To Hunger Again

Sometimes I find myself still missing my mom. It’s been more than 20 years now, since she departed the earth. But echoes of her words and ways crop up unexpected, unguarded moments like today. I was wandering around in an amazing estate sale, where there were so many artistic pieces of furniture and décor—almost all Asian. Mom was a big fan of that style of art. She would have had a field day in that house exploring, touching, and appreciating every jot and tittle. Mom was a collector of beauty, as were these people whose house we were rummaging through.

I remember going to furniture stores with Mom. Not just any kind of utilitarian collections of couches, dressers, coffee tables, etc., but pieces that bespoke the passion of the artist who created them. She was always after something unique and one-of-a-kind. And she had friends in the business who appreciated her passion and with whom she could “negotiate.” I think she would have quite enjoyed estate sales.

She was the same way with clothes. There were many different kinds of blouses and pants in Mom’s closet. And, as I got older, I was often in her closet trying some of them on.

Mom grew up dirt poor, living for a time in the rough areas of Chicago. Her father was a trumpet player, a gambler and womanizer to boot. He and his wife immigrated to America from Russia at the tender age of 15. He soon left his bride with children she couldn’t feed. So—often my mom would have to find her father gambling with his buddies, and beg him for money for bread. Many times Mom would come home from school and find her mother on the stoop of their boarding house, bags packed—evicted once more because the rent wasn’t paid.

So, when Mom married my dad, she worked side-by-side with him to make a good life for us kids. And, in many ways, it was good, at least materially. Mom pretty much vowed she would never be poor like that again. And she never was. But she was always hungry for something more. Some new garment or beautiful piece of furniture, some book or movie she hadn’t read or seen… An emptiness that was never full.

Recently, after the morning service at our church, the worship leader was struggling to communicate her sense that there was still more. Even though the service was over and done, she felt like God had much more for us. But no one seemed interested enough to pursue it in that moment, myself included. I was tired, and the service was good, but it was over. It was time to get lunch and a nap. I did not feel the stirring she was experiencing.

And I wonder as I write this, how much the American church has become like the church at Laodicea, thinking itself in need of nothing, and yet more desperate than we can even imagine. So greatly in need of that eye-salve to see things aright, and the clothes that cover our shameful nakedness and the gold that is real wealth.

My mom was hungry all her days for what she never really found in this life, but I hope she discovered even as she closed her eyes and drew her last breath.

Many of us are sated and full, and half-asleep, like we will be after our Thanksgiving meal on Thursday. We need to ask God to make us hungry again, longing again, willing to follow Him outside the prescribed times and lines, wherever He is calling us to go.

"You say, ‘I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.’ But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked. I counsel you to buy from me gold refined in the fire, so you can become rich; and white clothes to wear, so you can cover your shameful nakedness; and salve to put on your eyes, so you can see." —Revelation 3:17-22

-Sally Klein O'Connor

November 20, 2023