The Life I Always Wanted

BY JOE DUKE | PUBLISHED BY MOCKINGBIRD

Sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers.

When you’re a kid, you dream about what life will be like when you’re a grown-up. And your dreams can be untethered from reality. You have freedom from responsibility so you can dream the unbelievable. Kids rule.

I wanted to be a secret agent. They had cool gadgets that helped them save the world from bad guys. Secret agents got to drive awesome cars and play with guns. And they never got killed since they were invincible.

Then, I wanted to be an astronaut. Watching a grainy, black-and-white TV in my bedroom, I saw Neil Armstrong set foot on the moon. July 20, 1969. “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” I found the Sea of Tranquility on a map of the moon hanging on my wall. Growing up in the golden age of space travel, it made perfect sense — this was my destiny.

Later, I considered becoming an attorney-at-law. An honorable profession and prominent on the branches of my family tree. My grandfather was a lawyer. My uncle was a lawyer. And my dad was a lawyer and a District Attorney and then a Superior Court Judge. No one would have blamed me if I had pursued the family business.

But hanging around lawyers, I noticed that the whole business was about conflict and arguments. I didn’t really like conflict with people. So, I decided to go into church work instead. Because — you know — there’s no conflict there.

Becoming a pastor wasn’t something I found to do. It found me. That’s what God wanted me to do. It’s true. And being a pastor seemed like the best investment of my life even if speaking for God seemed a bit daunting. I never looked back. I’ve spent most of my life in ministry. It was the right thing for me to do. Not always easy, but good and richly fulfilling. I’ve had the luxury of being able to say: I was born to do this. Not everyone can say those words.

As a kid, I could imagine what my grown-up life would be like. But it was merely a fuzzy prediction, mostly informed by the culture of Leave It to Beaver and later The Brady Bunch. Maybe I would have a wife one day. And maybe I would be a dad. I would have the responsibility of telling my own little children what to do. That meant I should practice saying things like, “Because I said so,” and “Eat all of it.”

Later in college, I entertained the idea that there was a chance I would be single. By choice. Maybe I could be more effective for God if I was unencumbered by a wife and family. Maybe God was telling me this was His plan for my life. Soon, God would rescind any hint that He wanted me to live a celibate life. God would use three words to change my mind: “Hi, I’m Tricia.” Even to this day, when God speaks to me, His voice sounds a lot like Tricia’s.

When I left home at 18, I couldn’t get out of town fast enough. Out there was a world to discover. George Bailey said it for me in It’s a Wonderful Life, “I’m shakin’ the dust of this crummy little town off my feet and I’m gonna see the world.”

Older now and hopefully wiser, I’m intrigued by stories of the mythical, lone hero. The hero leaves home on a personal quest not really sure of the destination. There’s a strange twist in the plot. After leaving home, and after perils and exploits, the hero eventually returns home but now a different person — a better person. And it turns out, home was the mysterious, unintended destination.

Not even realizing it, the hero had to leave home to find home. Sounds like a riddle, doesn’t it? Or a country song. That’s because home is a metaphor — a metaphor for fulfillment and purpose and life’s richest discoveries and finding your true identity. It’s home you’ve been looking for all along. It’s like a baseball diamond. You start at home plate and touch all the bases. But success means arriving back home, only now from a different angle.

Home is what I’ve always longed for. Sometimes I didn’t even know it. Home. My wife and my sons and their wives and my six grandchildren. Home. My friends, my church, my experiences, my God. Home. A sense of purpose and meaningful contribution in a broken world. Home. Mountain beauty and breezes through evergreens. Morning light as it dances on new-fallen snow. Sunrise splitting ocean and sky. Home. Sights I’ve only imagined, now captured in photographs that faintly record the experiences. Home. Accumulated joys and surprises over many, many years. Home. Deeply satisfying contentment. Home. Assurance from my Savior. Home. I found it.

Yes, pain and sadness and heartache and brokenness and unrealized dreams have also traveled with me. Any expectation of their absence only uncovers my longing for heaven. If any of us thought about it pensively enough, our list of disappointments might be a long one. Laid end-to-end, our hurts and heartaches could stretch for miles.

But there’s also a pain that accompanies getting what you think you want. Youthful desires aren’t all bad, but they can be misguided. What if I had become that secret agent I fantasized about as a child? James Bond, Ethan Hunt, Jason Bourne, and Jack Ryan are busy saving the world but aren’t exactly role models of godliness. I may have fallen in with their lot or worse yet, become like Austin Powers.

And looking to the stars as an astronaut, I certainly would have embodied a kind of glory reserved only for an elite few. But even as I kid, I was throwing up on carnival rides. I’m not sure I had the right stuff for space travel and a splashdown in a turbulent sea.

And, while I had a front row seat in the courtroom of the legal profession, I don’t think being a lawyer would have done my heart good. My inner artist most likely would have withered under the obligation to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. And my argumentative propensity might have intensified. Some things are best left to others.

My childhood fantasies of secret agent, astronaut, and lawyer never came to be. Now looking back at the life I thought I wanted, I guess I’ll side with Garth Brooks, “Sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers.”

It’s likely the question most frequently asked of children is, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Often the assumption beneath the question is that anything is possible. “You can become whatever you want.” Or “If you dream it, you can achieve it.” Or “You’re the master of your own destiny.” Or “The world is your oyster.” Perhaps well-intentioned, those declarations smack of motivational chants and cheers coming from a sales pep rally on the third floor of the convention center. Could it be those dreamy sentiments reinforce a subtle hubris: you’re a tabula rasa and you hold the pen.

I have a confession: I’m not smart enough to plan my life or to write its chapters. A 10-year plan seems ill-advised when you’re just trying to do your job, build into your marriage, serve at church, complete all those household chores, and prevent your children from turning feral. Neck-deep in life’s pressing demands, who can even hope to anticipate all the twists and turns and potholes waiting far down the road out of the line of sight? That would require omniscience.

Good thing God is at work in our lives. Sometimes right out in front where He’s hard to miss. And other times, quiet and behind the scenes, almost hidden. But He’s at work, nonetheless. Only God sees around corners and into the valleys between mountain peaks. Nothing escapes His notice. He’s working good according to His purposes, all the time. He’s even present in the serendipitous. And He’s present in your life just as He is in mine.

I’m not one for epiphanies usually, but I think I’ve had one. So, here goes; here’s my epiphany: My life is the life I always wanted. I didn’t set out to achieve it or even discover it. Truth is, I didn’t even know what I was looking for or what I needed. My life showed up unexpectedly. And it brought with it generous coincidences. Thank you, Jesus.

Recently, I came across the lyrics of a song by John Denver. When I was a teenager, I liked John Denver. I even tried to play his songs on my guitar. He sounded better than I did. His songs were about sunshine, mountains, rain, adventures, family, and life. Some lines from Poems, Prayers and Promises resonate with thoughts about my own good life.

Agreed. A good life. Not because I’ve always lived a good life. I haven’t. A good life because God has been with me even when He seemed distant. A good life because the rich experiences are too numerous to count. A good life because undeserved favor, in spite of myself, has rained down all over my graying head. It’s raining down on all of us. Still. And it’s the life I always wanted.

Published by Mockingbird