As I ran to catch the bus for school, my mother burst out of the front door behind me, waving the newspaper wildly and shouting, "Look! A full-page spread!" I went back to our porch to see myself—and yet, not myself—with an ethereal smile and flower-decked hair, gazing out of an advertisement in the fashion section of the Chicago Tribune. I tucked the paper among my books and ran, faster now, to catch the bus, musing all the while on my fortune. Not too many years prior to this, I was a most unlikely candidate.

Growing up in a family with a European mother and an American father was the first drawback. I was caught between two different worlds: a European one at home with a Catholic religion and cultural expectations that matched century-old Italian concepts and an American one outside of the home with much more freedom, much less restriction. My parents, on the other hand, were equally at ease in both worlds. My mother was elegant, beautiful, aristocratic; my father was brilliant—an accomplished lawyer and eventually a Kennedy appointee. Our social world was composed of parties, dinners, banquets, and balls. My parents knew and associated with many well-known and well-respected figures in politics, culture, and high society.

The second drawback was that I was painfully shy, emotionally and physically fragile, and dreadfully skinny. Countless jokes, good-natured and otherwise, were made about my appearance, and I was constantly asked whether I ever ate or why I didn't eat more. On my overly sensitive soul, these comments, plus my existence between two worlds, left deep impressions. I felt out of place and was often tongue-tied when speaking. I bore an enormous inferiority complex and desperately longed to fit in and be comfortable somewhere. All the while, I had the feeling that if only I were pretty, if only I weren't shy, if only I were like everyone else, I would be satisfied.

In time, my excessive skinniness became my greatest asset. High cheekbones and sleek lines enabled me to model in fashion shows as well as appear in newspapers in Chicago and in magazines nationally. At first, it was exciting, even exhilarating. But eventually, instead of becoming happier and more self-confident as I had expected, I became increasingly anxious in a world of make-up, high fashion, and flawless skin.

It was while participating in an international designer show that I first experienced the crushing loneliness and unreality of the fashion world. I was often the youngest model in the walk-on shows or photo shoots. At this show, as at so many others, all the other models were older, more experienced, and dazzlingly beautiful. Yet the elegant smiles that graced their faces as they paraded down the runways became hard and menacing when they reached the dressing room doors. Being new and younger, I was regarded with suspicion. Talk was scarce or nonexistent. The only time anyone acknowledged me was when a hat dropped to the floor as I brushed by a rack, and that was only to scream at my clumsiness. I watched another older model gazing at herself in a mirror for over half an hour before going down the runway. I remember wondering if I, too, would turn out to be as diseased with self-worship as she had become. And what was the price of this "fame" to me personally? My shyness and reservation in high school began to be misinterpreted. With my face being plastered all over newspapers and magazines, the distance between my peers and me grew. Because of my success, they deemed me a snob.

Around the same time at a pre-opera banquet with my parents, I shocked and even insulted my mother. Gowned exquisitely, with identical cascading curls, we were sitting together when she turned to me, radiant in her beauty and excitement, and said, "See? This is the training I am giving you for the life you will lead after you are married—." "No!" I interrupted her, "I hate it! I will never live this way!" In my parents' eyes, I was an ungrateful daughter. Who could have ever predicted that the great echoing emptiness that had tormented me from early childhood would still resonate within me this very moment in my late teens?

From that time onward, my search for reality led me deeper into the arts and humanities. There were the innumerable late-night discussions about the meaning of life; the countless pages of literature and philosophies that dared to untangle the web of existence; the art galleries where I would often stop at the portraits of Jesus, trying to "see" who He really was; the idealistic causes and protest marches. The course of my pursuits, however, only led to more darkness and unreality. At some point, I remember reading a poem depicting God's relentless pursuit of me. The words caught me. Late one afternoon, alongside a lake in southeastern Ohio, I cried out, "O God! I can't be what my parents want me to be and I can't be who I want to be! What do You want me to be? What do You want from me?" Somehow, I knew that my answer had to do with God, but not with the religion of my childhood.

A few months later, I found myself desperately ill in a hospital bed. While there, I received a letter from a close friend. She had always been a blatantly irreligious intellectual who had now somehow ended up in California and was writing to me about Jesus Christ and a wonderfully overflowing life. Upon reading her letter, deep within me there was a response. I knew, without understanding how, that one day I would be there in the same place and with the same experience.

Although I still struggled, still fought, and still ran from God for many more months, one day I got off a plane in Los Angeles and was met by the friend who had written me the letter and a group of simple people—ones with whom she would have never associated before. As I spent time with them throughout the following days and weeks, while my hardened exterior remained the same, inwardly I was being touched and softened. I was coming alive and being filled with joy like never before. Every unasked question within my being was being answered as I read the Bible and listened to this group of people "fellowshipping," as they called it, with light and wisdom far greater than that of any late-night, existentialist discussion I had had in the past. Eventually, my admiration of their wisdom and simplicity was slowly replaced by a growing curiosity and deepening affection for the One who was the center of their fellowship, Jesus Christ Himself.

One day, as I read Isaiah 53—a chapter from the Old Testament—something broke loose inside my heart and I wept uncontrollably. I realized I was face-to-face with the most beautiful One in the universe. This passage was the real portrait of the God-man Jesus, the One who had been pursuing me through all those years of turmoil, uncertainty, and unreality. Not those paintings I had gazed upon, nor the thousands of printed pages of philosophy I had read and considered, nor the many "beautiful" people with whom I had associated in the fashion industry could ever compare to the person now touching me through the words of the prophet Isaiah. Through all those years, I had been unknowingly searching for Him, and He had been pursuing me. I was filled with an unspeakable joy and the deepest peace as the words I read burned in my heart and caused my eyes to overflow. Jesus loved me with an eternal love, chose me before the foundation of the world, and came to meet me in all of His irresistible beauty. Who could refuse such a One? With much rejoicing, both His and my pursuit ended, and my new life began.

The author wishes to remain anonymous

If you, too, have a hunger inside that refuses to be filled up with anything you've tried, you need God as your food. To begin a life of eating God, simply open up and speak these words to Him from deep within:

"Lord Jesus, I am empty and hungry. I need You. Thank You for dying on the cross to cleanse me of my sin. Thank You for rising from the dead as the Spirit so that I can eat You. Lord Jesus, I receive You into me right now. From this moment on, fill me with Yourself every day of my life. I love you, Lord Jesus!"