I've always had a strong need of control. I want to make sure the future turns out the way I please. I want to make sure I get what I know I need.
My needs are numerous during this holiday season. First of all, I need to buy a house. Two bedrooms, two baths would be nice. I'm picturing a nice, well-manicured lawn encircling the house, maybe some well-trimmed hedges beneath the windows. It doesn't have to be fancy, but I'm throwing away money on rent. It doesn't help that a friend has just given me all the details of her 15-year mortgage, her spacious deck, and her luscious lawn that wraps around the house, protecting her tanned feet from dirt and possible splinters.
I also need another car. Our newish silver Mazda6 is fine, but the 17-year-old Buick with its raspy engine and crusty roof is just plain embarrassing. My husband doesn't seem to mind it. No, he plops right into the spongy, couch-like front seat and patiently turns the key over and over again while the engine wheezes and sputters. Unfortunately, the car always manages to start and amble on down the road.
Yes, my needs are numerous. I could use some more clothes, a dishwasher, a garbage disposal, a new water softener, another computer. And these are my "small" needs. I also need to finish my degree and make sure my husband clocks in enough hours on his internship. I need to find my husband a great job so we can move.
Ever since I was 12 or 13 I have had needs. My desires back then were as real and strong as the new needs that have replaced them today. Looking back, I am in the small gymnasium behind the country schoolhouse off Cape Ferrelo Road. As was customary for January days on the Oregon Coast, it was raining. Fifteen of us stand grouped in front of two team captains in gym class. The captains tick off names and the usual happens: two students are left standing alone. It is always the same two people: me and Crystal, the two skinniest, most unathletic girls of the bunch. Nick, a tall, lean eighth-grader, eyes us both momentarily. "Crystal," he announces. I sigh and slowly slink toward the other team. "No one needs to say my name," I think dejectedly, "I am last."
As a game of dodgeball begins and balls whiz around me, I can think of only one thing: the Cavanagh Sales. If I can just make it through another month of school, the excitement will begin. In a month my mom, our friend, Grace, and I will cram into a red Ford Probe and drive 15 hours to Los Angeles. We will eventually end up at the Cavanagh Sales—the biggest Arabian horse auction in the Pacific Northwest. And I will find the horse of my dreams.
My reverie suddenly ends as a ball whizzes past me, hitting the wall next to where I am lazily stationed, and narrowly missing my thigh. I am usually the last one out, and this is not on account of my skill. I am not brave enough to run across the gym's concrete floor, grab one of the many plastic balls, and hurl it with all my strength at an opponent. I don't want to risk getting hit myself. So I stay in the shadows behind the screams and screeches, buried in my thoughts: the Cavanagh Sales. To my 12-year-old brain, it seems as if that horse auction will cure all my woes. It is as if the event will somehow put a different perspective on the P.E. games I dislike so much, and I will suddenly become more tolerant of my "not-so-cool" status in our small school.
I didn't understand it then, but as I look back now I realize that my 12-year-old brain actually believed that the Cavanagh Sales would somehow change my world. "I wonder," I ask myself, "if my perspective is really all that different today?" But a new house would be so nice, I think. Especially one with a dishwasher, garbage disposal, and countertops that don't slant and collect water. And I could finally have a decent yard, one that I am proud of. We could have a dining room and replace our "Wal-Mart Special" and the narrow, squeaky chairs, with a long, heavy, smooth oak table. I could get out my white wedding china and have people over. It would be great fun entertaining, and my starved social life would be much improved. Caught again in my reverie, I confirm my suspicions. Although I try to deny it, deep down I really believe that a new house will change my life. Dismayed, I realize how often I wander aimlessly, trying new twists and turns that only lead to dead-ends.
I think of my little son Ethan and all his needs. Yes, he has basic needs without which he would die. Every day my toddler needs to eat, drink, sleep, and be loved. Ethan cannot forget those essential needs, but lately he has been adding other needs to the list. I remember an incident just an hour ago. Ethan toddles toward me, his chunky sausage feet slapping the hard floor. He looks up at me, a sense of urgency in his big brown eyes. His dimpled hands motion wildly toward the baby gate blocking him from the utility room. As I look toward the gate, I can quickly see the reason for his distress. His yellow truck lies on the other side, and although it is clearly visible to him, there is no way his short arms can reach over to retrieve it. As I look into his little upturned face, I can see that at this moment his yellow dump truck with the big black wheels means everything to him. When I hand him the coveted truck, Ethan smiles at me with appreciation. As I watch him proudly toddle away with his truck, I can't help but shake my head. I know his happiness will be short-lived. Ethan confirms my suspicions, when five minutes later, as I am stooped over the kitchen sink scrubbing breakfast dishes, he pulls at my pant legs, crying and rubbing his face on my jeans.
As I scoop up my child, I can't help but think about the temporary nature of our lives and also of the things we think we "need." Although I am an adult, my sense of "needs" isn't really all that different from my toddler's desires. Both Ethan and I are convinced that satisfaction and happiness will come if we can only have what we think we "need" at the present moment. And when we get what we want we are happy for a while. Although my happiness may last longer than Ethan's, it also eventually ends, and I, like him, come crashing down, looking once again for hope, security, and the assurance of my Father's arms.
Life will always let us down, so we can't count on it to make us happy. We need to make Him our glory, and He will give us fulfillment, the kind that doesn't change from day to day. And when the time is right, He will take us from this place and we will never want again.
Stefanie Marshner lives in St. Joseph, Michigan.
