Our longings are made for beauty.
For twelve healing ways to put desire to action, you can download my guide below. I'll explore these ideas more each month.
What we do with longing will shape the course of our lives. It’s essential to consider what we long for—to dig beneath the surface of a wish, and seek to uncover what we truly want. In the words of C.S. Lewis… “We remain conscious of a desire which no natural happiness will satisfy. But is there any reason to suppose that reality offers any satisfaction to it? ‘Nor does the being hungry prove that we have bread.’ But I think it may be urged that this misses the point. A man’s physical hunger does not prove that man will get any bread; he may die of starvation on a raft in the Atlantic. But surely a man’s hunger does prove that he comes of a race which repairs its body by eating and inhabits a world where eatable substances exist. In the same way, though I do not believe (I wish I did) that my desire for Paradise proves that I shall enjoy it, I think it a pretty good indication that such a thing exists and that some men will. A man may love a woman and not win her; but it would be very odd if the phenomenon called “falling in love” occurred in a sexless world. Here, then, is the desire, still wandering and uncertain of its object and still largely unable to see that object in the direction where it really lies.” -C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory and Other Addresses , 33. I long for a world where misunderstandings don’t fog our vision. Or, at least a world where that confusion can be cleared up quickly. Yet, life reminds me of a different reality. Bad memories rise. We ponder pain. We worry. Worry stirs fear. Fear clouds judgment. John’s need for quiet is seen as a threat to Jane. Jane’s need for comfort is seen as a threat to John. All the while, they want whatever lies beyond the disconnect. But what does one do with the “want” in the meantime? What do you do with longing in a life where mistaken meanings can carry on for weeks, or a lifetime? Desire is a fire in the dead of a freezing storm. Without it, the cold will thicken your blood and work to stifle the beat of your heart. But, tend to desire with care, or the fire itself may sweep over you with its flames. To tend to desire is the summons of life, and it is a solemn and glorious call. There is longing which keeps the heart beating, keeps a life warm—and helps to warm the lives of others. We keep a fire going, knowing that what we do with longing becomes the kindling of hope. When we remember what we wait for, the slow, steady tending is worth every weary moment. We hope for the day when the cold will be gone, and fires will never consume what is good. “The sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us” (Rom. 8:18). We live for the hope of redemption to come. Bad memories rise. But fear cannot defeat Love, and Love is here to hold and share. Jesus draws close to touch the leper. Love leans close to touch the scars. Pain can turn to imagine a future where each wounded place we meet is an opportunity to Love. More than all we can imagine, our good God can move us with hope. With an eternal dream before us, we can learn a long patience. We savor the moments when warmth is shared. We make beauty with our hands while the fire burns on. We’ll consider what we long for. For goodness is in reach.
Sometimes I want January to feel completely new. But she doesn’t show up to replace the troubles of yesterday. She doesn’t come with smooth, new roads, and old damage erased. Instead, she shows up with a new years’ worth of morning light—to shine on the same rugged lines of a perfectly bumpy life. January arrives with familiar potholes and construction zones. Life’s potholes can drive me mad, but the madness comes with memories. And the memories are bittersweet. A life with potholes is a life where I get to experience things that are broken, and the quaint mystery of moments when we bear with imperfections. On Friday morning, I opened the door to leave for my walk, and the tranquility of the day’s rhythms gave way to a familiar, repulsive stench. A few times a year, chicken manure from the nearby egg farm is spread across the fields. The smell is vile and I wanted to retreat, but my dog noticed my step outside. He wriggled and bounced, his tongue out with anticipation. He’s not contained by a fence or leash, but “people walks” are his favorite. Somehow, his playful eyes swayed me to believe a walk in these conditions couldn’t be too bad. Many mornings, Saucer and I walk the road to the creek bridge and back. That day, I beat Saucer to the creek bridge, and the fields held my attention. They kept me walking farther. I’ve loved this place since I was a child, when the best parts of the year were the days at Grandpa’s farm. I spent years dreaming about these fields. Now I’ve lived here for almost ten years of my adult life—about as long as the egg farm has been here, chicken manure and all. For nearly ten years, the smell keeps coming around. Yet, for ten years, this stench has never made me feel done with living here. What do I know deep inside? A place is always more than its imperfections. The goodness of this place stays with me even when the stench is here. People are like places. I want to believe that. People are always more than the stench of bad moments. How do I look for the “more?” At Grandpa’s farm, when life is imperfect, my old longings rise up and help me see more. The deep roots of an old dream make the troubles seem smaller. I’m sure this is a small glimpse of a larger truth. Beneath the temporary frustrations and quick-fix wishes of today, the soul is pregnant with good, old longings. Our Maker has set eternity into our hearts (Eccles. 3:11). Deep down inside us, we long for what is good. We long to connect with each other in fruitful ways, and to conduct ourselves in ways that do not make that difficult. Deep down, we long to live in a world where our ears tune in to the good in each other, and our lips speak like our Father, who calls good things into being with His words. Somewhere beneath the billows inside me, this is what I long for. When life is imperfect, old longings can help me see more. While the roots of my dreams are shallow still, I’m loved by a God who knows. He meets me with His own longing heart and tethers my soul to Him. So here is a January with familiar troubles. And longings as old as eternity. January can come as she is.
