I Am Hungry

Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost. Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and you will delight in the richest of fare. Give ear and come to me; listen, that you may live.

—Isaiah 55:1–3

It nine pounds, five ounces, my son Jacob came into this world expecting an all-you-can-eat buffet.

From the first cry, he made it clear he was hungry. Starving, in fact. In a nursery filled with sleeping six- and seven-pound baby boys and girls, my chunky monkey looked like a toddler. Or an exploding can of biscuits. Every time I hobbled to the window and asked to see him, the nurses grinned and cast me a nod in deference to my Herculean efforts to deliver the hungry man-child.

When we left the hospital two days later, the nurses didn’t bother to send home any newborn diapers. Jacob had already outgrown them. Instead, they gave us some size one pants and encouraged us to go shopping. Soon and often. All those precious newborn booties and blankets and outfits? Returned and exchanged faster than you could say, “Supersize me!” And every single blessed morning, at the first sound of his stirring, I flew out of bed to feed him before the screaming commenced.

“Give that kid a steak!” someone once remarked.

I considered it.

It’s been nearly nineteen years since my man-baby entered the world. To this day, my six-foot, two-inch son still spends his every waking moment thinking of food. This week he informed me his goal is to ingest between 6,000 and 8,000 calories a day. A. Day.

Heaven help me, we’re now accepting donations.

Breakfast consists of four or five scrambled eggs, toast, yogurt, sausages, and fruit. Four hot dogs—with buns—plus whatever potato chips and various other easy-to-grab snacks make up lunch. Leftover spaghetti and meatballs serve as his snack prior to a steak-and-potato dinner. And in between all those main course meals, he travels a well-carved path to the kitchen to clean me out of whatever I bought at the store the day before.

Relief is finally on the way. In two months’ time, Jacob leaves for the United States Air Force. For the foreseeable future, Uncle Sam is responsible for funding my boy’s eating habits. Brace yourself for a tax increase, my friend. All I know is that the Cushatt family grocery budget is about to drop by at least a third. Thank the Lord in heaven.

I find it fascinating that while our flesh-and-bone bodies require constant sustenance—some of us more than others—God didn’t have to create us to need food. He could’ve created self-sustaining bodies. Or he could’ve made us like the trees and flowers, able to pull up what we need from our feet while standing in the sun.

Alas, from conception, God made us hungry. At first, we need the nourishment of a mother, connected as we are by umbilical cord, fed by the blood and fluid of another until we take our first breath.

As we grow, our fight against hunger gets more complicated. No longer is food readily at our disposal. We must ask for it, cry for it, plead for it. Then, as we age, we must work for it, purchase it, and prepare it. We are ruled by our hunger every single day.

Perhaps our physical hunger isn’t only a chronic problem needing a constant solution. Perhaps our physical hunger is a God-designed hint at a deeper, more serious hunger: a craving of the soul.

I find it’s easier to think of breakfast, lunch, and dinner than to pay attention to my soul’s longing for a spiritual filling. I’m more accustomed to sitting down throughout the day for a meal or a snack than setting aside time to connect with someone I can’t see or touch. I tend to push the deeper hunger aside or satisfy it with lesser foods. A phone call. An hour on social media. Brainless television-watching. Quick fixes, but foolish ones. Substitutions never satisfy.

As a newborn craves a mother’s milk, a soul craves the Father’s food. I feel it when I watch my child struggle and can’t do anything to solve it. I feel the tug of something far bigger than me, a God who wants me to bring my aching heart and child to Him. I feel it when marriage proves to be far more work than reward, when conflict slithers into a conversation and seventeen years of relationship fly out the window. In those lonely moments, I feel Jesus calling me to Him: I can fill your heart, soothe your wounds. Do you trust Me?

How about you? Does your gut ache for something more satisfying than your daily routines and relationships? Do you long for something richer than the feast of your current life?

This isn’t a flaw needing a human fix. It’s a design needing a divine fill.

The Father has promised to fill you with food you can’t fathom, a feast on His presence and promises that will make all your lesser attempts at soul satisfaction seem like fool’s play. Don’t resent the hunger. Slow down enough to recognize it. See your hunger as an invitation to dine. Then seize the moment to find your heart’s deepest satisfaction in Him.

Oh that we would hunger to be filled with the Word of God; for there is no greater armor, no greater strength, no greater assurance that He is with us, and in us, when we go forth in battle equipped and nourished by His instruction and determined to stand firm on His promises.

—BILLY GRAHAM*