Later tonight we’ll be talking to sociologist Lisa Graham McMinn about contentment. It’s got me thinking about a time when Merryn and I were thoroughly discontent.

It was about three years ago, during a particularly hectic year, and we found ourselves wrestling with a variety of complex, life-orienting questions all at once, ranging from my career path (and whether to change it), some new job opportunities (and which one to take), and ideas of moving interstate or even overseas. Will I stay in my job? Should I take one of these other offers? Will we remain in our city? Is now the time to head overseas? How will we afford it? Should my job determine where we live, or Merryn’s? Merryn was questioning her career path too, so the questions were intense and seemed to have attacked all at once.

Each question had ramifications, each decision had its own deadline, each deadline brought its own stress—and so we were getting tired. Overwhelmed by options, we’d stirred up an emotional whirlpool. We needed to stop splashing about, give the water time to settle, and get clarity.

One night as Merryn and I sat in the lounge room, overwhelmed at the multitude of decisions we were facing, we realised something.

We wanted too much.

We were entertaining too many options. We wanted to live by faith, yet have all questions neatly answered. We wanted to serve God wherever he wanted, but have a secure and stable income. We wanted a change of location, yet the stability of cultivated friendships. I sensed a new career direction coming, but I wanted to retain the best parts of the one I already had. Quietly and subtly fear had slipped in too—a fear that missing any of these opportunities might mean missing them forever.

If you’ve experienced something of what I’m talking about you’ll know that all this wanting and striving leads to a debilitating paralysis. A heart pulled in all directions moves nowhere.

Merryn and I were sincerely seeking God’s will for our life as we sat on the lounge that night. His will, however, was relinquishment.

We took our list of desires and started interrogating them. Which were desires and which felt more like callings? Which did we have the energy and resources for, and what relational costs did each have? Which options moved us toward God’s purposes at that moment, and which away?

Our list diminished. The overseas trip was discarded (for the time being), and we realised an interstate move was unwise at the time too. We decided to wait on some dreams to test their longevity. We set a plan for the next eighteen months and promised each other not to entertain new options. (For example, we stopped surfing internet job sites. For the time being we needed to be content where we were, not enticed by yet more possibilities.) A sense of contentment finally came that night, but it took relinquishment.

Jesus told a story about a farmer who went out spreading seed in his farm, and that seed falling onto one of four different types of soil. He was using the story to describe what happens when God’s word (the seed) reaches different types of hearts (the soils). I’ve always been intrigued by the third type of heart. When the word of God (the ‘seed’) falls onto a heart of thorny soil, faith initially sprouts but is soon overwhelmed by (I quote) “life’s worries, riches and pleasures” (Luke 8:14). This parable is so important for us westerners today. So often our mortgages, appliances and toys are choking out any chance of hearing and responding to God.

But as Merryn and I discovered, it’s not just material things that choke contentment, but too many dreams and ambitions. Abundance—whether of material goods or options in life—has its dark side. If you’re feeling discontent at the moment, it may be because you lack something. But it may also be because you have too much.

What might God be calling you let go of?