Content with life. But at the same time, feeling a mounting discontentment. A restlessness. A desire for more.
I’m not one to rush into things. In fact, apart from driving (haha), I’m often painfully cautious. I hate to rush, but I also hate to sit. And I’m beginning to fear that every hour spent in my cushy 9-5 (which PTL I really am thankful for!), I press an hour closer to a life spent in pursuit of the white-picket fence.
But I’ve had the almost white-picket life. How many times have I heard the word perfect used to describe my circumstances? How many times have I heard people gush and tell me just how perfect my life is? Or at least was.
Coming out of college, the only requirement I had for a new church was that it be a place that wouldn’t let my passion for missions die.
But in truth it already had. Even greater than the influence of my external circumstances was the influence of my internal heart. My desire… for me, for solace in anything but God.
Anyway, this isn’t really getting anywhere (rarely do I think in a linear fashion), but I guess I’m just fearful of what I will become. Fearful of “success.” Fearful of wealth. Fearful of contentment.
Trying to find a balance. The way to be content, but at the same time harbor and nourish a holy discontentment with how I choose to live this life.
Dichotomies. Ain’t life chock-full of them?