Chesterton on Contentment

When I think of contentment, I think of the oft-quoted and at-one-time-stuck-on-my-mirror definition of contentment by Jeremiah Burroughs:

"Christian contentment is that sweet, inward, quiet, gracious frame of spirit, which freely submits to and delights in God's wise and fatherly disposal in every condition.” 

This is excellent. But the perspective of others can be helpful in rounding out what the experience of contentment looks like. Enter one of my favorite authors, G. K. Chesterton. 

I listened to Chesterton's Miscellany of Men essays during some waking night hours over the last few weeks, and dozed off through a number of them that were a bit less than captivating (granted, the slightly dull character of a work of literature is a merit in my selection for night time listening), but while listening to The Contented Man, my mind gave a little thrill of connection. I loved Chesterton's thoughts on this. Here's some of it:

 “Content” ought to mean in English, as it does in French, being pleased; placidly, perhaps, but still positively pleased. Being contented with bread and cheese ought not to mean not caring what you eat. It ought to mean caring for bread and cheese; handling and enjoying the cubic content of the bread and cheese and adding it to your own. Being content with an attic ought not to mean being unable to move from it and resigned to living in it. It ought to mean appreciating what there is to appreciate in such a position; such as the quaint and elvish slope of the ceiling or the sublime aerial view of the opposite chimney-pots. And in this sense contentment is a real and even an active virtue; it is not only affirmative, but creative. The poet in the attic does not forget the attic in poetic musings; he remembers whatever the attic has of poetry; he realises how high, how starry, how cool, how unadorned and simple—in short, how Attic is the attic.
True contentment is a thing as active as agriculture. It is the power of getting out of any situation all that there is in it. It is arduous and it is rare.
The absence of this digestive talent is what makes so cold and incredible the tales of so many people who say they have been “through” things; when it is evident that they have come out on the other side quite unchanged. A man might have gone “through” a plum pudding as a bullet might go through a plum pudding; it depends on the size of the pudding—and the man. But the awful and sacred question is “Has the pudding been through him?” Has he tasted, appreciated, and absorbed the solid pudding, with its three dimensions and its three thousand tastes and smells? Can he offer himself to the eyes of men as one who has cubically conquered and contained a pudding?

Thus the young genius says, “I have lived in my dreary and squalid village before I found success in Paris or Vienna.” The sound philosopher will answer, “You have never lived in your village, or you would not call it dreary and squalid.”   
Thus the Suffragette will say, “I have passed through the paltry duties of pots and pans, the drudgery of the vulgar kitchen; but I have come out to intellectual liberty.” The sound philosopher will answer, “You have never passed through the kitchen, or you never would call it vulgar. Wiser and stronger women than you have really seen a poetry in pots and pans; naturally, because there is a poetry in them.” ...When you have really exhausted an experience you always reverence and love it. 

When I was a child, I had the ability to take no enjoyment from the most delightful experience, simply by a will to be displeased with it. I regret the beastly time I must have given to my family on these occasions. But the day before I heard this essay, I had been to the local muddy-gravel-old-cars-everywhere-mom-and-pop-car-shop to get our car's yearly inspection stickers. It was unseasonably lovely out, and while a trip to a car inspection isn't the most pleasant way to spend a sunny day, trips with a newborn third child have to be a necessity to happen at all, and I resolved that this would be our "fun family outing" for the week. Therefore, I primed the children for the outing by talking about the inspection. Therefore, the children were allowed to get out of the car and tramp about. Therefore, I did not grouse when I was told my insurance was expired and I had to go back home and print out a new card. Therefore, the yummy snack bar came out to divert the children in the car parked in the driveway while I printed out said new card at home. Therefore I reveled in a spot of sunshine while the inspector wrote up my sticker in the damp garage. Therefore, we had an adventure and a somewhat pleasant day, despite the baby wailing throughout most of the experience. Why? Simply because I wanted to be pleased. To have "licked up such living water as there was" in the very common experience. And what Chesterton didn't say is that grace can make a change like this - from a will to be displeased from a will to be pleased. I don't think it's arrogant to recognize change in one's life, to see signs of sanctifying grace, growth in character. To never see any would be to despair.

So I thank God for Chestertonian moments. They bring such joy to life.

The Blue Cup by Joseph DeCamp