Contentment, comfort, and the test of change

An autumnal sunrise over the Endless Mountains.

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I love this view. I’ve actually tried to paint it plenty of times, but I can never quite do it justice.

When you’re painting, unless you’re like the 17th century dutch landscape painters who seemed to be able to capture every detail, creating a piece of art is just as much about what you choose to leave out as it is what you choose to paint.

You have to see the scene before you, determine its focal point, pare it down to its basic elements, and rebuild it with the necessary pieces. That’s how a cloud becomes an impasto brush stroke or leaves become staccato dots on a canvas. That’s also why I’ve struggled with landscape paintings—particularly this view.

Spring sunsets, featuring our dog Silas.

This is what I see when I look off my parent’s back deck—which means I’ve seen it daily for most of my life. I’m so familiar with the curves of the hills, and yet any time the light, colors, or clouds change, it feels brand new.

How do I pick a focal point? How could I leave any detail out? The whole thing is spectacular, and every detail makes up the place I call home.

Getting to wake up to this view again has been a sweet bonus of the past year. I would never have guessed when I last moved away that I’d return to my parents’ home—in fact, I distinctly remember telling people that I never would—but the longer I’m here, the more grateful I am. For more reasons than the landscape, this season of life has been the sweetest yet.

So sweet, in fact, that I’ve found myself hesitant to invite change.

Spot the moon's guest appearance in this hazy summer view.

I was talking to my dad in the kitchen one morning (another bonus of returning to my childhood home), trying to discern which path to take at an unexpected crossroads.

My initial reaction to the potential change was “why would I do that?” I like my life right now; my job, my church, and being with my family. Why would I consider inviting change when I am so very content?

But as I mulled over that question, another emerged: am I content, or am I simply comfortable?

When Paul said in Philippians 4:11 that he had learned the secret of contentment, it was “in every circumstance.”

He continued in verses 12-13: “I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.”

Contentment transfers, comfort does not.

Deciphering the secret

So what was that secret? What was it that allowed him to be content, even in the absolute absence of comfort? After all, Paul wrote that very letter as a prisoner of over two years. And yet, in his letter to the Ephesians during the same imprisonment, Paul would consider himself to be “a prisoner of Christ” rather than a prisoner of Rome.

Paul responded to the revelation of Christ with belief, and it had transformed him. He imitated Jesus’ submission to even the harshest of circumstances out of trust and obedience to the plan of the Father. It was his goal and joy to obey God, and reading through his epistles and the book of Acts shows his total commitment to that end.

Even winter's cool palette is lovely from here.

Paul placed so much faith in the character of God that, as he submitted to God’s will, no negative circumstance could sway his confidence. Being imprisoned, stoned, starved, and shipwrecked—he didn’t see these as failures, but as God-ordained stepping stones towards the end of his sanctification, God’s glory, and the proclamation of the gospel (Eph. 3:1-12, 2 Cor. 11:16-12:10).

Paul was content in every circumstance because his contentment was not tied to circumstance. It was tied to the eternal:

to the unchanging person of Christ, the immutable truth that He will prevail, and the miraculous gift of His invitation to participate.

As I look at the life of Paul, I have to ask myself: where is my joy found? Is it in the temporal, circumstantial things that offer me comfort, or in the eternal pursuit and promised end of God’s glory? Whatever change is on my horizon, my reaction is a test that reveals the source of my contentment.

The view from my parent’s house is beautiful, and so is the life we enjoy together. But as my circumstances shift and change, it shouldn’t matter what is or isn’t included in the picture.

If I approach my life like a painting—if I determine the focal point and pare it down to the most basic pieces—the image that should remain is one of the eternal, victorious Christ before an empty tomb, and the overwhelming joy that He would call my name.

That alone is more than enough.

The fall clouds will always be my favorite.