A Narrative Hunger
I love my day job in the classroom. It’s such an honor and a total blast to spend time talking about the livable reality of the Gospel with a bunch of 18-year-old college freshmen. It’s sacred space.
I’ve learned a ton from these kids over the last couple of years, in and out of the classroom. They constantly blow my mind with their genuineness and honesty. They are far more engaged and adept than society gives them credit for. ChatGPT tells me the five common characteristics of my students are:
Digitally native – They don’t “use” the internet; they live in it. Social, visual, fast.
Self-aware – High emotional literacy, mental-health language, identity-conscious.
Pragmatic – Less starry-eyed about institutions, money, and careers; deeply realism-forward.
Anxious – Climate, economy, politics, future uncertainty—baseline stress.
Expressive – Big on authenticity, creativity, humor, and personal style (often ironic or absurd).
On the surface, much of that may ring true. And yet, there is so much more to these kids than the best online answer.
It’s taken me a minute, but I’m learning that what drives them isn’t grades, video games, or their parents’ expectations. When I talk with my students, I hear deeper desires than landing in the right major or frat house. Their heart cry has less to do with formals and finals. They crave authenticity. They are absolutely uninterested in the banality of anything less.
My kids are on a search for meaning and purpose in their own story. They long for meaningful connection with those around them and with God. A narrative hunger compels them.
More than anything else, they want to be fully known and fully loved, and they want to know and love others fully, which for them, and you and me, is both exhilarating and slightly terrifying. They are absolutely uninterested in the banality of anything less.
My kids want someone to ask, “How goes it with your soul?” Or to tell them a story that rhymes with God. They want to understand and experience the wonder and majesty of beauty. To learn the unhurried rhythms of grace. They want to live a story that changes the world, or deeper still, a story that changes their own world.
Kinship is how we engage their stories, their narrative hunger, and our own. Moreover, we can only do it with a spacious view of time. In our society of immediacy, there are no quick fixes or shortcuts. Kinship is not a transaction; it’s transformation. Kinship is a pilgrimage that is always rooted in mutuality, lived out over the long haul through suffering and celebration, and the everyday ordinary.
Could a handwritten invitation make that much of a difference?
Would it make a difference if someone wrote you a heartfelt handwritten note?
I think so. Give it a go.
If you are unsure what to write, maybe one of the prompts below might give you an idea:
Share your own experience with narrative hunger.
Describe a present moment of transformation.
Ask a question like, “What’s bringing you life today?” Or, “What’s sucking the life out of you today?”
Affirm, advocate, and bless the one to whom you are writing. A couple of our favorite blessings are “I want you to know you make my life better,” and “I’m praying for the deepest nearness of God you’ve ever known.”
If you need some other ideas or want to talk this through, reach out. We’d love to connect.
