At thirty, Jesus strode out of the desert and got a jolt of clarity. The Holy Spirit flashed down in the form of a dove. God spoke illuminating words of confirmation. And Jesus immediately found Himself doing exactly what He was supposed to do.
I’d take something more subtle.
The angst of entering my third decade has nothing to do with dissatisfaction or disillusionment. Unlike the mopey protagonists of literary fiction or the sullen heroes of popular fare, I have no desire to live someone else’s life or to grow fangs, sprout wolf hair, or sparkle in the sun. I love my life.
Like other Millennials, I make family time unimpeachable. I grew up with microwaved pasta in front of the TV; my kids get a dinner table and homemade bread. We spend all weekend together without someone rushing off to work, and I probably love VeggieTales as much as my two year old—maybe more.
So, what’s the nagging sense that there’s more?
Before God yanked me out of the mess I called my life, I yearned. The great adventure is stumbling under the weight of a daily cross with a gleam of white in the distance. I know that now. But I remember believing that the yearning should stop after salvation stormed in. It hasn’t.
If anything, my pursuit of the ineffable “it” has only become more intense. When I finally stopped covering my eyes so that I could see Christ, the immensity of a God-filled universe slammed into me. Instead of a mote in the vastness of space, I became a mote with the Creator’s attention. It’s an immense shift, but not one the removes the scale of all things.
I seek Him, and that’s an adventure that never ends.
