The Life We Keep Trying to Get To

Discover how to stop striving for the future and embrace the present, receive God’s love, share it with others, and find joy in everyday life.

There is a particular kind of weariness that comes from spending your life trying to get somewhere.

Not because you’re chasing success or recognition. Not because you don’t appreciate what you have. But because you’ve carried something beautiful in your heart for so long, something you believe you were created to express, and you’ve spent years preparing for the day when you can finally live it.

You make sacrifices. You learn. You grow. You heal. You wait.

And somewhere along the way, the present becomes something you have to get through.

You tell yourself that once the finances settle, once the children are older, once the wounds are healed, once the circumstances change, you’ll finally have the freedom to live the life you’ve been preparing for.

But the years keep passing.

And the life you keep trying to get to never quite arrives.

I’ve been wrestling with this for a long time.

And recently, through a conversation with a dear friend, I began to recognize something I hadn’t fully understood.

What if the life I’ve been trying so hard to get to is the very life I’ve been rushing through?

The Little Girl Doing Cartwheels

When I was little, I loved doing cartwheels.

I loved the feeling of my body moving through the air, the exhilaration of learning something new, the simple delight of being alive.

And I wanted someone to see.

Not necessarily because I needed applause, but because when something is wonderful, you want to share it.

Look! Did you see that? Wasn’t that amazing?

I’ve carried that same delight into adulthood.

I love beauty. I love creating things. I love the smell of something delicious baking in the oven, the feel of linen, the colors of a garden, the changing light across a room. I love setting a table, arranging flowers, writing stories, and making ordinary things beautiful.

These aren’t merely activities I enjoy.

They’re my cartwheels.

They’re ways I experience the wonder of being alive.

And just as naturally as I delight in creating something beautiful, I want to share it.

I want someone to taste what I’ve made. To sit at the table. To walk through the garden. To experience the peace and beauty of a place prepared with love.

Not because I need them to validate my delight.

But because delight longs to be shared.

For years I’ve dreamed of creating a place where people could come and encounter that kind of beauty, rest, connection, and love. A place where they might experience something of the God who has met me so personally throughout my life.

And because that dream has required resources and opportunities we haven’t had, I’ve often felt as though a significant part of who I am has been waiting to come alive.

But recently I began to see that something else had been happening, too.

I had become so focused on the life I hoped to create that I was struggling to enter the life unfolding in front of me.

A Dance I Have Never Forgotten

About twenty years ago, I had a dream.

In the dream, a boy I had known in seventh grade came to my house and asked if he could take me on a date.

He was someone I remembered because, as a young girl, he had been the first person I experienced as openly, unashamedly in love with me.

I suggested we go to the movies.

I arrived first and found my seat in the dark theater. The previews had already started when he came in.

He looked down at me, and I had the strangest sensation.

I felt completely known.

Not just the obvious things about me, but the tiniest details. As though he knew every freckle, every hidden place, every part of my story. There was nothing about me that was unfamiliar to him.

And he said, “I can’t get to know you here. Can we go somewhere else?”

I was surprised.

Someone wanted to know me.

So we left the theater and went somewhere people were dancing.

He took my hand and led me onto the dance floor.

And what happened next was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

In the dances I remembered, the man was often preoccupied with himself. Perhaps he was trying to impress me, or concentrating on remembering the steps, or wondering whether he looked like a good dancer.

But this was different.

He wasn’t performing.

He wasn’t distracted.

Every movement seemed attentive to me.

I felt completely known, completely loved, completely cherished.

And as we danced, we drew closer and closer.

There was an intimacy, a oneness, a sense of being so deeply connected that nothing else seemed to matter.

I noticed people gathering around us, drawn toward what they were witnessing.

They wanted to come closer.

It was as though they wanted to experience even a little of the love that filled the dance.

And then, at the end of the song, he said:

“It is finished.”

And he disappeared.

On a table nearby sat a silver rose.

I took it home.

In the dream, I gave the rose to my husband. And suddenly he couldn’t get enough of me.

He wanted to be with me constantly. He came home during lunch breaks. He sought me out. He wanted my attention, my affection, my presence.

