Eden Hunger

All of us can likely recall some positive, transcendent moments in our past where we felt we touched a bit of heaven. One such memory for me was triggered by an article in the L.A. Times my brother e-mailed to me today. It was the story of a piece of land being sold, just north of my favorite surfing spot.

It was 1972. Ventura, California. I was experiencing the leisurely, somewhat irresponsible life of a part-time student, part-time worker and part-time surfer. My friend, Allen Main, was making surfboards for a living. He invited me to live with him in a rickety old efficient apartment in the back of his surf shop. The cost of our monthly rent? $65 -- between us.

I grew my hair out, surfed a lot, and eventually bought a movie camera and began working on surf films. There was that one day with Allen, his brother and a couple other surfer buddies that really stands out. We left Ventura very early in the morning, at dark, driving up to Gaviota -- which is just north of Santa Barbara. While the light of dawn was barely appearing, we began our mile or two long trek along the railroad trestles -- surfboard under one arm, a bag of food and water in the other. Our goal was to surf at this pristine private beach known affectionately to us surf bumbs as "The Ranch." We had read about it in Surfer Magazine and heard tales of brave souls who snuck in The Ranch by foot or motored up the coast in small boats.

Just as the sun was rising, we reached our destination. As we all hooted and howled, waxing our boards on the beach, I looked up and saw my friend Allen Main paddling out. A set of waves was forming in the horizon. He was all alone, ready to catch some of the best waves of his life. And we were all about to join him.

The article my brother sent me described how a portion of this beautiful piece of property was sold -- for $140 million. It's called the Bixby Ranch, which some people called, "the last perfect place in California." One nearby realtor said of this gorgeous chunk of land, "It's where you understand what California was all about before people ruined it."

Another quote: "There's no place like it on this earth," says Santa Barbara County Supervisor Joni Gray. "It's more beautiful than Yosemite or Yellowstone. It's the most beautiful place I've ever been."

Some folks who have had the privilege of seeing, walking along or surfing at this gorgeous spot are likely concerned about the future of this property. Will a developer ruin it?

"Surfing" down memory lane got me to thinking of what I call "Eden Hunger." We all have it, though we're probably not fully conscious of it. We have this longing for that paradise lost. Occasionally, we get a glimpse of it --

* On Christmas Eve when the family is all together

* Being part of a worship service where the singing is heavenly, the preaching is powerful and the fellowship sweet

* Enjoying a tasty meal at one of your favorite restaurants with a dear friend or loved one.

As Max Lucado said in one of his books, the Lord flirts with us a bit -- giving us a taste of paradise and a hunger for more. But we soon learn that those moments are fleeting and that life on earth is far too tainted by the fall to become heaven.

Maybe this is why I read one of my all time favorite books three times: A Severe Mercy by Sheldon VanAuken. He and his beloved wife, Davy, had the "ideal relationship." And yet in time they realized that marriage and human love have its limits. We long for something more. We long for God Himself.

Van Auken's description of this "eden hunger" is one of the best I've read. He tells how we have these transcendent moments, which are almost like wooings from heaven. The Lord is telling us that we get some of the meal here, but these are just just the appetizers. The main course awaits all who accept the great invitation from the King.

I loved "The Ranch" and will always treasure those carefree days as a surf bum. And I love those other treasured moments on earth that He has provided me on this earthly journey. But I'm fully aware that this ain't the Garden of Eden, no matter how life here can be. Not even an untouched shoreline in California.

And the less pressure I put on trying to make this earth my home and my source of joy, the more content and tolerant I tend to become of its imperfection. And the more I long for that perfect heavenly Eden where we'll worship and enjoy Jesus forever. And who knows -- He may even provide us a spot to surf. And it will be... perfect.

Jim

P.S.: What about your "Ranch?" And how have you been touched by heavenly longings?