When Things Go Wrong

 He's known for being one of the world's most recognizable adventurers - a former military special operations warrior-turned reality tv survivalist who lives life by the principle that the path less trodden is always going to be more interesting, even if it's the harder one. So it was no surprise to me when Bear Grylls stated in an interview recently that, from his perspective, most of us on this planet are "miserable and unfulfilled" and that we could all stand to take a few risks, go for things more, fail a ton, and it will lead to a more meaningful and interesting life. However, it was something else he said that really stuck with me - something that I've been struggling to learn most of my life - and it was simply this: 

"The adventure happens when things begin to go wrong." 

I don't know about you but avoiding catastrophes, staying clear of pain, mitigating complications, and distancing myself from conflict and hardship is kind of my general goal in life. I mean... who really wants or seeks to go after difficulties in most daily situations? Not me, and probably not you either. Yet here is a hardened adventurer, who also espouses a deeply Christian faith, saying that the interesting part begins when complexities and unknowns and disasters come up. That the real adventure starts when everything falls apart and you're forced to improvise, dig deep, change your attitude or perspective, and depend on hope and courage to see you through. 

In watching a recent series Grylls did in the Holy Land, I was struck by how much of that region is surrounded by desert-wilderness. And I was brought back to how often God's Book mentions the role of wilderness seasons in the life of a maturing person. The Psalmist-King was taken from sheep-pastures to palace life, only to find himself on the run in the desert caves for years until such time as he was placed on the throne. The Christ Himself also did His own wilderness time, enduring the temptations of the Enemy and living off very little for 40 brutal days and chilly nights. His earthly cousin John the Baptist made it his whole life to live off the land in such parts, proving himself to be the ultimate adventurer. 

The wilderness life is one I've found myself in often, yet one I've never sought. All my journeys through the heat of day or dark, cool of soul-nights have been unplanned, unwanted, and frankly, not understood. I've asked God more than once for explanations why and wrestled with the questions of how, in all this world, this pain or problem could possibly carry any goodness with it. Maybe you've said the same things out loud, too. I've viewed the wilderness as an inconvenience... because I'm the product of a modern life where everything is about efficiency and comfort. And I've carried that into my spiritual life as well, expecting God to always give me the smoother high road rather than the one that takes me into valleys and canyons of doubt, fear, and hurt. 

I haven't wanted to sleep under the stars, making a bed on the ground with proverbial predators and shivering in the cool of night. I haven't asked to trudge my way across harsh plains as the sun of day beats on my head and my tongue is parched from crying for help. I haven't sought the displacement and the loneliness, the discouragement and the complications, the uprootedness and the heartache. It wasn't in the playbook I'd been reading. But it happened. And more often than I would've liked. Just when I thought I'd never see the valley again, God kept leading me into another... and another... and another. Asking me to keep trusting, keep walking, keep hoping. Yet sometimes, this belief I was being tasked with exercising wasn't always enough to convince me the pain was worth it. The fact that God could use it wasn't always strong enough to move me forward or keep my faith alive. 

However, something began to shift when I stopped expecting comfort and instead, starting looking for the presence of Jesus. When things began to go wrong, rather than immediately assume the worst and ask God for a way out, I would ask Him instead, What are You doing in this, Lord? What am I to look for? Slowly, my focus changed and evolved into a strange anticipation where I would lean into the pain and welcome the wilderness, knowing from past experience that I would, once again, taste Grace in this forsaken place. I would discover new depths of provision as God showed up and made Himself known to me in greater ways than I'd previously seen. And somehow, this took the sting out of the hardship. This removed the angst out of the complication. To get to see God in a fresh way became its own reason to tread through the wilds and see who I would become on the other side. 

So perhaps Grylls is right: when it comes to doing life with God and especially, seasons of great loss or transition or pain, "the adventure happens when things begin to go wrong." When we reach the end of our resources... when the disappointments or betrayals keep stacking up... when we think we can't cry another tear or take another step... God comes on the scene in a surprising way and takes our trembling hand and says, Come with Me - I have something beautiful to show you in this desolate space. Our eyes are opened to new levels of peace that pass comprehension as we follow Him and learn to depend on His faithful guidance. As we make our way through the wilderness, we realize how little we actually need in order to survive. We find our own manna daily given and the tiniest of springs to quench our thirst. We understand what the Savior meant when he said, in a place much like we find ourselves in, "It takes more than bread to stay alive. It takes a steady stream of words from God's mouth" (Matt. 4:4). All the comforts in the world suddenly don't matter because the thing that matters most - Him - is all you have and all you really need. 

Maybe life isn't about dodging every pain that comes along and trying to avoid the wilderness whenever and wherever possible. Maybe life - true life - comes in having walked through the places that threatened to be the end of you and realizing that you were carried all the way. And that old poem that talks about the Master's footprints becomes just a bit more real as you notice the many ways you've been supernaturally sustained and gratitude for the hard times is the song you have to sing on the other side.