hungry
Early morning and the coffee steams. I wrap my fingers tightly over ceramic, breathing in the morning, stopping hungrily beside a window to gather up the light breaking in the sky, the emerging lines of trees, the faint colors of gold and orange and emerald. I feel desperate for a few moments of quiet waking.
“NO, Daddy. Stop it, Daddy,” Adam says, looking intently at Kevin, holding his hand out in front of him in halt right there posture. I look at my son and see length—length of arms, length of folded leg, length of gaze. Adam looks determined, adamant, firmly set against.
“Oh come on, just one bite,” Kevin says, smirking ever-so-slightly, lifting his own fork to his lips. Kevin’s hair has more silver in it than it used to, but the humor in his eyes always looks the same.
“No. Not…” Adam growls, hunched over his food, poised in assertion. “Stop it eating my eggs,” he says emphatically, eyes sharp. I can tell that Adam feels more frustrated than usual that his mind traps the words he wants to say, that he stumbles over making a verbal point, but he is too determined, too motivated, too needy to give up.
“I’m not eating your eggs,” Kevin retorts. “But I want to. Let me have a bite.”
“Oh come on.” Adam sighs deeply. “NO, Daddy. Daddy, stop it.”
I walk to the table, coffee in one hand, and lean over to whisper in Adam’s ear.
“Stop it asking eating my eggs,” Adam says quickly, flicking his eyes over to Kevin again.
“I don’t want to stop asking. I want a bite,” Kevin says, grinning fully, and I cut my eyes at him, sharing the smile. He shrugs, chuckling. “It’s like I always say,” he says to me, “if you want Adam to talk, ask him for his food.”
I can’t help but nod. It’s true. Adam is very serious about food, especially right now. In fact, I always know when he’s hungry, because he paces back and forth in the kitchen, peeking into my cookware. And it is a very motivating time for conversations. I can usually get him to talk to me about whatever I have simmering, and I make him practice actually telling me that he’s hungry. Say, “I’m hungry, Mom,” I tell him. Say, “When will dinner be ready?” I don’t need him to say the words to know what he’s thinking, but I want him to say them for the sake of the relationship.
It’s a funny thing, that these conversations could be so necessary for Adam and yet so painfully annoying to him. He does not yet fully appreciate—especially over the issue of resolving his hunger—that engaging in relationship with us is even more crucial than consuming every last drop and crumb of his food. He doesn’t yet understand that we actually value his hunger for the way that it motivates him to talk to us. And often in the midst of my hunger, I also miss the primary reason God allows me to feel hungry: to draw me deeper into relationship with him (Deuteronomy 8:3).
In fact, often I become fixated on need and want, allowing hunger to paralyze me into pacing and squinting for signs of that one desperate thing that has become the focus of my longing. And I forget the simple things, like how to turn to God and say, “I’m so hungry.” I forget that my relationship with God and my seeking after Him (But seek first His Kingdom and his righteousness and all these things will be given to you as well, Matthew 6:33) should take priority over the object of my hunger, lest that thing become an idol and cause me to forfeit grace (Jonah 2:8) or, in other words, relinquish my inheritance, my Birthright (Genesis 25:29-32). Patiently, in times of greatest hunger, God draws me deeper into conversation with Him. He asks me to talk to Him about the things over which I feel the greatest desperation. “What is it that you’ve glimpsed, that you’re salivating over?” And, as He has promised, His Spirit even teaches me the words to say—spiritual words about spiritual truths—when I cannot conjure them myself (1 Corinthians 2:13). He draws me closer so that I can see that more important than the need itself is the truth that my hunger will only and always be satisfied by the work of His hands.
So, no wonder God not only satisfies my hunger but then extends His fatherly hand and asks me to surrender the very thing He has poured out on my life in blessing—energy, creativity, resources, beauty, love, generosity, mercy, grace—the wealth of Glory and the fruit of His Spirit. Wasn’t this essentially the exchange between Abraham and God over Isaac? I have given you this precious gift. Do you trust me enough to place it in my hands again, to sacrifice it for my sake?
Finally, Adam relaxes against his chair, focused again on eating, and Kevin’s eyes twinkle. These exchanges between them have become a predictable ritual, and yet they seem new to Adam every time. Just yesterday, Kevin convinced Adam—finally, after much effort—to put one single piece of cereal into Kevin’s extended palm. But almost immediately, Adam changed his mind. “NO. No, Daddy. Give it back.” It makes me smile to think of this now, cradling my coffee mug in hand, noting my own hunger. Often I am similarly uncharitable with the gifts God has given—for He has given every gift (James 1:17). I place my treasures in His hands in surrender and then just as quickly want to snatch them back—No. Wait. I need those for myself, having forgotten that these exchanges between us have become routine; that He continuously fills me and pours me out and multiplies the blessing; dismissing the fact that He has shown Himself both Powerful, Loving, and Faithful in all things.
Early, I stand hungry, gulping in the peace, the quiet newness of the morning, and abruptly, as I surrender to the pace of the day, I am reminded that the relationship itself—with the One who can, will, and does faithfully care for me—must remain the truest focus of both my hunger and my faith-driven trust. I am reminded that the moment I whisper thanks for His abundance towards me, I must resolve to surrender all these gifts back into His hands, trusting Him to refill me again.
In the kitchen, I fill the sink, sliding my hands under the soapy water. I smile broadly over my son as he finishes his breakfast, warmed by another sudden realization, the gentle touch of a grace-filled hand upon my needy soul: If my son–the son I love–should finish all that food and turn to me again in hunger, or still yet, if he should graciously give it all away before his own needs have been met, the certain truth is that I will not rest—could not—until I have filled his plate again. So how much more then will God most certainly meet my needs?
~*~
Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? 10 Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? 11 If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him (Matthew 7: 9-11)!
