As a deer pants for flowing streams, so pants my soul for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.— Psalm 42:1
You have felt it before. Not grief exactly, and not loneliness — something harder to name. It arrives in the middle of ordinary life, after the promotion or the meal or the evening with friends that was supposed to be enough. A quiet gap. A sense that something is still missing, and you cannot say what. Most of us learn to keep moving before we have to name it.
The psalmist did not keep moving. He sat down and wrote it, and in naming it, he found what it was pointing toward. Not emptiness. Thirst. And thirst, unlike emptiness, has an object. It is the soul’s way of saying: there is something I was made for, and I have not found it yet.
This is where Paul begins in Romans 1. Before he talks about sin or salvation or any of the great doctrines, he makes a quiet, remarkable claim: something that can reveal God is already within us, because God Himself placed it there (Rom. 1:19). The longing is not a malfunction. It is a signal, built in at the beginning. We were made with a capacity for God, which means we were made to feel its absence when it goes unfilled.
We come into the world searching. A newborn in the warmth and safety of a hospital room, fed and dry — and still crying. Not for food. For presence. For the weight of being held. From the very first breath, human beings want something beyond survival. Connection. Presence. Something that holds.
And the wanting grows as we grow. In childhood it is unnamed. In adolescence we try to fill it with belonging. In adulthood we build toward it — through love, through work, through accumulating the life we thought would finally feel like enough. And then one quiet evening it surfaces again. The gap that all the filling left unfilled.
We have all heard some version of this. Someone who built everything they set out to build, and arrived at the top to find the view was not what they expected. I thought when I got here, I would feel different. I thought I would feel complete. Not cheated by life. Confused by themselves. Why isn’t this enough?
The answer, I think, is that it was never supposed to be enough. Not because life is deficient, but because we were built for something life alone cannot give.
Augustine put it in a single sentence, writing to God in the fifth century: “You made us for Yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in You.” He was not speaking as a man who had always known God. He was speaking as a man who had spent years trying everything else first, and noticed, with the precision of a scientist, that the gap did not close.
Here is what I find striking about Romans 1:19. Paul does not say God can be deduced from the longing, as if the ache were a logical argument for His existence. He says what can be known about God is plain to us: made plain, placed there by God Himself. The longing is not a question we invented. It is an answer we were born carrying, to a question we have not yet learned to ask.
A compass does not create north. It points to something that was already there. The ache in us is like that. It did not invent its object. It was calibrated toward something real, something that exists outside us and before us and beyond anything we can manufacture for ourselves.
Jesus said, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God” (Matt. 5:8). It is a strange beatitude if you read it as a reward for moral achievement. But read it as an optical observation and it opens differently. Noise, distraction, the accumulated weight of everything we have used to avoid the gap — a cluttered heart cannot see what is already there. The longing is still present, buried under the layers. But we have stopped being able to hear it.
In April 2026, Artemis II Commander Reid Wiseman returned from the first human mission to the vicinity of the moon in over fifty years. At a press conference days later, someone asked the crew whether they had experienced a shift in consciousness — a sense of something beyond what science could account for.
Wiseman thought for a moment. Then he said: “I’m not really a religious person. But there was just no other avenue for me to explain anything or to experience anything.”
So when the crew arrived on the USS John P. Murtha, he did something he had apparently never done before. He asked to see the ship’s chaplain. A man he had never met walked through the door. And Wiseman saw the small cross on his collar.
He broke down in tears.
He could not explain it. He said as much. “It’s very hard to fully grasp what we just went through.” He was not announcing a conversion. He was reporting something that had happened to him — something that broke through the language of a scientist and found another channel entirely. The ache that the vastness of space had opened in him needed somewhere to go, and it went toward a cross. Because that is what the ache had always been — not a gap in his psychology, but a longing for God that no amount of science or achievement had ever touched. It had been there all along. It just took the far side of the moon to quiet everything else down enough to hear it.
The problem is not that we feel the ache. The problem is what we do with it. We have become very skilled at managing it, filling the gap before it can fully form, keeping busy enough that the quiet never arrives. And when it does arrive, we treat it as a symptom to be resolved rather than a signal to be followed.
The psalmist did something different. He let the ache speak. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God — he did not say this from a place of arrival. He said it from a place of longing, in the middle of a difficult season, with full honesty about the distance he felt. And in naming the thirst, he named the One the thirst was for.
That is the movement this passage invites. Not to fix the ache. Not to manage it. To follow it, to ask where it is pointing, and to be honest about what it has been pointing toward all along.
The restlessness you feel is not a flaw to be corrected or a wound to be healed. It is the most theological thing about you: proof that you were made for more than this world can hold, and that some part of you has always known it.
The deer does not invent the stream. It pants because the stream is real, and because it was made to need it.
If there is a gap that has not closed, through achievement or relationship or any of the things you thought would finally fill it, that gap may be the most honest thing about you. It is your soul remembering what it was made for, and refusing to settle for less.
The question is not whether the ache is real. The question is whether we are willing to follow where it leads.
