Human beings are creatures of desire. I, too, am no exception.
Yet I often wonder: are these longings truly the offspring of autonomous thought, born free of the shaping hand of our surroundings? I would dearly like to claim that mine are pure, authentic, untouched by external influence—but honesty compels me to admit otherwise.
I feel light-years removed from the best version of myself. That imagined self does not arise in a vacuum; it is a construct, a vision borrowed and pieced together, one I spend considerable energy attempting to imitate. In my mind’s eye, this ideal self is more handsome, more athletic, forever youthful. But beyond appearance, it is the qualities—the wisdom, patience, love, cheerfulness, and unwavering hope—that I aspire to and strive to embody. And it is precisely here that frustration takes root: I am not the man of my imagination, radiant with virtues that seem forever just beyond reach.
Thus, I live within a tension: between the raw, often harsh reality of the present moment and the shimmering image of what might be. Yet I am not alone in this struggle. Others, too, chase after their imagined better selves, and their pursuit spurs me onward, urging me to take one more step each day.
The apostle Paul, in his writings, speaks of the “fruit of the Spirit”: love, joy, peace, patience, long-suffering, goodness, kindness, gentleness, faithfulness, modesty, self-control, and chastity. Each believer envisions how such fruit might ideally ripen in their own life. Some are encouraged to pursue it earnestly; others, sadly, fall into self-deception, claiming it already theirs by virtue of faith, needing only to be “activated.” Were that truly the case, how radiant the world and the church would be.
But why, in truth, should I desire change? Not chiefly for myself—for I have resigned myself to being, in many ways, a pauper—but for those closest to me: my wife, my children and grandchildren, my friends. I may yap away about how vital following Jesus is to me, for He embodies the ideal—an ideal irresistibly compelling and worthy of every effort. Yet if my annoying yapping does not grow a big, loving heart, then silence would serve me better. My longing to be a better husband, father, grandfather, friend, neighbor, and fellow traveller is nourished by external forces: the life of Christ, the examples of men and women around me who seem to carry certain virtues with ease, and the subtle but real pressures and expectations of the communities to which I belong.
And yet, I know how to frame and relativise my ample shortcomings as I do recognise that the image of the “better self” is precisely that—an image, largely an illusion. What remains for me is the present: imperfect, unfinished, yet not without hope.
