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  Such is the work of the Holy Spirit.

  And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit. (2 Cor. 3:18 ESV)

  The Spirit of God will transform you into a handiwork of heaven and display you in full view. Expect to be scrubbed, sanded, and varnished a time or two or ten. But in the end the result will be worth the discomfort.

  You’ll be grateful.

  In the end so was my mom. Remember the heated discussion my parents had about the stump? Dad won. He placed the stump in our den—but only after he cleaned it up, varnished it, and carved on it “Jack and Thelma” in big letters and the names of their four kids beneath. I can’t speak for my siblings, but I was always proud to see my name on the family tree of a stump puller.

  chapter one

  Trust Your Shepherd

  He restores my soul.

  —PSALM 23:3 NKJV

  Imagine yourself in a jungle. A dense jungle. A dark jungle. Your friends convinced you it was time for a once-in-a-lifetime trip, and here you are. You paid the fare. You crossed the ocean. You hired the guide and joined the group. And you ventured where you had never ventured before—into the thick, strange world of the jungle.

  Sound interesting? Let’s take it a step farther. Imagine that you are in the jungle, lost and alone. You paused to lace your boot, and when you looked up, no one was near. You took a chance and went to the right; now you’re wondering if the others went to the left. (Or did you go left and they go right?)

  Whatever, you are alone. And you have been alone for, well, you don’t know how long it has been. Your watch was attached to your pack, and your pack is on the shoulder of the nice guy from New Jersey who volunteered to hold it while you tied your boots. You didn’t intend for him to walk off with it. But he did. And here you are, stuck in the middle of nowhere.

  You have a problem. First, you were not made for this place. Drop you into the center of avenues and buildings, and you could sniff your way home. But here in sky-blocking foliage? Here in trail-hiding thickets? You are out of your element. You weren’t made for this jungle.

  What’s worse, you aren’t equipped. You have no machete. No knife. No matches. No flares. No food. And now you are trapped—and you haven’t a clue how to get out.

  Sound like fun to you? Me neither. Before moving on let’s pause and ask how you would feel. Given such circumstances, what emotions would surface? With what thoughts would you wrestle?

  Fear? Of course you would.

  Anxiety? To say the least.

  Anger? I could understand that. (You’d like to get your hands on those folks who convinced you to take this trip.)

  But most of all what about hopelessness? No idea where to turn. No hunch what to do. Who could blame you for sitting on a log (better check for snakes first), burying your face in your hands, and thinking, I’ll never get out of here? You have no direction, no equipment, no hope.

  Can you freeze-frame that emotion for a moment? Can you sense for just a second how it feels to be out of your element? Out of solutions? Out of ideas and energy? Can you imagine just for a moment how it feels to be out of hope?

  If you can, you can relate to many people in this world.

  For many people life is—well, life is a jungle. Not a jungle of trees and beasts. Would that it were so simple. Would that our jungles could be cut with a machete or our adversaries trapped in a cage. But our jungles are composed of the thicker thickets of contagious diseases, broken hearts, and empty wallets. Our forests are framed with hospital walls and divorce courts. We don’t hear the screeching of birds or the roaring of lions, but we do hear the complaints of politicians and the demands of bosses. Our predators are our creditors, and the brush that surrounds us is the uncertainty that terrifies us.

  It’s a jungle out there.

  And for some, even for many, hope is in short supply. Hopelessness is an odd bag. Unlike the others it isn’t full. It is empty, and its emptiness creates the burden. Unzip the top and examine all the pockets. Turn it upside down and shake it hard. The bag of hopelessness is painfully empty.

  Not a very pretty picture, is it? Let’s see if we can brighten it up. We’ve imagined the emotions of being lost. Do you think we can do the same with being rescued? What would it take to restore your hope? What would you need to reenergize your journey?

  Though the answers are abundant, three come quickly to mind.

  The first would be a person. Not just any person. You don’t need someone equally confused. You need someone who knows the way out. Someone you can trust.

  And from him you need some vision. You need someone to lift your spirits. You need someone to look you in the face and say, “This isn’t the end. Don’t give up. You can begin again. There is a better place than this. And I’ll lead you there.”

  And perhaps most important you need direction. If you have only a person but no renewed vision, all you have is company. If he has a vision but no direction, you have a dreamer for company. But if you have a person with direction—who can take you from this place to the right place—ah, then you have one who can restore your hope.

  Or, to use David’s words, “He restores my soul” (Ps. 23:3 NKJV).

  Our Shepherd majors in restoring hope to the soul. Whether you are a lamb lost on a craggy ledge or a city slicker alone in a deep jungle, everything changes when your rescuer appears.

  Your loneliness diminishes because you have fellowship.

  Your despair decreases because you have vision.

  Your confusion begins to lift because you have direction.

  Please note: you haven’t left the jungle. The trees still eclipse the sky, and the thorns still cut the skin. Animals lurk and rodents scurry. The jungle is still a jungle. It hasn’t changed, but you have. You have changed because your hope has been restored. And you have hope because you have met someone who can lead you out.