Seven years ago at the beginning of December, we put a big red bow on the top of our Christmas tree. A few days later, my kindergartener came home from school and looked up at that bow for a while. Then she found some paper and markers and set to work at the table. With her little hands, she earnestly squiggled out her best representation of a star, and colored it yellow before she found the scissors to cut around it. She poked a hole in the top point and strung her star onto a blue pipe cleaner. When finished, Amayah held it out to me and said, “Mommy, you can use it for the tree. We need a star.” So, I removed the red bow from our tree and used the pipe cleaner to tie the star in place. The top of the tree curved in a point, and there hung our paper star. Amayah knew what she needed to see on top of the Christmas tree, and she couldn’t ignore it. The memory of her paper handiwork is a great reminder to me that good gifts are not elusive. I’m directionally challenged. The week after Amayah made her star, I set out for Mount Vernon. Somehow I got turned around and ended up all the way in Sulphur Springs before I realized my mistake. Minutes after I rerouted, my van ran out of gas. At my own fault, I'd become stuck on the road nearly an hour from home. As someone who’s lost my way often, the star of Christmas is beautiful to me. To show the way to Jesus, God put a star in the sky—like an arrow pointing the way. The simple need was to follow. God’s way of giving directions is comforting when you’re not only directionally challenged on the road, but in your heart too. Amayah’s paper offering reminded me that even as we’re given the gift of God in human skin, we’re also loved by a God who never stops lighting the way to find His good Gift. A God who is faithful to light the way is just the kind of care my heart needs. A voice in my head fights to confuse my sense of direction. When I want to give and receive love, memories play scenes of shame. I become a little girl presenting a bunch of dandelions picked from the grass…while my gift is dismissed and tossed away. When shame speaks through my memory, it drives me away from love. Even still, there is ever-present longing tucked away in the echoes of the past. Those tender yearnings point toward a journey—to find the place where I feel safe to let my inner child exhale. Like Amayah offered her star, we all have a child inside with intuitive gifts to share. When a child gives a gift, they stretch out the fragile shoots of their growing love, unhindered by decades of disappointments. A child’s gift can touch your heart and draw you to the days when life felt so young and new—a blank canvas that couldn’t wait to see the beauty it became. Love is the star that is always a learning, growing, testing dare to let the heart be a child one more time. Remember the child you need. And there is One who made Himself into a child-gift in the most complete way. He comes as a baby and offers Himself as a gift to the child in me. He came as a gift wrapped inside a womb, and Joseph’s first thought was to quietly disown the mother who encased him. Through the bloody entry of a woman’s birthing body, Jesus gave the tender gift of Himself. His offering given with wide-open love was met by King Herod’s order of mass slaughter, a hope to put the new child to death. The Child of Christmas gave the most vulnerable gift, becoming a child for the lost child heart. He offered love His whole life long, until He was crushed. He steps into a world of wounded hearts…and he becomes wounded beyond recognition in a world where we know this language. Who doesn’t know the wounding of love? Who never longs to feel whole again? He welcomes the wounds. He stays for the crushing. To the death, He never falters, never ceases to come as a child holding out His gift still. There is nothing like a gift from a child. A gift from a child can warm the coldest part of my heart. And only the touch from a baby’s hand can reach for me with enough tenderness to draw me from my fearful sense of direction toward the light of Love. I need a gift only a child could give. And with Christmas, as always, it’s what I’m given. The sovereign Author of Christmas remembers the child in me. When I’m too discouraged to hold out dandelions or make paper stars, He stoops down to speak a language my heart can hear. Here is a King who becomes a tiny gift. He is determined to light up my soul with childlike purpose. There are good gifts to bring. Jesus delights in gifts of frankincense and myrrh and also the gift of a manger and the lullaby’s of animals. Why does He receive the gifts of those who can give only what He’s provided? Because He is a King who treasures the beauty of a gift from a child. For broken hearts, there are tiny fingers who can touch fallow ground and make room for the tender shoots of love to grow again. Where there is room for the child, the child makes room for love. When we are lost and turned around, He lights the way. Do you long for a gift from a Child? Like a star, this longing too, is His gift. Follow the star. The Lord has come. “When they saw the star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy. And going into the house, they saw the child with Mary his mother, and they fell down and worshiped him. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts...” (Matt. 2:10-11).