Variety: Ecclesiastes 3v11

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.   Ecclesiastes 3:11

Last month, I swam, biked, and ran the Copenhagen Ironman.

Yes, I desperately want you to ask me how my summer was so I can not-so-casually drop it into conversation. Yes, I want you to ask, ‘How far is it?’ just so I can see your eyes widen. Yes, it was a high like no other. Yes, I want to constantly talk about it and remind myself that I did do it. And yes, there is still a God-shaped hole in my ego that I am trying to fill.

The day after the race, I felt like the whole thing had never happened. Overnight, Copenhagen returned to its polite bustle – no trace of three thousand competitors’ blood (yes), sweat (litres), or tears (mine included). It was a visual metaphor for the months of training, spending, and intricate diary management that had dominated my year, now just a memory; the roaring crowds that pulled me round that last lap of the run now oblivious, milling tourists.

In the days since, I’ve been aching all over – not just in my body, but in that attention-hungry place the Bible calls the heart. To be seen and celebrated for 11 hours, 22 minutes, and 39 seconds was glorious. I felt fully alive. My heart was full. But then it was over.

Athletes far more accomplished than me have spoken similarly. Perhaps you’ve felt this too – upon handing in that dissertation, giving that performance, or on your wedding day. Our greatest achievements give us a tantalising taste of what our human hearts crave: validation, affirmation, overwhelming love. Yet, as the ancient writer of Ecclesiastes saw so clearly, my heart will not be satisfied until I experience eternity (Ecclesiastes 3:11).

I ache for recognition that doesn’t end when the crowds disperse, because my hunger runs deeper than medals or applause can meet. According to Ecclesiastes, that means my ache is a clue. As CS Lewis put it, ‘If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.’

Whether we find ourselves at a finish line, a deadline, or a washing line, the ache goes with us like lactic acid in the legs, a constant reminder that this pain points beyond itself to the God who waits to meet it.

So until I experience eternity in its fullness, forgive me if I keep finding ways to mention it: I am, in fact, an Ironman.

Tim Yearsley