And I became frustrated.

I couldn’t get anything done!

I had children to care for. Meals to prepare. A household to manage. Responsibilities that weren’t going away simply because someone wanted to spend time loving me.

So I took the rose back.

And then I heard the Lord ask:

“Do you want to be baptized in My love?”

And I answered:

“No! I won’t get anything done!”

I have laughed about that response many times over the years.

I’ve also returned to the dream again and again, asking God to immerse me in His love.

But recently I began to understand something about that moment that I hadn’t fully seen before.

I had experienced the very thing I wanted most, and I was afraid it would interfere with my life.

Love was getting in the way.

When Love Becomes an Interruption

I have spent much of my life being intentional.

I plan. I prepare. I organize. I create. I pursue understanding. I want to use my time well.

And there’s nothing inherently wrong with any of those things.

But I’ve begun to notice how often I approach the present moment as something standing between me and what needs to happen next.

I go to the grocery store with a list and a schedule. I need to get in, get what I need, and get home.

And then someone wants to talk.

An interruption.

I’m trying to finish school lessons because someone needs a ride, dinner needs to be made, and the afternoon is already disappearing.

And two of my children begin arguing.

Another interruption.

Someone has an emotion they don’t understand. A need that isn’t being met. A conversation that can’t be resolved in five minutes.

And somewhere inside me, a clock begins ticking.

We don’t have time for this.

I hadn’t realized how often I was treating connection as something that needed to fit around the important things.

Until I began watching someone live differently.

A dear friend has walked through extraordinary loss. Relationships fractured. Financial security disappeared. Much of the life he had built fell apart.

And through that painful process, he began learning how to connect—with God, with himself, and with other people.

He began learning to listen.

Not merely to words, but to the emotions and needs underneath them.

I have experienced this personally.

Sometimes I’ll be talking with him, trying to explain something painful or frustrating, and instead of offering a solution, he will gently say something like:

“It sounds like you have a need that isn’t being met. I want to honor that.”

And something in me settles.

I don’t have to explain myself more clearly.

I don’t have to defend my feelings.

I don’t have to solve the problem before I can be understood.

I feel heard.

And suddenly I’m present.

I’ve watched him become increasingly peaceful and available to the people in front of him. He still has ideas, dreams, creative projects, and responsibilities. But they no longer seem to drive every moment.

I asked him how he does that.

How can someone have so many ideas and not feel compelled to pursue every one?

His answer stayed with me.

“Just because something is inside of me doesn’t mean it has to be expressed.”

He wasn’t dismissing his gifts.

He was learning to hold them loosely.

He wanted to be responsive to God rather than driven by the need to accomplish everything he was capable of doing.

And I realized that I was witnessing something I had been longing to understand.

I could see the fruit of love emerging from a life that had been through the fire.

Not a life without suffering or unmet needs.

A life learning to remain connected in the midst of them.

And I saw something of Jesus in that.

What If This Is What Matters?

Jesus had a purpose.

He knew why He had come. He knew where He was going.

And yet He could stop.

In Mark 5, Jesus was on His way to the home of Jairus, whose daughter was dying.

There was urgency. There was a destination. There was something important to accomplish.

And then a woman reached out and touched His garment.

Jesus stopped.

He turned toward her. He listened. He called her daughter.

From the perspective of someone racing toward Jairus’s house, this could have looked like a terrible interruption.

But Jesus saw a person.

And He was present with her.

I’ve been thinking about that.

What if the unexpected conversation isn’t always something standing in the way of what matters?

What if sometimes this is what matters?

The child who needs to be heard.

The person in the grocery store.

The emotion that needs attention.

The conversation that takes longer than expected.

The moment of beauty I nearly overlook because I’m rushing toward the next thing.

This doesn’t mean every interruption requires unlimited time. Jesus also withdrew, rested, and moved on when it was time.

But He didn’t treat people as obstacles to His purpose.

His love was expressed in the way He was present with them.

And I’m beginning to see that presence isn’t the absence of purpose.

