Reality and Contentment

(written earlier today, rewritten later today)

Here I am on a set of train tracks whose only use it seems is to provide a rather uncomfortable seat for me as I think and pray and write. A small grouping of pine trees that reminds me of Alabama sits off to my left about 100 yards away. At my back I feel a wind that, if I choose to close my eyes and think hard enough, would make me believe I was back in Fort Worth. But with open eyes there is no doubt about where I am, for I can see in the distance the mountain I climbed yesterday with April and the girls. In the foreground lies terraced land full of rice fields accompanied by the Malagasy men women who tend them. I am in Madagascar.

I begin to ask questions as I discreetly watch the Malagasy people work in their fields. What if that was me? What if I was born here and what if growing rice was my only source of provision? What if I wasn't able to take leisurely bike rides and sit on deserted train tracks and write down my thoughts? Or perhaps, what if I was being observed by some white guy sitting on train tracks and writing in a little book? You would probably ask some of these questions too if you were in my place (see what I did there?).

The truth is, we ask the same types of questions in the States, they're usually just pointed in the opposite direction: What would life be like if I had that person's good fortune? Or what if I had been born into a wealthy family? What if I had that person's house, job, ministry, etc.? What if? What if? What if? See how endless this can be? Oh, what wasteful and deadly fantasies we have!

As I sit here asking these questions, I quickly realize that I shouldn't dwell on them. I couldn't possibly know, or even learn, the answers to such questions. C.S. Lewis communicates this well in his book Prince Caspian as he tells of Lucy's second meeting with Aslan. In Aslan's first encounter with the Pevensie children, Lucy is the only one able to see him, but instead of following him as he wishes, Lucy folds to the pressure of her siblings and follows them. In her second meeting with Aslan, Lucy feels the shame of having not followed Aslan, and she speculates at what might have been if she had.

"You mean," said Lucy rather faintly, "that it would have turned out alright--somehow? But how? Please, Aslan! Am I not to know?"

"To know what would have happened, child?" said Aslan. "No. Nobody is ever told that."

Hypotheticals of the sort mentioned above are devilish, and if entertained, can lead either to coveting and lust (a sinful desire for more than what God in His goodness has provided) or arrogance (partly manifested by a subtle, yet sinful "thankfulness" for one person's superiority over another). Furthermore, it reveals a lack of trust in God's grace and His sovereignty. Why am I American and not Malagasy? Why is the Malagasy man not American? Because God, in His infinite wisdom and goodness, "made from one man every nation of mankind to live on all the face of the earth, having determined allotted periods and the boundaries of their dwelling place" (Acts 17:26). That is why I am American, but it's also why this American now lives in Madagascar.

Each of us must say with the apostle Paul, "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" (Phillipians 4:13). (Notice the reality of Paul's statement: He "can do" all things through Christ.) Paul's reason for making such a bold statement can be traced back to verse 11, where he says, "for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content." Paul stationed himself in realities, not in hypotheticals, and from these realities God taught him contentment, even in the confines of a prison cell. See how it happens? We learn contentment by engaging in the world of reality, not by wondering what would be if we were someone else or somewhere else or doing something else.

Well, it's time to get going; the Antsirabe winds are now pushing in the summer rains on the plateau here in Madagascar. This is where I live, and it's where I'm learning to be content.

--Adam