Spirit, fall fresh on me

I think this might be my dream future:

A cute house, small but airy and inviting, with lots of light and green lawns. Two kids that Phil and I had together, and possibly one or two kids we've adopted and brought into our family. Vegetable gardens, raspberry bushes, maybe a peach tree so that we can preserve peaches and make jam. A special corner of the house where I can sit and write, because I'm working on my next book. Music filling every room, because our kids are learning to play the piano and the violin. Phil coming home from work and giving me a sweet kiss and then all of sitting down to a healthy, summery pasta made with vegetables from our own backyard. 

Sometimes, I feel like this is what I want. And at first glance, it seems okay--the stability, the comfort, the beauty of it all. And (my mind argues) it's not like I'm seeking a big, expensive house or a high-paying job. I don't want those things; my heart doesn't seek after them.

But lately I'm learning that God doesn't compare us to other people. My little vegetable garden could become as much of an idol as my friend's impressive salary or two-car garage.

So I wrote out another scenario--but this time, it wasn't my fairy-tale future. It was my challenging future. The sort of future that might actually give me a purpose, a sense of joy. And I wrote it not in objects and images, but in actions.

Being kind to the people who hurt me or judge me or make me feel foolish. Fostering kids, even if there is no guarantee of adoption, even if that love and beauty comes with a whole mess of complications. Honoring God in the way we love and sacrifice for each other. Tithing to the church. Blessing others financially and giving with a glad heart. Never giving up on my passion for writing, even if there's no obvious return for my labors, even if no one is listening. Being vulnerable and honest about my faith--about how I believe in grace and resurrection, in spiritual warfare, in heaven and hell, in I'm-a-broken-sinful-person-saved-by-grace, in Jesus Christ the only son of God--even when it's not easy or politically correct. Letting God lead us from one day to the next.

I stumbled upon this quote once:

"Comfort sells easier than happiness. Comfort is easy. It requires no effort and no work. Happiness takes effort. It requires being proactive, confronting fears, facing difficult situations, and having unpleasant conversations."

Looking at these two pictures side-by-side has made one thing painfully clear to me:

We really do mistake comfort for happiness.

Maybe some day, Phil and I will have our own house. Maybe we'll have a garden, and I'll slice cucumbers that my kids harvested from the backyard. Obviously, there is a way to do those things in a way that is beautiful and right. But those things won't make me happy. And I'm not just saying that to be corny or moralistic. When I imagine myself in that place--that pretty, wholesome, American dream scenario--there's truly something wrong. Some weird emptiness.

When I'm filled with joy and purpose, it wouldn't feel any more or less beautiful if I was in a pretty four-bedroom house or a shabby little apartment.

When I'm frustrated or confused, those feelings wouldn't be any easier if I was pacing back and forth in my lovely fenced-in backyard instead of walking up and down Paterson Street.

Spirit, come be my joy.