Hunger of the Heart

No matter what I eat for dinner I get hungry again around 11:00. One minute I am writing at my desk, the next I am standing in front of the refrigerator. I don’t know how long I’ve been there, but I am getting a nice tan. When I close my eyes I can still see the Miracle Whip.

I’m not sure what I want. Here are some options: ham, fried chicken, and barbequed ribs in aluminum foil. Sandwich stuff. Breakfast. Cold pizza. Ice cream. Nothing knocks me out, but I’ll have something.

I am now in front of the pantry. There is bean dip here; and Fritos. Picante sauce. Keebler. Nabisco. Jalapeno Cheetos. Popcorn. Bananas. Peanut butter. Moon pies. It’s not that I don’t have a lot of choices, but I can’t make up my mind. I will. I always do.

When my hunger alarm goes off at 11:00 I go directly to the kitchen. But if I will slow things down before I get up out of my chair I can locate my hunger. I usually find it a few inches above my stomach. The hunger is in my heart. But I have always responded to all hunger signals by making myself a sandwich.

By late evening I start to feel the deep hunger I have ignored all day. The same hunger I used to drown every night for years with a bottle of Scotch.

I am hungry for honest, faithful relationship. I am hungry for intimacy with God.

I am hungry for what Emily Dickinson calls, “the only Food that lasts.”