhoods. Pieces stay with us…still. Because they mattered.

On Monday evening, the day after “Lord, When You Came to the Lakeshore,” I stopped by a yoga class at our Y. I love yoga, but don’t always make the time to practice it. At one point during the class, the instructor led us through a challenging pose.

He encouraged us not to compare ourselves—our bodies, our yoga practice—to our neighbors. Go with your own flow, he said. Appreciate what you can do. Then he said, “You are where you’re supposed to be.”

Friends, those words struck me. You are where you’re supposed to be.

The wisdom in those words, for me, is that this makes sense. This present moment means more than anything. This is right.

Be present.

Whoever you wish you could be with again—whoever you may miss, including your younger, carefree self—whatever time from years ago seems easier than the moment you find yourself in now…no. No, this is it. This is where you’re supposed to be.

(And try not to compare yourself to your neighbor. Everyone has their own journey. Everyone has their own struggle.)

When you struggle, where do you find hope? And when your heart overflows, when your cup runneth over…where do you acknowledge the goodness, the grace, the second chances?

For some of us, the answer (to both questions) may be church, or temple, or another place of worship. For others of us, the yoga mat, or another form of exercise or meditation. Nature. Lots of places.

This present moment means more than anything.

In “A Moveable Feast,” Ernest Hemingway ends his memoir with a beautiful reflection on Paris, a place that “stayed with him” throughout his life. He concludes that when he lived there, with his first wife, “we were very poor and very happy.”

My old friend in that small church can’t perfectly compare to Paris—it’s not the best parallel—but that time in my life was very “coming of age,” as Hemingway’s Paris was to him. I learned then something that has stayed with me all these years, which is work with people. Find common ground; meet in the middle. Wherever you find yourself—whatever odd set of circumstances you seem to have stumbled into—make the best of things.

Leave that place better than you found it, if you can.

Maybe it doesn’t make sense at the time, but you are where you’re supposed to be. One day, you’ll understand why.

“Be where your feet are.” (Anonymous)

Photo credit: Pixabay


Like what you just read? Then check out Melissa Leddy’s newest short fiction e-book, “What Happens Next.” A story that’s heartfelt, relevant and can’t-put-it-down good.


Living Authentically in a Made-for-Instagram World

When I was in my Pennsylvania hometown for Christmas, I stopped by a favorite local restaurant, Canteen 900, for breakfast with my brother and sister. Canteen 900 is located in a refurbished warehouse-style building. Think high ceilings, exposed brick, funky industrial décor—that’s this place.

My whole family and I love Canteen 900. It’s our first-choice, go-to spot whenever we’re “home for the holidays” together. So I was there recently, for the first time in a while.

Upon arriving, I saw a holiday-themed display outside the building. Like the restaurant and its artistic-vibe surroundings, the display was quirky, eye-catching and cool.

It would be helpful here if I had a picture to show you, right, friends?

The thing is—ironically—I had thought about taking a picture. The display was so cool, so picture-worthy, it seemed to be begging folks to snap a shot.

Then I thought… “I wonder,” I said to Jared and Jenna, “if that display was designed so that people would take their picture with it, and then share it on their social media.”

Jenna thought so; Jared was already jogging to the front door, eager to order his beloved French toast and coffee. We didn’t talk much more about the “made-for-social-media-ness” of that display, of that moment.

It’s been on my mind, though, off and on these past few weeks: how we may find ourselves, at times, living in a made-for-Instagram world.

The display was so cool, so picture-worthy, it seemed to be begging folks to snap a shot.

Did you happen to try Starbucks’ Unicorn Frappuccino when it came out last year? I didn’t, but I remember reading about the supercharged-sugar-rush’s suspected main purpose: not as a beverage, but as “Instagram bait.” Even the Washington Post covered the limited-edition drink’s debut.

