Contentment, that slippery fish

Dear Hildegaard

Dear Hildegaard,

There is a current trend called “quiet quitting” where people slowly do less and less work, quietly abandoning the careers they have spent decades building. They are physically present, but emotionally and intellectually on auto-pilot. Then there are those who quite their jobs altogether. These are people who want something different. Something fresh. Something new. Something else. They don’t create any breakroom drama or direct angry tirades at their boss, they just…leave.

Your dad often says that contentment is “one slippery fish,” and it’s because it is hard to hold onto. You haven’t been fishing yet, but when I take you (or more realistically, when Grandpa Rick takes you), you’ll find that once you catch a fish, the real challenge begins.

I was reading this morning about a woman who achieved her dream of being a tenured literature professor. Only, she too, like so many, went on to experience what she referred to as a “mid-career crisis,” where the passions that used to drive her became too familiar. The goals she pushed toward had already been achieved, and now there was only the continued work to be done. Ultimately, her solution to this discontent was to change her perspective.

This will drive you nuts, babe, but so often, the best advice is not changing your situation, but changing your perspective of your situation. It’s often about:

Taking that item out of your Amazon cart.

Deleting the Zillow app from your phone.

Sticking with the hobby you already started.

Sticking with the job you already invested in.

Sticking with the people in your local community.

Sticking with the church you’ve attended for years.

Thanking God for today, even if it’s raining inside your soul.

I don’t say any of this lightly. I was perusing Zillow just last night for a five-bedroom house with an acreage, dreaming of space. So much space. But if I wasn’t tripping over your toys, I would be tripping over something else. You see? There is always something to trip over. If not physically, then metaphorically.

I have a picture here of our home. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The light was coming in so beautifully, I just had to snap a picture. We live in a 3 bedroom, 1.75 bath bungalow with a detached garage and a fireplace that doesn’t act as a real fireplace anymore. It is cozy, and full of warmth, blankets and toys. It has served our every need, keeping us dry and safe, and we have even been able to invite people in for supper and Bible studies. It is a sacred space.

But even with all of that, I find myself thinking: if only we had more room. If only we had more space. If only we had even one more bedroom, or a slightly bigger kitchen. And any time I begin to think in “If onlys….” I am headed down a path that leads only one place: discontentment.

If only I lived by the ocean and could dip my toes in the tide once a day.

If only my family lived next door.

If only I had more time to read.

If only I wasn’t so tired all the time.

All it takes is watching one celebrity interview to realize that having more, or exactly what you want, isn’t the solution. It’s not that you can’t make a change. Sometimes we need something new, just for the fresh breeze of it. Or maybe we need to end a relationship that isn’t healthy, leave a job that is sucking the life out of us, or try a new hobby we saw on YouTube. But just know that new and different isn’t the cure.

Contentment is something we must learn to take with us, wherever we go, and wherever we end up. Sew it into your coat. Slip it into your shoes. Carry it like the fragile, porcelain cup that it is. And even then, there will always be an element of holy discontent for the Christian. You can achieve all your earthly dreams, but in those moments where there is nothing to fill the silence, you will experience an otherworldly homesickness.

This is because we are homesick for heaven; for that garden long ago where perfection lived, but that is now guarded by a flaming sword. The cure for this holy discontent is patience. Endurance. Mercy, and love. He is coming again. Fill your lungs with hope, and your life with thanksgiving.