I can’t say I knew Dawn well. I only met her a couple of times. We shared a number of mutual friends who would occasionally tell me that I should meet Dawn, that I would really like her, that I would appreciate her wise spirit. I couldn’t tell you where she lived, the name of her husband or children, her favorite restaurant. Nothing like that. All I can really tell you about Dawn is what I encountered the first time we met.

Ten years ago I was six months into my new role as director of Pilgrim Chapel, a small public chapel and nonprofit with the simple mission of building community in our midtown neighborhood. I was hired to replace the founder, a 70-year-old ordained Disciples of Christ pastor and community organizer who 50 years ago had written his seminary dissertation on a theological concept of the neighborhood itself — not the church — being the community where Christ is to be encountered and embodied. He spent the 60s and 70s in the hippie heyday of Westport working alongside neighbors to start the free health clinic, Meals-on-Wheels, and the Westport Allen Center, a community hub for fledgling organizations such as the Kansas City Ballet. He served as a community liaison for one of the first churches in Kansas City to integrate a black congregation with a white congregation. In the 80s he was one of the only clergy willing to perform funerals for victims of AIDS when their home churches refused. In the 90s he sparked controversy when he agreed to serve as prison chaplain to Bob Bordella, Hyde Park’s infamous serial killer. He was one of the first clergy willing to perform same-sex weddings for couples when their home churches refused. He wrote poetry and plays. He had half a dozen side-hustles and boundless energy. He putzed around in the chapel’s front lawn and garden and warmly greeted anyone who passed by.

I had big shoes to fill. The Board of Directors that hired me had high hopes for my youth and energy. I had no idea what I was doing.

But this isn’t about that. It isn’t about his big shoes. This is about Dawn.

Six months into my new role, I decided to open up the chapel for some new events, concerts, and poetry readings. The chapel’s stone walls and arched oak ceiling form an intimate, beautiful space that only seats 70 people. The acoustics are incredible. The stained glass image above the door depicts Jesus touching the ear of a deaf man, healing him as he speaks the words, “Be open.”

This was the simple message I wanted to offer the community: Be open. Regardless of religious belief or practice, regardless of identity or background or past, this is a place that is open to all. Got an idea for a project or initiative or event that will serve the community? Let’s do it. Got a problem we can collectively tackle? Let’s talk. Looking for a sacred space for quiet and contemplation? Come on in. It was not a church in the traditional sense, and yet aspired to serve in the ways so many churches have forgotten or failed to do. The neighborhood itself is our community, and we can share life and serve each other in so many ways.

I had ideas and a good dose of hubris. I had neighbors who wanted to collaborate on various projects. I had no idea what I was doing.

But this isn’t about me. This isn’t about my hubris. This is about Dawn.

One night, after a concert had ended and people were filing out through the doorway of the chapel, a woman with graying blond hair and a frail figure approached me and introduced herself as Dawn. She reached her hand out. I took her hand within both of mine and said, “Dawn, I’ve heard such good things about you and I am glad to finally meet.”

Using her hand that was wedged between mine she pulled me close, looked me square in the eye, grinned, and said, “What exactly is it that you are up to here?”

It disarmed me. Not just the words of the question, but the presence of the person who was doing the asking.

I’m usually more quick-witted. I can often find easy answers near the tip of my tongue. I’ve worked in enough mission-driven organizations that, when asked, I can give the elevator pitch. But in the presence of Dawn, I did not know what to say. What is it that I am up to here?

“I have no idea,” I said, “just trying to do good work.”

Her smile widened. She used her free hand to reach up and grab my shoulder. “Well good, then keep going.”

I revisit that encounter often. The way her taut arm tethered me to her presence. The way her eyes pierced me. The slight orneriness I detected in her smile and that I recognized as kindred to my own orneriness. And this question, knowing that it was not intended as one she wanted me to answer right then and there, but rather one that she offered as a gift for me to carry forward — the sort of question that Rainer Maria Rilke meant when he said,

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves . . . the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.

When I look at my life so far, I easily and often turn toward self-criticism: I have such an odd and non-lucrative skill set. My resume and portfolio makes no damn sense. I have few accomplishments to show for this many years, no dissertation, no firsts, no trajectory to my career or my professional life. What the hell am I doing, anyway?

Ever since that encounter with Dawn over a decade ago, I began seeing a different way of thinking about work and life. Now when I look back — and as I consider the present moment and look ahead to the future — I aim to think less about careerism and accomplishments, less about firsts and trajectories, and more about the slow and steady time it takes to create a body of work. A body of work takes shape slowly over time. It sometimes doesn’t make sense in the moment. There is not always an obvious connection from one step to the next. But I’ve come to think that one’s legacy has less to do with a trajectory of success or collection of accomplishments, and more to do with a body of work offered over a lifetime of one’s living presence.

We all face the daily slog through chores and tasks and hustles. There is suffering. There is bullshit. There are morning headlines that can cause the cheeriest fella to crawl back in bed for the day. It is all exhausting. One of the most essential daily tasks is seeking to understand my own energy. Understanding my own energy is, in part, knowing when I need to rest my body and mind, when I need to run a few miles, or when I need to rock out on a loud guitar and scream until my mind goes blank. Understanding how to expend my own energy requires knowing how to restore it.

I learned to think of Dawn’s question not as a request for a business plan, but as an invitation to nurture the spark within me that keeps me present, creative, and generous toward the world, its joys and its struggles. I ask myself this question: At this moment in my life, how will I choose to channel my given energy into good work?

And in case it sounds like I’ve learned something significant here and have an answer to offer, don’t worry. I have no idea what I am doing. I am still living the question.

And I am thankful to Dawn every time I remember her asking it. I can still see her grin.