Why I (Mostly) Stopped Worrying: Feeling Fulfilled by Eucharistia

“Blessed are they who remember/

that what they now have they once longed for.”

Life began for me in my 30s. That’s when I (mostly) stopped worrying about the future.

Over the past few years, I’ve gotten serious about practicing “eucharistia,” the Greek word for “thanksgiving.” In reviewing Phillipians 4:6-7, my concordance said: “This prayer expresses the grateful acknowledgement of past mercies as distinct from seeking future ones.”

Practicing this grateful acknowledgement of past mercies has turned out to be an art.  My forward motion in my 20s was frenetic. I rarely stopped to consider all that I had already received.  Instead of practicing eucharistia, I worried.

I worried about many things.  After college, I worried an inordinate amount about romance.

I hated dating. I didn’t enjoy trying to impress men by putting on makeup and was turned off when they tried to impress me. Is this all there is? I asked myself at the end of every happy hour as I drained my drink. I spit the ice back in my glass and ignored the bitter taste. 

I was living in Barcelona and understood what Charles Dickens meant when he wrote, “It was both the best of times, it was the worst of times.”  I loved the store fronts on Passeig de Gracia (one of the main avenues in Barcelona), I loved the echoes of my footsteps in vast cathedrals, I loved shopping and listening to music that filled me with energy and made me feel young, and I loved men.  

 I loved a lot – but I lost more.  Barcelona is a city of local Catalans (Catalans are the Spaniards from the region of Catalunya) but also of many transients like I was. I formed transient friendships and transient romantic relationships because it was the only way to avoid being alone.  Some nights, I watched the sunset over the ocean and wondered if I’d ever have anyone stable to share these moments with. 

I stopped wondering when I actively decided to let God fulfill me. I chose, as a conscious act of will the same way David chose to worship as an active will after his son died, to believe that God himself would fulfill every longing of my heart. I chose to believe that if I never met someone stable to watch the sunset with, God would fulfill me in other ways. I told him that I would love and trust him even if I never married. I determined to be thankful for the mercies I’d already received, no matter what.

Laying my desire at the altar and walking away is what allowed God to start his work. Less than two weeks after making this decision, Anthony and I met.

Two years later we got married. 

Three years after that Jacob came.

Last week we celebrated Cub’s birthday and Thanksgiving on the same day. Lights inside copper balls dotted the mantelpiece. We feasted on roasted chicken and mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. Cub beamed when we sang “Happy Birthday” to him. He tried to blow out his candles and spit all over them instead, but couldn’t stop grinning.  

On the way home, a feeling of well-being that I used to experience only rarely left me feeling cozy and loved. We passed trees in front of churches covered in white lights and a firework illuminated the sky, seemingly out of nowhere, over the train tracks. Like God blowing us a kiss from heaven.

I’m human, so of course I have hopes for the future. I’d be lying if I said that I never ask God for more. These supplications include an expanded family, a successful second career as a writer, traveling around the world with my family, etc.

But I have already received so much.  

Since Jacob was born, I have thanked God every day for our family.  While I don’t know what the future holds, I know that snuggling in bed with my family is heaven on earth.  Anthony and I clasp our hands over Jacob, and I’m at peace.  I’m fulfilled in a way I never imagined for myself or even recognized that I wanted 15 years ago walking around Europe. 

In her poem “The River at Wolf,” Jean Valentine wrote, “Blessed are they who remember/that what they now have they once longed for.”

This joy, this contentment, this fulfillment, is my own eucharistia. 

I forget my supplications.  My soul and mouth quiet.  The gratitude overwhelms and stills me. All I can say is thank you.  What I have now is what I once longed for.

What is God asking you to leave at the altar?