  Your Shepherd knows that you were not made for this place. He knows you are not equipped for this place. So he has come to guide you out.

  He is the perfect one to do so.

  He has the right vision. He reminds you that “you are like foreigners and strangers in this world” (1 Peter 2:11 NCV). And he urges you to lift your eyes from the jungle around you to see the heaven above you. “Don’t shuffle along, eyes to the ground, absorbed with the things right in front of you. Look up, and be alert to what is going on around Christ. . . . See things from his perspective” (Col. 3:2 THE MESSAGE).

  David said it this way: “I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth. He will not let your foot slip—he who watches over you will not slumber. . . . The LORD watches over you . . . the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night. The LORD will keep you from all harm—he will watch over your life” (Ps. 121:1–3, 5–7).

  God, your rescuer, has the right vision. He also has the right direction. He made the boldest claim in the history of humanity when he declared, “I am the way” (John 14:6). People wondered if the claim was accurate. He answered their questions by cutting a path through the underbrush of sin and death . . . and escaping alive. He’s the only One who ever did. And he is the only One who can help you and me do the same.

  He has the right vision: he has seen the homeland. He has the right directions: he has cut the path. But most of all he is the right person, because he is our God. Who knows the jungle better than the One who made it? And who knows the pitfalls of the path better than the One who has walked it?

  The story is told of a man on an African safari deep in the jungle. The guide ahead of him had a machete and was whacking away the tall weeds and thick underbrush. The traveler, weary and hot, asked in frustration, “Where are we? Do you know where you are taking me? Where is the path?” The seasoned guide stopped and looked back at the man and replied, “I am the path.”
r />   We ask the same questions, don’t we? We ask God, “Where are you taking me? Where is the path?” And he, like the guide, doesn’t tell us. Oh, he may give us a hint or two, but that’s all. If he did, would we understand? Would we comprehend our location? No, like the traveler, we are unacquainted with this jungle. So rather than give us an answer, Jesus gives us a far greater gift. He gives us himself.

  Does he remove the jungle? No, the vegetation is still thick.

  Does he purge the predators? No, danger still lurks.

  Jesus doesn’t give hope by changing the jungle; he restores our hope by giving us himself. And he has promised to stay until the very end. “I am with you always, to the very end of the age” (Matt. 28:20).

  We need that reminder. We all need that reminder. For all of us need hope.

  Perhaps you don’t need it right now. Your jungle has become a meadow and your journey a delight. If such is the case, congratulations. But remember, we do not know what tomorrow holds. We do not know where this road will lead. You may be one turn from a cemetery, from a virus, from an empty house. You may be a bend in the road from a jungle.

  And though you don’t need your hope restored today, you may tomorrow. And you need to know to whom to turn.

  Or perhaps you do need hope today. You know you were not made for this place. You know you are not equipped. You want someone to lead you out.

  If so, put your trust in the Shepherd. He knows the path that leads to your new beginning. And he’s just waiting for you to join him.

  chapter two

  Give Your Fears to Your Father

  I will fear no evil.

  —PSALM 23:4 NKJV

  It’s the expression of Jesus that puzzles us. We’ve never before seen his face like this.

  Jesus smiling, yes.

  Jesus weeping, absolutely.

  Jesus stern, even that.

  But Jesus anguished? Cheeks streaked with tears? Face flooded in sweat? Rivulets of blood dripping from his chin? You remember the night.

  Jesus left the city and went to the Mount of Olives, as he often did, and his followers went with him. When he reached the place, he said to them, “Pray for strength against temptation.”

  Then Jesus went about a stone’s throw away from them. He kneeled down and prayed, “Father, if you are willing, take away this cup of suffering. But do what you want, not what I want.” Then an angel from heaven appeared to him to strengthen him. Being full of pain, Jesus prayed even harder. His sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground. (Luke 22:39–44 NCV)

  The Bible I carried as a child contained a picture of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane. His face was soft, hands calmly folded as he knelt beside a rock and prayed. Jesus seemed peaceful. One reading of the Gospels disrupts that image. Mark says, “Jesus fell to the ground” (Mark 14:35 NCV). Matthew tells us Jesus was “very sad and troubled . . . to the point of death” (Matt. 26:37–38 NCV). According to Luke, Jesus was “full of pain” (Luke 22:44 NCV).

  Equipped with those passages, how would you paint this scene? Jesus flat on the ground? Face in the dirt? Extended hands gripping grass? Body rising and falling with sobs? Face as twisted as the olive trees that surround him?

  What do we do with this image of Jesus?

  Simple. We turn to it when we look the same. We read it when we feel the same; we read it when we feel afraid. For isn’t it likely that fear was one of the emotions Jesus felt? One might even argue that fear was the primary emotion. He saw something in the future so fierce, so foreboding that he begged for a change of plans. “Father, if you are willing, take away this cup of suffering” (Luke 22:42 NCV).

  What causes you to pray the same prayer? Leaving your house? Being in a crowd? Walking into a hospital? Boarding an airplane? Speaking publicly? Starting a new job? Taking a spouse? Driving on a highway? The source of your fear may seem small to others. But it freezes your feet, makes your heart pound, and brings blood to your face. That’s what happened to Jesus.

