Imagine this. You receive a note that says, "I have always known your deepest desires and I intend to fill them. Follow the footsteps I have set out for you and your life will be full of purpose and delight and growth, and I will met you at the other end."
So you set out to follow the set of footprints that lead you through a predictable path, first a forest, then a winding road. Nothing outrageous, nothing unpredictable--elementary school, middle school, high school--maybe a few unexpected turns, unforeseeable road blocks, a few narrow detours, but for the most part, the path was set with minimal surprises, at least none that you couldn't navigate by yourself or with the help of loved ones around you. You wander through these years gathering lessons about responsibility and maturity and respect, of challenges in learning to communicate, learning to reason, and finding the balance between following your gut instincts and listening to hard advice from friends or parents that you don't want to hear. All the typical lessons, the basic and foundational experiences you need to enter the "real" world.
Then just up ahead, you realize the familiar forest is ending. There's something new coming, something unfamiliar, something unpredictable. You see signs that say, "Caution: Experts with advanced training ONLY for this terrain." Are you qualified? Are you equipped? Are you committed?
Slowly the trees start to spread out and the familiar thick wood grows sparser and thinner as you travel along. Signs say, "Drought ahead. Conserve water." You check your canteen, half full, and try to imagine what this next season will look like. Who will be there to support you? To suffer with you? Do you know everything you need to know?
The road grows dryer and the dirt turns from soft loose gravel to hard packed red clay, cracked and parched from the drought. You walk and walk and walk, waiting for your feet to ache, waiting for your mouth to turn to cotton, waiting for your heart to lose faith, but the feeling never comes. You think back to the note that set you on this journey and you have hope, for plans that will prosper you, plans for a future and a purpose.
You begin to see signs up ahead that say, "Water. 100 miles." Then "Water. 50 miles." Then, "Water. 25 miles." "10miles." "5miles." "1mile." Then "Water source. Next right." Gratefully, you prepare your canteen. Your heart never gave up, but your feet grew sore and your cracked lips craved more than the last drops of your water. You approach the sign, grateful to have made it with minimal discomfort and considerable hope. You never threw in the towel, never turned back for home, and never sat down discouraged and quit. You did have the preparation. You were equipped. You had just enough of what you needed. You succeeded and made it through the valley.
Then, you notice something interesting. You blink your eyes and look twice, even three times. There must be some mistake. The footprints don't lead to the water, in fact they don't even come close. They take an abrupt turn to the sharp right, as if passing the sign to the water source. The sign must have been seen, for it could not be overlooked from where these footprints stood. Wouldn't the One who had gone before know that water would be needed? He had made the same journey Himself. Why would He pass by something so vital, so satisfying, and so desirable. Did He not promise to grant me my deepest desires?
My heart sank as I saw the next sign ahead. "Fill up. No water for 500 miles." That was twice the distance I had just managed! And I had already rationed my water for the distance to this water, and had nothing left. Now I understood it so clearly. That was not the test. That was the training. The true test still lie ahead--a leap of faith--a journey without the familiar, without the resources, and without a full measure of hope, but a discouraged and wary heart, for this was the true intended test.
In faith, I closed my canteen, licked my cracked lips, and took the first step of faith. An abrupt step, sharp right, into the first true test that all my training was intended for, in full assurance that at the end are plans to prosper me, plans for a hope and a future. A purpose bigger than I could envision, and a journey more wild than I could have anticipated.
Then just up ahead, you realize the familiar forest is ending. There's something new coming, something unfamiliar, something unpredictable. You see signs that say, "Caution: Experts with advanced training ONLY for this terrain." Are you qualified? Are you equipped? Are you committed?
Slowly the trees start to spread out and the familiar thick wood grows sparser and thinner as you travel along. Signs say, "Drought ahead. Conserve water." You check your canteen, half full, and try to imagine what this next season will look like. Who will be there to support you? To suffer with you? Do you know everything you need to know?
The road grows dryer and the dirt turns from soft loose gravel to hard packed red clay, cracked and parched from the drought. You walk and walk and walk, waiting for your feet to ache, waiting for your mouth to turn to cotton, waiting for your heart to lose faith, but the feeling never comes. You think back to the note that set you on this journey and you have hope, for plans that will prosper you, plans for a future and a purpose.
You begin to see signs up ahead that say, "Water. 100 miles." Then "Water. 50 miles." Then, "Water. 25 miles." "10miles." "5miles." "1mile." Then "Water source. Next right." Gratefully, you prepare your canteen. Your heart never gave up, but your feet grew sore and your cracked lips craved more than the last drops of your water. You approach the sign, grateful to have made it with minimal discomfort and considerable hope. You never threw in the towel, never turned back for home, and never sat down discouraged and quit. You did have the preparation. You were equipped. You had just enough of what you needed. You succeeded and made it through the valley.
Then, you notice something interesting. You blink your eyes and look twice, even three times. There must be some mistake. The footprints don't lead to the water, in fact they don't even come close. They take an abrupt turn to the sharp right, as if passing the sign to the water source. The sign must have been seen, for it could not be overlooked from where these footprints stood. Wouldn't the One who had gone before know that water would be needed? He had made the same journey Himself. Why would He pass by something so vital, so satisfying, and so desirable. Did He not promise to grant me my deepest desires?
My heart sank as I saw the next sign ahead. "Fill up. No water for 500 miles." That was twice the distance I had just managed! And I had already rationed my water for the distance to this water, and had nothing left. Now I understood it so clearly. That was not the test. That was the training. The true test still lie ahead--a leap of faith--a journey without the familiar, without the resources, and without a full measure of hope, but a discouraged and wary heart, for this was the true intended test.
In faith, I closed my canteen, licked my cracked lips, and took the first step of faith. An abrupt step, sharp right, into the first true test that all my training was intended for, in full assurance that at the end are plans to prosper me, plans for a hope and a future. A purpose bigger than I could envision, and a journey more wild than I could have anticipated.
The journey of a thousand miles starts with one step. ~Lao Tzu
