Valleys

Pastor John Yates III once worked for the British scholar and Bible teacher John Stott. Yates reflected on the time when Stott’s aging and disability started to slow Stott down. Yates says:

Stott spent the last 15 years of his life going completely blind. It began with a small stroke that knocked out the peripheral vision in his left eye, forcing him to surrender his driver’s license. And over the years that followed, this man who wrote more books during his lifetime than most of us will read in an average decade became unable to see the pages in front of him. But that wasn't all. His body grew increasingly weak. He needed more sleep. He was eventually confined to his bedroom.

I spent three years working closely with John when he was in his early 70s. I was in my mid-20s. It was absolutely exhausting. I've never been around another person with a capacity for work as fast as his. He was the most disciplined and efficient man I've ever known. But there he was, years later, now in his 80s and into his early 90s, with his mind as sharp as ever. But then he was unable to do much of anything, except to sleep, eat, and listen out his bedroom window for the call of a familiar bird.

Now I found this personally incredibly difficult to understand. Why would God allow a man like John to suffer the loss of precisely those faculties that made his life so meaningful and has worked so successful, if it just seemed cruel? It would have been better, I thought, for him to die or to suffer from Alzheimer's, because at least then he wouldn't have known what he was missing.

But then I finally begin to understand why John never seemed to complain. That's because God was giving him the gift of absolute dependence. God was showing him that he delighted to offer Stott a dependence on him.

In her book The Vulnerable Pastor, Mandy Smith tells the story of mountaineer Joe Simpson, shared in Simpson's memoir Touching The Void:

Thousands feet up the side of the Siula Grande mountain, Joe's safety line was cut, leaving Joe to slide with a broken leg into a deep crevasse. After several desperate attempts to climb up and out of the crevasse, he was faced with the fact that his injury made it impossible. And so, against all survival instinct, he made the excruciating choice to lower himself deeper into the crevasse in the hope that there would be other exits farther down, all the time wondering, Am I lowering myself to freedom or deeper into the belly of the earth? Does a ray of sunlight await me in the pit, showing a way out into day, or is there only darkness and slow death? With every inch he lowered himself down, he edged farther from the obvious way to life—and there was no way back up.

Obviously, Simpson chose wisely, given that he wrote a book about his harrowing experience! This story illustrates the sort of surrender we must embrace if we are to have any sort of breakthrough with regard to our work for the kingdom. Smith writes: "What if, instead of this futile effort to inch into the pretense of fullness, we made a counterintuitive, countercultural choice? What if we chose to lower ourselves, to defy every survival instinct and start emptying?"

At the age of 35 Christian psychologist and researcher Dr. Jamie Aten was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer that had spread to his pelvis. Aten said:

For the first six months, whenever I asked for a prognosis, all my oncologist would say was: 'I can't tell you that it's going to be okay, Jamie. It's too early to tell. If there's anyone you want to see or anything you want to do, now is the time.'" Cancer wasn't the first disaster I faced. My family and I had moved to South Mississippi six days before Hurricane Katrina. But this disaster was different. There was no opportunity to evacuate as I did before Katrina made landfall. This time the disaster was striking within: I was a walking disaster.

Aten learned that the key to both traumatic situations involved what he calls "spiritual surrender." Aten writes:

Spiritual surrender helps us understand what we have control over and what we don't. In a research study I led after Katrina, we found that people who showed higher levels of spiritual surrender tended to do better. This finding didn't make sense to me at the time. It seemed like a passive faith response. Fast forward to my cancer disaster. I vividly remember taking the trash to the curb one winter morning while praying that God would heal me. The freezing air felt like tiny razor blades cutting across my hands and feet because of the nerve sensitivity caused by chemotherapy.

Wondering if God even heard my prayers for healing, I kept praying as I walked back inside my home. Then all of a sudden I dropped to my knees and prayed the most challenging prayer of my life. Instead of continuing to pray for God's healing, I asked that God would take care of my wife and children if I didn't make it.

This was the hardest prayer I had ever prayed. For the first time in my life, I truly experienced spiritual surrender. I finally understood. True spiritual surrender is far from passive—it is a willful act of obedience.

Editor’s note: As of January 2025, Jamie is a 20 year cancer survivor

Geologist Dr. James Clark recounts visiting the Soviet Union a few years after Communism dissolved. He was asked to preach at a small Russian Baptist church that lived through a long season of persecution. Some in the congregation had been in prison because of their testimony in Christ. Others had husbands or relatives that had suffered or had even been killed for their faith. Dr. Clark decided to use the following geological illustration:

Clay is actually composed of many microscopic clay mineral crystals, which not even a light microscope can see. But under pressure the clay minerals are not crushed or made smaller. Rather, they grow larger. The minerals change into new larger biotype grains forming slate, found on many homes. With even more pressure, the minerals become even larger. And some are transformed into garnets, which are semi-precious gems.

Clark said:

I explained to the congregation that this geological process illustrates how pressure and suffering can be used to refine, purify, and mold a person into a more beautiful soul. I will never forget what I saw when I looked at the congregation. It seemed like the whole congregation was sparkling. The babushkas' (old women) eyes were gleaming bright with tears recalling past suffering. What makes a gem so attractive? It's the reflection. And these dear women and men were reflecting God's glory through the suffering they had endured.

The metamorphic rock story doesn't end there. With even more pressure applied, a new mineral forms called staurolite. The name is from two Greek words meaning "stone cross." The twin variety forms deep under high mountains in the shape of a cross. A reminder of Christ's ultimate suffering for us all.

