When I was a kid, my family stopped at Mammoth Caves on the way home from visiting relatives. One of the most startling things about such a massive network of caves is how easily you could live in the forests above, never realizing they were there.
When we took a tour, one minute, we were standing under a park shelter house. The next, we were passing through a nondescript door set in a hillside, and immediately plunging into an other-worldly place.
Underground with the rock formations lit up, the caves were pretty cool. I wasn’t a big fan of the eerie dripping sounds, and I definitely could have done without the tour guide pointing out subterranean creepy crawlies. But, uncomfortable as I was, I pushed through and enjoyed seeing this part of God’s creation.
We walked for at least half an hour, descending further into the earth. Then, the tour guide had our group stop in a large chamber. She pointed out a hole in the corner and said, “I’ve been on an expedition down there. We haven’t found the end of it yet.”
Then, they switched off the lights. (They did warn us first.)
I’m not sure if you’ve ever been in a situation where you were engulfed in total darkness. It’s a strange sensation. I’ve heard it described as darkness you can feel. Instantly, you lose one of the senses. And there’s no adjusting to it. Our eyes aren’t up to the task.
“It’s a strange sensation. I’ve heard it described as darkness you can feel.”
I stood there wondering what mythical creature was crawling out of that unexplored cavern as we stood, defenseless, in the gloom. The hood of my jacket brushed against my neck, and I slapped it away, thinking a “cave cricket” had landed on me. The cave had become decidedly less cool.
I was ready for the lights to come back on. But my hand wasn’t the one that was on the switch.
Have you ever felt like that spiritually? Like the lights went out, and your vision went dark? One moment, you knew where God was leading you. The next, you’d lost your bearings, and the compass was spinning out of control.
Recently, I came across a passage Larry Crabb wrote in Men of Courage that described uncertain seasons of life and faith as feeling like someone standing in a dark room. He mentioned that the pain of moving around, bumping into things, had taught him the value of standing still and waiting on God.
That rainy afternoon in Kentucky, when the lights were about to go out in the cave, my dad picked up my sister and put her on his shoulders. The only glimmers of light in that thirty seconds of darkness came from my sister’s light-up shoes.
“The pain of moving around, bumping into things, had taught him the value of standing still and waiting on God.”
It wasn’t enough to illuminate the way out of the cave or even that corner of it. But it was just enough to take a step toward my dad. I’m a hesitator by nature, so when the sparks of light vanished as quickly as they’d appeared, I had a choice to make. To take a step in faith or stay.
At some point, we’ll all find ourselves in a cave of sorts. And many well-intentioned people will try to hand us flashlights with dead batteries and maps that lead somewhere—but, likely, not out of the precise cave we find ourselves in. Friend, no matter the cave, pit, or valley, our Heavenly Father is near. And His light is shining. It’ll seldom be lit like an airport runway. But it’ll be enough to bring us one step closer to Him. Not necessarily the exit.
Lately, I’ve been walking through a season that has felt like being stuck in a maze. Just when I thought I was nearing the end, I’d hit a dead end and have to turn back. And it was making me angry.
I kept returning to James 3:17 (NIV), using it as a mirror for my decision-making: “But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure, then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere.”
“But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure, then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere.”
I asked the Holy Spirit to show me the next step to take. Not a step five years from now, just a secure foothold for today. Like Larry Crabb’s metaphor of the dark room, I was tempted to (and have) flailed around in the dark. It’s hard to drown in advice and not reach for a life preserver. But every time I’ve slammed my knee into something, the pain reminds me I can’t see in the dark.
But God can. And I should really be talking to Him about that.
