Con-tent-ment (n.): the state of being content

I'm fairly certain the romanticized version of this dream, the idyllic vision that took root in my heart began with the seeds of those first trips we took as a newly married couple.

Five short months into our marriage we decided to celebrate Tom's birthday at a little cabin in Bastrop State Park. It was the sweetest, tiniest cabin in the bunch with a bed right there in the front room, facing the large stone fireplace. What a treat it was to spend those few days nestled in the cozy arms of that little retreat, lighting the fire against the December chill, and wandering through the wooded trails that surrounded her.

The warmth of that place stirred something within me that has become a forty years' longing.

When we celebrated our first anniversary, Tom secured a place for us at the HEB Laity Lodge Quiet House. To be honest, I was less than thrilled to be setting off an a reflective retreat, meant for nothing more than reading, contemplation, and prayer. Gosh, that sounds awful for me to say, especially now that I see those words in print, but at the time, those were, indeed, my thoughts. I wanted to do something fun, go someplace a little livelier, but alas, to the Quiet House we did go.

All my preconceived notions about the place evaporated the moment I stepped into the doorway. The place exuded a sense of peace and calm that made me realize why so many people visited there. It was a rock cabin meant for no more than two. It was furnished sparely, but comfortably. The walls were limestone, likely hewn from the surrounding area of Leakey, Texas.

There were nooks everywhere, and within those nooks were tucked away shelves full of inspirational reading material. There was a loft that could only be reached by ladder. It was carpeted with a large cushion and had a picture window that looked out upon the surrounding woods. Of all that took my breath away, however, was my favorite feature of all: a large makeshift cross of branches hung over the living room fireplace. It was highlighted by two skylights on either side of the room's peaked ceiling. The sun streamed in and illuminated that cross in all its rugged glory, and it was a sight; I remember it still.

These two places, etched firmly in my mind at the start of our life together have given me a great desire to find a little rock cabin out in the woods somewhere to call my own. I've mentioned to Tom a number of times, probably well more than he'd like to hear, of this desire. Of how I'd sell this place in a heartbeat if I ever found that perfect home of my dreams.

In the forty years we've been married though, that's never happened. It likely never will, so how do I put to rest that longing?

The simple answer is to focus on being thankful for what I have... the myriad and abundant blessings showered down on me by my good and gracious heavenly Father. Here's a little broader response.

The title of today's blog post is: "Contentment: the State of Being Content." Yes, I know you shouldn't define a word by using that same word in its definition, but it's really what I wanted to say. True contentment is a state of being. It's not temporary. It's not transitory. It doesn't waver. It isn't dependent on outside circumstances. True contentment is abiding. It is an artform cultivated through time by experiencing firsthand over days, weeks, months, years, God's faithful provision and protection.

I have often felt content in my circumstances... until something comes along that shakes that feeling. Then I tend to question and to complain. Content in my health, until I get sick. Content in my work, until there is conflict. Content in my relationships, until there is strife. Content in my means, until they take a hit, Content in my home... until I see another.

Thing is... contentment isn't a feeling at all.

It is a state... a state of being that most ardently isn't dependent on outer circumstances, but rather is grounded by an inward conviction that whatever happens to me... good, bad, or otherwise is under God's watchful eye and in His most capable hands.

It's not wrong to hope or to dream, to want a little rock cabin in the woods somewhere. What isn't good is letting those dreams consume us, to take our focus off the eternal and put it where it was never intended to be... in this temporal, this passsing, this grass that withers... these flowers that fade. God knows our hearts. He is aware of our desires, but what interests Him more than that... what has always interested Him more than that is that we find our true, our abiding, our steadfast contentment...

in Him alone.

(St. Paul) "... for I have learned to be content in whatever circumstances I am." - Philippians 4:11