Dear Twenty-Something, Embrace the Ache

On our communal longing to become, belong, and be still

If you asked me to describe my post-grad experience so far, I’d laugh, give you a half-joking-but-mostly-honest look, and tell you, “It’s a wilderness.” I’m a wandering Israelite. I have limited resources, I’m tired of pitching tents, and I don’t quite trust that the manna I’m holding will be enough for today.

There’s this ache.

And I’ve found that it’s not just me. This is a communal ache.

Just last week, a friend called crying. She doesn’t like her job. She longs to be married. But everything is stagnant. So we asked, “Where is God in all that seems motionless?” He must be doing something, but what it is we couldn’t say.

Another friend told me, “I’m not sure if I made the right post-grad decisions. I’m worried I’ve messed up everything.” I wanted to offer reassurance, but that’s hard to do when you feel the exact same way. My faith is flimsy here in this desert place.

These conversations sparked pondering and a desire to search the Scriptures for divine perspective. I’m reminded of Hagar in the wilderness, carrying an ache of her own. God met her there with a powerful revelation. He is the God who sees. Hagar responds, “Truly here I have seen him who looks after me.”

We need a similar revelation. Evidence that God sees the twenty-something, that he’s looking after us in desert places.

So instead of ignoring the ache, wallowing in it, or frantically swatting at it like a gnat, it’s time to examine it. To get curious. To try and put flesh on it through words. In doing so, I think we’ll find that God not only sees the ache; he’s the author of it.

The Ache to Become

Upon graduating college, there’s this vague sense that we’re supposed to “be something.” We did the work. We got the degree, and now we’re supposed to go forth and be successful, to become what we’ve dreamed of becoming. This was an inspirational thought at one time, but now it’s terrifying. Because I’m not all I’ve dreamed of becoming. In fact, I am none of those things.

I went to school desiring to write biblical resources for women. I want to create my own devotionals and Bible study resources. I want to teach women Scripture. But guess what? I’m nowhere near becoming a published author, and I don’t have a teaching platform. Then there’s my more personal ambitions. I desire nothing more than to be a godly wife and mother. I want a home to care for, a husband to pray with, and babies to sing to sleep—and yet, alas. Despite spending four years in ring by spring land, I’m neither of those things either.

Enter the ache.

I have these thoughts that spiral around inside of me until my brain looks like the yard when your dad pulls out his leaf blower: “Am I behind. Oh, I am SO behind. Maybe I’m more than behind. Maybe I’ve failed. Maybe I’m a failure. A failure doesn’t become a Bible teacher. She doesn’t become a wonderful wife and mom. She’s worthless.” Cue distress, panic, wallowing, weeping and gnashing of teeth…

That is until I hear another voice. A much kinder one, I might add—deep and firm, but gentle. “Daughter,” he says, “this is not my will for you.”

I can’t begin to tell you how huge this is, to recognize that God may have desires for us disconnected from—indeed, higher than—our desires for ourselves. We have the freedom to lay down our dreams of becoming and instead ask God, “What would you like me to become?

It gets even better when we realize that he’s already given us the answer. “Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you” (1 Thess 5:16-17).

He doesn’t desire so much that we become something out there beyond our reach, but that we become joyful, prayerful, thankful people right where we are.

Here’s another one: “For those whom he foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son” (Rom 8:29).

We were made to be conformed.

I think about when I was a kid playing hide and seek. I’d cram myself into the most uncomfortable places, conforming my body’s position to my desired hiding spot. (I need you to know I was really good at hide and seek, even though it doesn’t matter now and is irrelevant to this conversation.) The point is, conforming is uncomfortable. That’s why it aches. This pain we feel—it’s a means to an end. It’s purposeful pressure from the merciful hand of God, who is molding us into the likeness of his Son.

The ache can be an invitation to press into Christ, to become like him. There is no better becoming. We were created to look like him, to be glad and grateful reflections of him. Whatever else we happen to become along the way? That’s just detail.

The Ache to Belong

Becoming something doesn’t happen in isolation. We’re relational beings, and we’re meant to pursue Christlikeness next to each other. We don’t only ache to become; we ache to belong.

I told you earlier that I’m tired of pitching tents. I’m unsettled. I keep pulling up my pegs and moving because God hasn’t said “stay” yet. Hence the term wilderness wandering.

