I have spent my twenties hungry.
And I have spent my twenties disappointed.
I have lived the past decade with a mind that knows I have a brilliant hope for the future.
But I have lived the same decade with a heart that says, “only a man can take away the ache.”
Twenty-nine, I decided, was the year this would all change. On my birthday, I opened my arms and declared that instead of holding on to the dreams that hadn’t come true, I would welcome the unexpected. I prayed, “Show me, Jesus, on the heart level, what it means that you are the Bread of Life.”
I was weary of the longing I had for a human relationship. I was frustrated that the state of my heart contradicted my belief that Jesus Himself was better than any of His gifts. And I was fearful that this longing had crossed the line from desire to idolatry; that maybe it always had.
“Everything is needful that he sends; nothing can be needful that he withholds,” John Newton said. Or in Tim Keller’s paraphrase, “God gives us what we would have asked for if we knew everything that He knows.”
These words are balm at the moment of hearing. For just a second, the camera pans out from my own small story and I see flashes of His glorious work that are usually dimmed by myopic self-centeredness. Not only do I unclench my fists in surrender, but a solid joy is the answer to my prayer: it points me to the stories of His faithfulness, and with a full stomach, I know that He has always been the Bread.
But the mundane so easily erodes the revelation. There is a pang when I enter the church alone, though I know the families will welcome me with open arms. There is an ache when I see women younger than me with smiling children.
My first response to these situations is to scorn myself for my weakness, to endlessly “should”:
“You shouldn’t feel this way.”
“You should be past this.”
“You should be satisfied in Christ.”
But the “shoulding” only pushes me closer to the precipice of despair. The “shoulding” is not working.
A curious thought has taken shape, one that counters all the “shoulds.”
What if this disappointment is actually a blessing?
Charles Spurgeon said, “[Humans] hunt hither and thither [for love] but are bitterly disappointed; for earth holds not an object worthy of all the love of a human heart.” On my darkest days, this truth becomes clear. In the moments of greatest want, I know that no person could heal the deepest, most vulnerable parts of my heart. And though it is painful, this might be the blessing.
What if God were to heal our heavenly ache with human love? Wouldn’t that be the ultimate cruelty—to numb our desire for the real thing with what is only meant to be a faint reflection of it?
For years, I’ve questioned why God hasn’t taken away my longing for a relationship. If Jesus is truly the Bread, then why doesn’t He take away this hunger so that I can do more for Him?
But I don’t think He’s asking me to do more. I think He’s saying, “Hope, now is the time to long, to wake you up to the pulse of heaven’s citizenship inside you. This hunger is part of what it means that I am the Bread of Life. Because I am the Bread, I have prevented any human from completely filling another. Herein lies my kindness.”
There will be more days of longing. There will be more days where I just don’t understand. But I have a hope that will not disappoint (Romans 5:5), and I can trust that with each feeble step forward, I’ll understand a little more that Jesus is the only One who satisfies.
Yes, I have spent my twenties disappointed. But I have spent my twenties blessed.
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