For a long time, I've mistakenly believed that contentment is simply the absence of desire.
In other words, to be content is not to want anything too badly. Forget ambition, drive, or an inquisitive thought life. To be content is to be unencumbered by the need for anything else. (Other than God, of course) After all, the most content people on earth ought to be Christians . . . or so I once thought.
Because of this, I always thought there was something inherently wrong with me. If to be content was never to want anything but God, I lived every day of my life for as long as I can remember, decidedly discontent.
As an artist and an INFJ, this meant a double dose of guilt. My angst to create, my perpetual dissatisfaction with my work, and, of course, my “what if?” life mantra didn't exactly fit the mold of what I thought a spiritually mature Christian should be.
How could I want more than Jesus? How could I desire more from my life than what I had been given?
The question haunted me like a stray cat who’s been fed by a stranger. It lingers around in alleyways, and in the shadows, creeping up to the back door and peeking through the window because, that one time, you fed it. It always remembers. And so, exasperated and slightly guilty, you feed it again. The cat begins to guard your door and never lets you pass without letting out a pity-evoking purr of dissatisfaction. After all, you've fed it once and now twice. It was only a matter of time before you’ll do it again.
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I must be the most un-spiritual person in the world. I want a career. I want success. I want a healthy, stable family, a great marriage, a savings account that actually contained savings. I want a way to have it all and to orchestrate it all. But the nagging discontent remains . . . and I was always guilty of feeding it.
I’m not sure when it happened. I want to say it was a gradual realization, but in actuality, the epiphany landed square on my shoulder like some sort of trained bird only a few mornings ago as I was getting ready. This is how I know I can take no credit for its appearance.
It said, “Contentment is not the absence of desire or want, it is simply placing all of those longings into the right hands.”
I dropped my mascara brush in into the sink. I frantically tried to find a scrap of paper to write it all down.
The truth, like an unexpected summer rain, washed over me. It was a gift that I never thought would come. It continued, firmly, but inaudibly,
Stop trying to purge your desire. Wanting things makes us human. Not to want anything (“having everything”) is its own kind of hell because until we step over the precipice of eternity, our very bones will long for a better country. The answer to discontentment isn't to stop wanting things. It is to understand that you are ultimately not in charge of fulfilling those desires. You are not strong enough to hold them on your own. Entrust your unfulfilled desires—your dreams deferred, prayers unanswered, plans shaken, preparations disappointed and relationships unrealized—to the One who is able to carry them. This is the substance and hope of true contentment.
So go ahead. Want things. Take risks. Be vulnerable. Love people without holding back. But realize that the outcome of every desire rests on One Person and one person only. Finding true contentment and lasting peace means that that person is no longer you.
Thank God, because I still want a lot of things. The difference is that now, those desires bring freedom instead of guilt because I can credit both their inception and fulfillment to an infinite and thoroughly capable God . . . a God who creates desires and brings them to pass in His perfect wisdom and timing.