I dream about the day I make my home somewhere and actually stay there long enough to feel at home. But more than I long to belong in a place, I long to belong to a people. I want to know deeply and be known deeply. I desire friends who delight in the ordinary, glorious endeavors of community that make life meaningful. To love and be loved for the long haul—few things in life are as precious.

I don’t have that kind of community right now, and I miss it deeply. Maybe you’re feeling the same. But one thing we do have is a Shepherd who calls us his.

One of the last things Jesus declared publicly was, “I am the good shepherd. I know my own and my own know me” ((John 10:14). Jesus knows us, and he invites us to know him. This is one of the simplest, most profound statements in Scripture.

People love to talk about seeking the proverbial greener pasture. But this Bible I’m holding, it tells us we’re already there. Christ leads us in green pastures today: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul” (Ps 23:1-2).

It tells us he has already ushered us into abundance: “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly” (John 10:10). It tells us he loved us enough to die for us: “The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep” (John 10:11).

Life with him—this is abundance. There is no greener pasture, no better place to pitch our tent, no better person to walk next to. Whether or not we believe this is up to us, but (and I’m preaching to myself here) I think we’ll be happier if we do.

The Ache to Be Still

Now maybe you’re thinking, “Okay, but this doesn’t feel like abundance. It feels like chaos. It feels uncertain. It feels exhausting.”

I am with you. We want the spiraling leaf-blower situation in our heads to stop. We want to feel as if we’ve got things figured out. We want to rest. If we could express what we’re longing for in one word, it would be stillness. And we want it to fall on us like dew from heaven.

But here’s the truth—one that I have not found easy to swallow. “Be still” is a command in Scripture. There’s no “stillness” pixie dust. Just obedience.

So how do we go about obeying this command? The second part of the verse is helpful. “Be still and know that I am God.”

Is this enough for us? Could we have a quiet heart if all we knew about the future was that God would remain on his throne? If I’m honest, my answer today is no. The ache is too strong. It’s like a fire detector bleeping in my heart, except it’s not detecting smoke; it’s detecting a lack of trust in the Lord. I’m an Israelite looking at the manna God has placed in my hands and asking, “Are you sure this will do?” Oh, how I need him to change my heart.

I’m beginning to understand that God has revealed to me everything I need to know for today. I have everything needed for life and godliness right here, right now (2 Pet 1:3). Would I like him to reveal where I’m going to live after the summer ends? Sure would! Would I like to know if I’m going to have a family of my own one day? Yes, indeed!

But I don’t. Instead, I know that he has asked me to serve a wonderful women’s ministry with my writing skills, and I know that he is God. This is my manna for today. And so the task before me is, “Be faithful, then be still.” And if you’re in a similar situation, this is your task, too.

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Embracing the Ache

Now, I can already hear a 45-year-old entering the chat with a “Just you wait…” Someone’s going to tell me they still feel the ache at 57, or that it’s gotten stronger as they’ve neared 62. And as much as a young whippersnapper like me doesn’t love being told that life doesn’t all iron out once you hit thirty, it’s a truth I need to hear.

We were always going to be tent dwellers and wilderness wanderers in this life, because we’re not home yet. This ache we’ve been talking about is quite literally as old as Methuselah. It’s the already, not yet tension that characterizes life with God. The Israelites were longing for an earthly promised land, but they were still in the desert. We’re longing for heaven and all things made new, but we’re still here on earth.

We ache to become because we’re meant to look like Jesus, but today we’re wrestling beneath the weight of the curse. We ache to belong because we’re meant to enjoy the physical presence of Christ, but today we cannot see him. And we ache to be still because we’re meant to bask in the glory of who God is for all eternity, but today we see through a glass dimly.

The holier we are, the more I think we’re going to ache. So I guess that means we’re just getting started, my dear twenty-something friends. But take heart, because the same God who saw Hagar in her wilderness sees us in our twenties. May our testimony be like hers: “Truly here I have seen him who looks after me” (Gen 16:13).

We are not alone in this desert. The author of our ache is also the author of our salvation. One day we’ll stand in him complete, and every sorrow, every longing, every pain will be abolished. The ache will have served its purpose, weaning us from this world and preparing us for the glories of eternity. We will be made new, we will belong, and we will be still—forever.