It can be one of the most beautiful expressions of purpose.

The Needs Beneath the Striving

One of the things I’ve been learning through nonviolent communication is that our emotions often point toward needs.

We need connection. Understanding. Security. Rest. Freedom. Creativity. Meaning. Contribution.

These are human needs.

And they matter.

For a long time, I’ve struggled with the reality that some of my deepest needs have gone unmet.

I have a tremendous need to create, to express beauty, to share what I’ve been given, and to participate in the flourishing of others.

And there have been seasons when finances and circumstances have severely limited those expressions.

That loss is real.

Learning to live presently doesn’t mean pretending those needs have disappeared.

It doesn’t mean that financial hardship is imaginary, that dreams don’t matter, or that longing for something more is a failure to be content.

But I’m beginning to understand a distinction between a need and the particular way I hope to meet it.

I need creative expression.

A garden, a beautiful home, a story, a meal, a gathering—these are ways that need can find expression.

I need meaningful contribution.

Teaching, writing, encouraging, hospitality, and helping someone recognize who they are—these are ways I experience the joy of contributing.

And I need connection.

Sometimes that need is met not by accomplishing anything, but simply by being heard.

Perhaps one of the reasons the future has held such power over me is that I’ve imagined it as the place where all these needs will finally have room to breathe.

And perhaps one of the reasons the present has felt so difficult is that I’ve been measuring it against everything it cannot yet provide.

But the present isn’t empty simply because it isn’t everything I hoped it would be.

There is still life here.

There are still people here.

There is still beauty here.

There is still love to receive and love to share.

The Joy of Seeing Someone Come Alive

Years ago, I served in an inner healing ministry at our church.

We worked in pairs. One person led the session, while the other listened, prayed, and contributed as needed.

I usually took the second chair.

That was where I felt most at home.

I loved listening. Watching. Paying attention to the person in front of me and to what I sensed God might be revealing about how He saw them.

My friend Barbara, who often led the sessions, once told me that her favorite part of the evening came near the end.

It was when I would sit across from the person, look them in the eyes, and begin speaking what I believed God was showing me about their identity.

Sometimes you could see the moment something landed.

Their expression would change.

Their eyes would brighten.

Something they had struggled to believe about themselves suddenly seemed possible to receive.

Barbara loved watching those moments.

And so did I.

There is almost nothing more beautiful to me than witnessing someone come alive to who they are.

I wasn’t trying to perform.

I wasn’t trying to produce an outcome.

I was listening, receiving, and sharing.

And I was fully alive in that moment.

I recognize now that these are the two joys that have woven themselves through my entire life.

The cartwheels—creating, exploring, experiencing beauty, delighting in being alive.

And the light-bulb moments—sharing what I’ve received and witnessing someone else discover life.

I don’t want to give up either one.

Nor do I believe I need to.

But perhaps I can stop making them into things I must accomplish in order to justify my life.

Perhaps I can let them be expressions of the love I’m already receiving.

Receiving, Remaining, Giving

For years, I’ve carried an image of myself as a reservoir.

A reservoir receives water and makes it available to others.

And I’ve often felt frustrated because I could see so many ways I wanted to give, yet lacked the resources to do so.

How do you feed people when you can’t afford the food?

How do you welcome people into a place you don’t have?

How do you create what you can so clearly imagine when the means aren’t available?

Those are real questions.

But I’ve begun to see another part of the reservoir image.

The reservoir isn’t responsible for manufacturing its own water.

It receives.

And it doesn’t need to force every drop toward a predetermined destination.

It holds what it has received and allows that water to become available.

I keep returning to Jesus’ words in John 15:

“As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Abide in my love.”

And then:

“This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.”

Receive His love.

Remain in His love.

Love one another.

Not three levels to complete.

Not a spiritual achievement system.

A relationship.

A way of living.

And I wonder how often I’ve turned even abiding into another means of reaching a destination.

If I learn to rest well enough, perhaps the breakthrough will come.

If I heal enough, perhaps I’ll finally be ready.

If I surrender correctly, perhaps I can move into the next season.

But that is still striving.