  He was so afraid that he bled. Doctors describe this condition as hematidrosis. Severe anxiety causes the release of chemicals that break down the capillaries in the sweat glands. When this occurs, sweat comes out tinged with blood.

  Jesus was more than anxious; he was afraid. Fear is worry’s big brother. If worry is a burlap bag, fear is a trunk of concrete. It wouldn’t budge.

  How remarkable that Jesus felt such fear. But how kind that he told us about it. We tend to do the opposite. Gloss over our fears. Cover them up. Keep our sweaty palms in our pockets, our nausea and dry mouths a secret. Not so with Jesus. We see no mask of strength. But we do hear a request for strength.

  “Father, if you are willing, take away this cup of suffering.” The first one to hear his fear is his Father. He could have gone to his mother. He could have confided in his disciples. He could have assembled a prayer meeting. All would have been appropriate, but none were his priority. He went first to his Father.

  Oh, how we tend to go everywhere else. First to the bar, to the counselor, to the self-help book, or to the friend next door. Not Jesus. The first one to hear his fear was his Father in heaven.

  A millennium earlier David was urging the fear-filled to do the same. “I will fear no evil.” How could David make such a claim? Because he knew where to look. “You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me” (Ps. 23:4 NKJV)

  Rather than turn to the other sheep, David turned to the Shepherd. Rather than stare at the problems, he stared at the rod and staff. Because he knew where to look, David was able to say, “I will fear no evil.”

  How did Jesus endure the terror of the crucifixion? He went first to the Father with his fears. He modeled the words of Psalm 56:3: “When I am afraid, I will put my trust in you” (NLT).

  Do the same with yours. Don’t avoid life’s Gardens of Gethsemane. Enter them. Just don’t enter them alone. And while there, be honest. Pounding the ground is permitted. Tears are allowed. And if you sweat blood, you won’t be the first. Do what Jesus did; open your heart.

  And be specific. Jesus was. “Take this cup,” he prayed. Give God the date of the event. Provide the number of the flight. Tell him about the doctor’s appointment. Share the details of the job transfer. He has plenty of time. He also has plenty of compassion.

  He doesn’t think your fears are foolish or silly. He won’t tell you to “buck up” or “get tough.” He’s been where you are. He knows how you feel.

  And he knows what you need. That’s why we punctuate our prayers as Jesus did. “If you are willing . . .”

  Was God willing? Yes and no. He didn’t take away the cross, but he took the fear. God didn’t still the storm, but he calmed the sailor.

  Who is to say he won’t do the same for you?

  “Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God” (Phil. 4:6).

  Don’t measure the size of the mountain; talk to the One who can move it. Instead of carrying the world on your shoulders, talk to the One who holds the universe on his. Hope is a look away.

  Now, what were you looking at?

  chapter three

  Seeing with Eyes Closed

  Faith means . . . knowing that something is real even if we do not see it.

  —HEBREWS 11:1 NCV

  When my daughters were young, I tried an experiment to teach them to see with their eyes closed. I asked Jenna, the eight-year-old, to go to one side of the den. I had Andrea, the six-year-old, stand on the other side. Three-year-old Sara and I sat on the couch in the middle and watched. Jenna’s job was to close her eyes and walk. Andrea’s job was to be Jenna’s eyes and talk her safely across the room.

  With directions like “Take two baby steps to the left” and “Take four giant steps straight ahead,” Andrea successfully navigated her sister through a treacherous maze of chairs, a vacuum cleaner, and a laundry basket.

  Then Jenna took her turn. She guided Andrea past her mom’s
favorite lamp and shouted just in time to keep her from colliding into the wall when she thought her right foot was her left foot.

  After several treks through the darkness, they stopped and we processed.

  “I didn’t like it,” Jenna complained. “It’s scary going where you can’t see.”

  “I was afraid I was going to fall,” Andrea agreed. “I kept taking little steps to be safe.”

  I can relate, can’t you? We grownups don’t like the dark either. But we walk in it. We, like Jenna, often complain about how scary it is to walk where we can’t see. And we, like Andrea, often take timid steps so we won’t fall.

  We’ve reason to be cautious: We are blind. We can’t see the future. We have absolutely no vision beyond the present. I’m not talking nearsightedness or obstructed view; I’m talking opaque blindness. I’m not talking about a condition that passes with childhood; I’m describing a condition that passes only with death. We are blind. Blind to the future.

  It’s one limitation we all share. The wealthy are just as blind as the poor. The educated are just as sightless as the unschooled. And the famous know as little about the future as the unknown.

  None of us know how our children will turn out. None of us know the day we will die. None of us know if another pandemic is on the way. We are universally, absolutely, unalterably blind.

  We are all Jenna with her eyes shut, groping through a dark room, listening for a familiar voice—but with one difference. Her surroundings were familiar and friendly. Ours can be hostile and fatal. Her worst fear was a stubbed toe. Our worst fear is more threatening: cancer, divorce, loneliness, death.