Our longings are made for beauty.Tracing the eternity set in our hearts
Twelve healing movements for a longing heart—my free guide for subscribers.
The moments that let us down often do a quiet work to make way for a time, far in the future, that takes our breath away. On a visit to my grandpa’s farm as a child, my cousins and brothers and I walked down the farm-to-market road with our eyes set on the water tower. It sits a mile or so down the road and we aimed to walk all the way there. The green fields stretched out on either side of the road, and we strode down the center of a wide open universe. The grand goal was to go and stare at the tower’s lofty stature against the open sky, take our pictures there, and come home to declare our feat. But we were young, our legs grew tired, and sunset loomed. We did take pictures with the yellow flood gauge along the road, but we didn’t make our goal. The next day, my aunt drove my cousins to the water tower for pictures. This idea didn’t feel as grand to me though. I can’t remember if we ever tried again, but the water tower trek stuck in my memory. In later years, I would sometimes peer in that direction and remember how proudly we walked toward it that day. On some visits we pulled our aunt’s and uncle’s old bicycles out of the chicken house and tried to ride them down the road. But the rusty frames and aged tires never carried us far. I can’t remember if we hoped to ride them to the water tower. I just know we rode in that direction. Nano and I have lived at Grandpa’s old farm for ten years now. Toward the tail end of the school year, our son—our youngest child—learned to confidently ride his bike without training wheels, and the family usage of our bicycles has ramped up. A couple weeks back on a Sunday evening, our kids begged for a family bike ride and Nano and I readily agreed. The air grew crisp with the dipping sun, and clouds squiggled across the sky, ready to play. I imagined we would ride to the half-mile point, then head back as we’ve done before. But when we came to that half-mile point where another road crosses ours, the family kept riding. At the sight of the water tower, my first memory of it came flooding back. I remembered my young excitement to travel all the way there. I remembered the old rusty bikes. Suddenly I felt as if an old forgotten dream might be coming true in its own way. Soft glowing lines shone from the clouds and the smiles on my family glowed too. With proud delight we stopped when we came to the sight. The decision wasn’t spoken, just arrived at. All five of us stood beside our bikes staring up at the towering form. Nano snapped our picture and the moment felt perfectly right. In the ten years we’ve lived here I’d never walked or rode my bike to the tower before. I’d nearly forgotten that childhood hope to approach it on the road under the open sky. Somehow, I’d never imagined doing it with my husband and children. Yet it just happened, and it felt glorious. When we rode away with my daughter beside me, I kept watching the tower make its statement in the golden gleam of evening. Here in this moment, I didn’t want to forget my girl’s brown hair, the painted sky and the whizzing of our wheels spinning. The evening spoke plainly. Even though disappointments had filled my mind that morning, that very same day brought the sweetest fulfillment to an old childhood hope. The disappointments of yesterday made today that much sweeter. Today’s letdowns may soon be distant memories. Then, one day when you don’t expect them, they may rise up again to meet you—with a kind bliss you’d never know if the disappointment had never been yours. Maybe under the sky of a Father who gives good gifts, the sky of a God who set eternity into our hearts, maybe every disappointment is intended as a foreshadow of the joy He longs to share with us somewhere down the road.
Small Shifts That Bring Light
The people who drew near to Jesus were the despised, the sinners, the children. Maybe those who have little to lose in the way of reputation have the clearest view. “Now the tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to hear him. And the Pharisees and the scribes grumbled, saying, ‘This man receives sinners and eats with them.’ “So he told them this parable: ‘What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the open country, and go after the one that is lost, until he finds it? And when he has found it, he lays it on his shoulders, rejoicing’” (Luke 15:1-5). In this same scene in Luke 15, Jesus also shared the story of the prodigal son and the father who loved him with reckless generosity. Before an audience who continually looked down on the sinner, Jesus proclaimed the unquestionable value of the runaway in our heavenly Father’s eyes. Dane Ortlund writes, “Though the crowds call [Jesus] the friend of sinners as an indictment, the label is one of unspeakable comfort for those who know themselves to be sinners. That Jesus is friend to sinners is only contemptible to those who feel themselves not to be in that category” ( Gentle and Lowly , p. 114). The most lowly of society saw Jesus as more than approachable. Children bounded up to him. The outcasts came close. The nature of Jesus’ presence gave them confidence to lean in. Here is someone who sees me and doesn’t look away. Here is someone who speaks of God as if God wants…me…not loyalty to a system I could never pretend to conform to. When they saw God through Jesus, they didn’t feel daunted. When He said, “Come to me, all who are weary” (Matt. 11:28), they recognized the God in whose image they’d always been made. The Good Shepherd freed them to shed heavy-laden expectations and enter worship with rest, right there at His table. How did children know they didn’t have to keep a respectable distance? How did the sinners learn they were free to join the feast where Jesus dined? They experienced His presence. After years spent hearing of a God who doesn’t come too close, worn and weary people experienced something new. Any fear they’d felt of a distant, condescending God, met a Person who reshaped that narrative. How many of us have ever felt afraid that God saw us as disappointments? Too dirty for Him to touch. Too fickle for Him to sit with. When have we been apprehensive to listen to the steady Voice who waits for us to hear with our hearts? “Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls” (Matt. 11:29). Jesus’ presence keeps speaking. The Word cannot be silenced. Sometimes a small glimmer of Him shines through the fractured vessels of people. Always, He’s close to all who seek His presence. Learn from me, He says. We’re free to pull up a chair, to bound into His heart with our careworn self. Here every fear is shared without shame, and every nervous soul is met with the perfect relief of a Shepherd who delights to feast with His own. Some may say to ignore fear. Trudge on. Bear the heavy load. But when we can be guests at a table of grace where fear can be remade, what more could a heart want than to come in earnest to the Shepherd’s gentle love? “Take my yoke upon you…for my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matt. 11:29-30).