For as long as I can remember, I have been drawn to stories, music, and art that evoke longing. When I was a young girl, my father read to me C.S. Lewis’ book “Till We Have Faces.” Though I was too young at the time to fully appreciate the story, the words of Lewis’ character Psyche deeply resonated with me. “The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing—to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from— … .” 

I could not have articulated it then, but a part of me understood the truth tucked within those words: beauty and goodness are to draw us to their source. 

We go to great lengths to avoid longing, and there are plenty of glittering images to help us avoid it. We long for comfort and ease, for belonging, for healing, or to be understood. 

I have spent a decade waiting for children that have never come. Through endless bloodwork, tests, and procedures, we were diagnosed with unexplained infertility. No words can fully capture the experience of continuously cycling through seasons of hope and grief.

We all carry longings. I know people who long for relief from relentless anxiety, the restoration of broken relationships, the return of wayward children to the Lord, and healing from debilitating pain. These are all good things to long for, and it is right to lament the ways sin ravages our world, relationships, and bodies. 

We would do well as God’s people to become more fluent in the language of lament. Yet when it comes to hope, Christians tend to think of hope in terms of our longings being realized. This way of thinking may even extend into how we view the promise of restoration that the Bible holds out to us.

I became aware of this in my own life after an evening spent with others who were walking through infertility, most of whom had lost children along the way. My husband and I have been spared this particular sorrow. As we ended our time together in prayer, there was a common theme of hope spoken aloud by each person: the knowledge that one day they would see their children again. It’s the same comfort I’ve often spoken to others amidst their loss, because it is a marvelous, wonderous promise made true in Christ. Glorious reunions do await these believers. 

But I wept as I drove home because thus far the future glory and restoration that await me will not include embracing children of my own. What I so deeply long for, I may never have. For the first time, the full weight of this washed over me.   

In that grief, the words of Jesus in John 8 came to mind: “I am.” These are the words spoken by the Lord in Exodus 3 as he tells Moses, “I Am Who I Am.” My limited ideas of hope and restoration were upended amidst the awareness of the far greater thing that awaits us: Christ himself as our consolation. He is the one for whom our souls most deeply long, and he is the very promise held out to us in the new heavens and new earth. “Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God” (Revelation 21:3).

We chase after things we think will satisfy our longings: relationships, meaningful work, comfort, and security. Or we pursue things that will dull our senses to them: busyness, alcohol, control, sex. But what if our longings were never intended to be satisfied by anything here on earth, but instead to point us to something, Someone, far greater—to Christ? He is the fulfillment of every longing.  

There’s an account in Luke’s gospel of two people who understood this well: Simeon and Anna. Luke tells us that Simeon, likely advanced in years and part of the faithful remnant of God’s people, was waiting for the consolation of Israel. We’re not told how long he had been waiting. It may have been a lifetime. Anna, a faithful worshiper and widow who appears to have been left with no family, has spent almost a lifetime alone in a time when being a widow was exceedingly difficult. Simeon and Anna are two people well acquainted with longing, and likely with suffering. 

As Jesus is brought to the temple to be presented to the Lord, Simeon and Anna experience longing fulfilled in his presence. As Simeon takes the child Christ in his arms, his wonder overflows into worship. He is so overcome by his encounter with Christ that he says that he can now die in peace. He doesn’t even need to stay around to see all the Messiah would do. His promised presence is enough. 

Similarly, Anna’s encounter with Christ turns her prayer and fasting into joyful thanksgiving. Two lives upended and forever changed simply by encountering the One for whom they longed.  

The consolation to come is available to us now by Christ and his work on our behalf. He is with us in our longings and he is indeed making all things new. We anticipate longing that will be met in eternity: reunions with children, freedom from anxiety, healing of bodies, and the restoration of relationships. They will pale in comparison to the glory of dwelling with the One who is the source of those things. 

May we be a covenant community of people who cling to this truth and live in eager anticipation of the return of Christ who fulfills all longings. 

Catherine Duffin is director of spiritual care at Christ the King Presbyterian Church in Houston, Texas.