Making the news more recently (just a few days ago in Smithsonian magazine) is the Museum of Ice Cream, a pop-up art exhibit that’s “taking over your Instagram feed.” A Wired journalist wrote that this museum was “made for Instagram” in an earlier, fall 2017 article. I’ve never been, but from what I’ve read, the interactive, whimsically designed Museum of Ice Cream lends itself to staged photo shoots.

The Museum of Ice Cream, the Unicorn Frappuccino, the holiday-themed display in front of Canteen 900—these are things that sales and marketing professionals have put into our lives, perhaps, so that we can engage with them for their companies’ publicity and profit.

I’ve been wondering, then—how do we know when we’re experiencing something real?

Something we’re encountering purely by chance? And…purely? Not for publicity or profit?

On the flip side of that question… How do we keep our own lives real, when sharing on social media is part of everyday life?

How do we live authentically in our made-for-Instagram world?

…how do we know when we’re experiencing something real?

The other morning, my older daughter called for me. “Mom, come here!” Grace was sitting at the front bay window, looking out.

I joined her, and she pointed outside. “Look,” Grace said.

The sun was rising in the distance. Beyond our neighbor’s house across the street, through the tree branches, we watched the morning sky light up with orange. It…was…beautiful.

And it was a beautiful moment for me, friends. I put my hand on Grace’s back and stood there an extra minute. I was heartened that my 6-year-old daughter recognized something special in that sunrise—in nature. I was heartened that nature moved her, and that she wanted me to experience it too.

For sure, nature is real. We can trust in the earth, and what the earth gives us.

Sunrise 1-16-18

You know, I took a picture of that moment. Of the sunrise, of my daughter there. I wanted to remember it. And you know what else? I almost shared it on Facebook—almost.

I reconsidered, friends. And I changed my mind.

Everyone uses their social media in the way that makes the best sense for them. There’s no “one size fits all”—and I don’t mean to seem “holier than thou.” I do what I do simply because it feels right to me—on my Facebook, which I check in with fairly regularly; and Instagram, which I don’t; and LinkedIn and Twitter, which I update every now and then, mainly for my writing.

(By the way, has anyone ever used Google+? What is Google+?) 😉

The reason I didn’t share that picture? It was too real, friends. It was too real.

My daughter had something she wanted to show me. That moment was just for us. The earth offered it up, and we were lucky enough to be there, to take it in together.

We know we’re experiencing something real when we have to catch our breath. When we are so moved by the emotion of the moment. The joy, the gratitude, the feeling that life is beautiful.

Real life, I mean.

The life that is happening right before your eyes. Your children reaching for you. The wind on your face. Someone you love knowing what to say.

What makes sense for me with living authentically in our made-for-Instagram world is sharing here and there. Others may keep it real through more wholehearted documentation. Still others may choose to stay off the grid completely. (We’ve gotta love the Ron Swansons among us. 😉 ) And of course, what feels right for us may evolve as we move from one season of life to another.

There’s so much to appreciate about social media. I love seeing pictures of college friends’ kiddos, some of whom I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting yet. I’d be wildly lost and uninformed if not for some local parent groups. And I’m so encouraged when someone reads something I wrote and lets me know it helped them somehow.

Yet…there may be some things to take care with. For example, I’d rather not partake in a for-profit’s stealth marketing (Museum of Ice Cream, are we talking about you?).

But that’s just me, in this season of my life.

How do you do you? How did you figure out what works for you?

Peace, friends.

Photo credit: Pixabay


Like what you just read? Then check out Melissa Leddy’s newest short fiction e-book, “What Happens Next.” A story that’s heartfelt, relevant and can’t-put-it-down good.

A Reminder to Breathe in Mamalode

I’m so happy to share that my essay “A Reminder to Breathe” has been published in the amazing magazine Mamalode. Please check it out, friends! Hope you enjoy, and hope it makes a positive difference.

Heartfelt thanks to Mamalode for sharing my piece with their readers.


Don’t miss Melissa Leddy’s newest short fiction e-book, “This Is Just a Story.” Fun, timely and thought-provoking.