It is still making the present a prerequisite for the future.

What if abiding isn’t primarily a strategy for producing the life I want?

What if abiding is the life?

Not the end of creativity.

Not the abandonment of dreams.

Not the absence of growth.

But the place from which all those things can flow.

Learning to Be Human

Something else has been changing in me.

For much of my spiritual journey, I treated my humanity almost as an inconvenience.

I wanted to live spiritually. I wanted to understand heavenly things. I wanted to know God deeply.

And the needs, emotions, limitations, and complications of being human sometimes felt like things I needed to overcome.

But Jesus became flesh.

He ate. He slept. He wept. He enjoyed meals with friends. He attended a wedding. He welcomed children. He experienced grief and affection and exhaustion.

His humanity wasn’t something standing in the way of His relationship with the Father.

It was the very life in which that relationship was expressed.

And now I’m seeing a parallel.

Just as I have been learning to embrace my humanity rather than escape it, I’m learning to embrace the present rather than get through it.

The past doesn’t have to be completely healed before I can experience love today.

The present doesn’t have to be perfectly arranged before I can enjoy it.

And the future doesn’t have to arrive before I can begin living.

There are still responsibilities. Still difficult emotions. Still unmet needs. Still dreams waiting for room to grow.

But none of those things disqualifies this moment from being a place where God can meet me.

And none of them requires me to postpone love.

The Rose Was Always a Gift

I keep returning to that silver rose.

In the dream, I received something beautiful.

And when love began to demand my attention, I became afraid I wouldn’t accomplish everything I needed to do.

I thought love was getting in the way.

But what if love was never the interruption?

What if love was the very thing I was created to live in?

And what if the things I love to create—the gardens, the meals, the books, the beautiful rooms, the welcoming spaces—are not destinations I must reach before my life can begin?

What if they are cartwheels?

Expressions of delight.

Ways of participating in the goodness of being human.

Ways of sharing what I’ve received.

I still have dreams.

I still want to create beautiful places where people can rest, connect, and encounter God.

I still want to write, teach, welcome, cultivate, and share.

Those desires haven’t disappeared.

But I don’t want to be so consumed with building a place where people can experience love that I overlook the person sitting across from me who needs to experience it now.

I don’t want to be so busy preparing a beautiful table for someday that I miss the beauty of the table we’re gathered around today.

I don’t want to be so focused on the future expression of my life that I treat the present expressions as interruptions.

And I don’t want to turn learning to be present into another task I must master before I can move forward.

I want to learn to live here.

To notice.

To listen.

To feel.

To receive.

To create.

To love.

To be attentive to the needs of the person in front of me, including my own.

To trust that I can remain responsible without having to control every moment.

And to hold the things I dream of creating with open hands, allowing them to unfold without requiring them to carry the weight of making my life complete.

Because I think I’m finally beginning to understand something about that dance.

I wasn’t accomplishing anything.

I wasn’t trying to become anyone.

I wasn’t organizing an encounter for the people watching.

I was simply receiving love.

And the love was overflowing.

People were drawn toward it because they could see something beautiful happening.

I didn’t have to manufacture that beauty.

I was participating in it.

And perhaps that’s the life I’ve been longing for all along.

Not a life without dreams.

Not a life without purpose.

But a life in which purpose no longer drives me past the people and moments where love is waiting to be experienced.

I don’t have to stop doing cartwheels.

I don’t have to stop dreaming of Bramhaven.

I don’t have to stop becoming.

I simply don’t have to finish becoming before I can live.

The present isn’t something I have to get through.

It’s somewhere I get to be.

And love isn’t what happens after everything else is done.

Love is the life itself.

So perhaps today I’ll put down my list for a moment.

Look someone in the eyes.

Notice what is happening inside me.

Make room for a conversation that wasn’t on the schedule.

Enjoy the light coming through the window.

Create something beautiful for no reason other than the joy of creating it.

And remember that I don’t have to reach the end of the journey before I can enjoy the dance.

The rose was always a gift.

And I get to receive it.

In everything you do -eat, play, and love- may it always be seasoned with Joy!