Dear reader,
Two weeks ago, I hiked Mount Riddle in the Yarra Ranges. The weather proved to be perfect for my intentions: clouds with threatening rain kept most hikers away, giving me a quiet, isolated hike. Hoping to find clarity, I wanted time to myself to think and pray over the future. I needed to push away the usual cares and distractions of my day that crowd my vision and to look farther than the next hour, day, or week.
The trail that winds back and forth up the mountain is not a challenging one—wide and smooth, covered with gravel, it only proved to be difficult due to the incline and my relatively poor fitness. As I walked, surrounded on both sides by gum trees and ferns, the soft crunch of gravel under my feet, I wrestled with a longing to know the future. I wanted to see clearly ahead.
At several points along the way, the trees were thin enough to look through to the beautiful countryside below—farmlands, a reservoir, even, at one point, the distant Melbourne skyline. But when I reached the top, I was surprised to find the trail ending at the center of the peak, with a large mound of rocks marking the trail’s end. I had hoped to find something else—an unobstructed view of the Yarra Valley, the undulating hills before me in their green winter glory. Instead, I found myself surrounded by more gum trees, towering above me on all sides. The fog had settled on the peak, and even when I looked through the trees, only gray clouds greeted me. After releasing a sigh of relief and resignation, I sat on the mound to rest and enjoy the trees around me.
I have such a longing to map out the days ahead of me, to at least know their shape, even though I know I can’t know their contents. Perhaps it’s not surprising that when something is out of reach, we long for it more intensely. After a year and a half of clouded vision, in which the capriciousness of a virus and the choices of governments have made moving forward like walking in the dark, I long for the clarity of a mountain lookout. I want to see where I am going, to plot my course.
This longing to see into the future, to know what’s coming—is this a good desire? An inherently prideful one? How should we understand and respond to this longing when it burns in our hearts?
C.S. Lewis argues that “If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.” This longing to know the future cannot be satisfied here on earth. But I wonder if it might point us to another world—to an eternity in which our lives will not be pulled back and forth with the tides of events that we could not have foreseen.
I think, in one way, the longing to know the future can be a longing for stability. We want to know what is coming in order to know that everything will be OK. This doesn’t come from the pridefulness of making plans without reference to God, as James condemns in his epistle. Instead, it comes from a longing to rest. We long to rest because we were made to rest—we were made for eternal fellowship with the triune God “who does not change like shifting shadows” (James 1:17). We were made for a time when “There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain” (Revelation 21:4). And so, part of being humans made for this time means that our vision is always scanning the horizon, reaching for the future that is not yet here.
What does this mean, then, for our time now? We long for clarity, but the Lord does not alway give it. As frustrated as we may feel at this withholding, we can receive instead the gift of discipline: the learning that comes from a hope deferred. We need to learn to “live by faith, not by sight,” as Paul encourages us—continuing to cast our eyes forward in hope, not failing to step forward even when we can’t see where we’re going.
Despite our frustrated longings, satisfaction is not confined to the future—if our longings will be satisfied, their satisfaction won’t come primarily in a time or circumstance, but in the God who made us. This means that, because of the finished work of Christ and the ongoing work of the Spirit, even now we have a foretaste of that eternal rest and security.
This is the kind of view I had hoped would reward my hike. A landscape painting by Australian impressionist Arthur Streeton (“The Valley from Kennon’s,” 1925), it shows the way that the Australian landscape captured artists’ imaginations with its vastness, colours, and brilliant sunlight. I love the vastness of the Australian sky—it’s always seemed larger here than it ever did in the northeastern U.S.
I’m deep into C.S. Lewis this month, in preparation for my homeschool co-op and online classes. I’ve skimmed through Surprised by Joy and read Mere Christianity more attentively. I love re-reading books that I read years ago—there’s such an interesting conversation to have with myself about how my response to them has changed, not to mention the new gifts that excellent books give when you return to them. I’m also thoroughly enjoying Michael Ward’s work of literary criticism, Planet Narnia, in which he offers an interpretive key for the Chronicles of Narnia. It’s fascinating and so enjoyable to see the big picture in what Lewis was doing!
The kids and I are reading The Hobbit together, and it’s another rewarding re-read for me. I tend to read stories so quickly the first time, because I’m caught up in the plot and just want to find out what happens! Reading again, and reading aloud, has been so good, especially as I’ve been feeling like Bilbo—caught up in a journey that I’m not quite sure about, with little idea of the road ahead, and little confidence in my own skills and bravery to go on.
From “On Unnecessarily Owning Art”: “art, in particular, which is not necessary for anyone to own, is most understandable in grander houses owned by richer people. It’s expected there, but surprising here. And yet the pen and the brush and the paint and clay and the mandolin and the Word made flesh all tie together so pleasingly. The Creator created all the creators who are creating—and that is all of us in some form, the cake-bakers and the garden-planters too—and then visited the creation in person, to make a lot of things abundantly clear. It is good to number art among the things we love.”
From “Embodiment’s Grace”: “While there are many ways to interpret the markers of “progress” over the last millennium, one fairly steady line stretching east along the x axis is the gradual displacement of bodies. Sure, we still feel a need to sustain our corporeal forms the way one would care for a machine—keeping them fed, giving them the necessary rest and exercise. But those at the steering wheel of our global drive toward economic and technological advancement seem to have assumed that the human body is ancillary to the real goals at hand. The very container for our creatureliness is the latest casualty in Tolkien’s long defeat.”
Lord God Almighty,
shaper and ruler of all creatures,
we pray for your great mercy,
that you guide us towards you,
for we cannot find our way.
And guide us to your will, to the need of our soul,
for we cannot do it ourselves.
And make our mind steadfast in your will
and aware of our soul’s need.
Strengthen us against the temptations of the devil,
and remove from us all lust and every unrighteousness,
and shield us against our foes, seen and unseen.
Teach us to do your will,
that we may inwardly love you before all things with a pure mind.
For you are our maker and our redeemer,
our help, our comfort, our trust, our hope;
praise and glory be to you now and forever.
-Alfred the Great, 9th century
On the road with you,
Laura