On April 15, 2013, one of the best-known sporting events in the world, the Boston Marathon, turned deadly when two homemade bombs planted close to the finish line exploded. The blasts killed three people, wounded 260 others, and cost 16 some of their limbs. For the one year anniversary of the Boston bombing, The New York Times profiled a number of survivors about how they're coping with the trauma. Naturally, the interviewees expressed a great deal of sadness, fear, anger, and even rage. But, surprisingly, there was also another theme that emerged from the interviews: gratitude.

One survivor put it this way: "Life, it's short. The day of the marathon just reinforces my belief. Life is short, and you need to cherish each moment." A 45-year-old female lawyer reflected on what she's learned after a year: "It was such a terrible tragedy that sometimes I feel guilty because it was a blessing for me. It made my life more rich, more full. I learned how to appreciate living in the moment. And I learned not to worry and stress about things as much. I don't let work bother me. I don't let piddling money issues bother me. It was not even a conscious effort on my part. It just changed my attitude." A 39-year-old scientist said, "I've had moments where I can't believe how close everything came. Now I embrace life for what it is. I want to keep on living and propel my positive energy to help other people be more positive."

The albatross, a majestic seabird with the longest wingspan of any bird, spends eighteen months at sea, touching down only on water, losing their ability to make smooth earth-landings. Returning to nest and lay eggs, they come in like drunken sailors, tumbling, skidding, crashing, earning these regal birds the epithet gooney birds.

These powerful seabirds spread enormous wings, sometimes reaching an eleven-foot span, and glide above turbulent seas. They need storm-strong wind currents to keep them aloft. In calm seas, they are virtually unable to get airborne. Consistently smooth weather conditions prevent albatross migration from the Southern Hemisphere.

Storms will come for us, too. Like the albatross, we need the storms. Our intended wing, our high desire for God, will be tested and developed in strong winds and troubled waters. I eagerly expect and hope that God will enable me to ride the turbulence and learn the currents of grace. Riding on currents of grace doesn't preclude stumbles, skids, or nosedives. Though I want to soar, maybe God will make me, like the albatross, fruitful even after a crash landing.

GQ magazine's interview with talk show host Stephen Colbert explored how he found gratitude in the midst of suffering ("The Late, Great Stephen Colbert.") When he was 10 years old, his father and two of his brothers, were killed in a plane crash. Young Stephen was the only child still at home with his mother in the years immediately following. When asked how he could experience such losses and not become angry or bitter, the GQ interview explored Colbert's faith:

[Colbert said], "I was raised in a Catholic tradition … That's my context for my existence, is that I am here to know God, love God, serve God, that we might be happy with each other in this world and with him in the next—the catechism. That makes a lot of sense to me. I got that from my mom. And my dad. And my siblings."

"I was left alone a lot after Dad and the boys died. … And it was just me and Mom for a long time," he said. "And by her example I am not bitter … She was … broken, yes. Bitter, no." Colbert said that even in his mother's days of unremitting grief, she drew on her faith that the only way to not be swallowed by sorrow, to in fact recognize that our sorrow is inseparable from our joy, is to always understand our suffering, ourselves, in the light of eternity.

Colbert described a letter from J.R.R. Tolkien who wrote, "What punishments of God are not gifts?" Colbert's eyes filled with tears as he said, "So it would be ungrateful not to take everything with gratitude. It doesn't mean you want it. I can hold both of those ideas in my head." He was 35, he said, before he could really feel the truth of that. He was walking down the street, and it "stopped me dead. I went, 'Oh, I'm grateful. Oh, I feel terrible.' I felt so guilty to be grateful. But I knew it was true."

Here's what Psalm 23 looks like when we remove the Shepherd from our lives:

1 my ... I shall be in want.

2 me ... me

3 my soul ... me

4 I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear ... me ... me.

5 me in the presence of my enemies ... my head ... my cup

6 me all the days of my life ... I will dwell

Paul Miller concludes:

We are left obsessing over our wants in the valley of the shadow of death, paralyzed by fear in the presence of our enemies. No wonder so many are so cynical … Both the child and the cynic walk through the valley of the shadow of death. The cynic focuses on the darkness; the child focuses on the Shepherd.

A grandfather took his daughter and the grandchildren to visit the zoo. As they visited the orangutan exhibit the only thing separating us from these awesome creatures that possess the strength of at least five men were panes of thick glass, each 20-feet tall. Two-year-old Trevor was amused at first by the orangutans' antics. Then one of the hairy beasts suddenly began to beat on the glass. Trevor leapt into the arms of his mother, crying, "I scared! I scared!" His mother tenderly took him, placed his little hand on the glass, and showed him that the glass shielded him from the animal, so there was nothing to fear. Afterwards, any time Trevor seemed uncertain, his mom would simply say, "Remember the glass."

The first-century church faced persecution at the hands of a powerful government bent on snuffing out her message, her influence. The fact that some had been beaten, imprisoned, even killed for their faith made them feel as though there was nothing at all that stood between them and the enemies of God's kingdom. Into these trying times the apostle Peter wrote them with a reminder that though it might not seem to be true at times, they were ultimately shielded by the eternal power of God that surpasses the temporary power of any other powers and principalities—that "the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm, and steadfast." (1 Peter 5:10) It was Peter's way of saying, "Remember the glass. Remember the glass."

To be grateful for the good things that happen in our lives is easy, but to be grateful for all of our lives—the good as well as the bad, the moments of joy as well as the moments of sorrow, the successes as well as the failures, the rewards as well as the rejections—that requires hard spiritual work. Still, we are only truly grateful people when we can say "thank you" to all that has brought us to the present moment. As long as we keep dividing our lives between events and people we would like to remember and those we would rather forget, we cannot claim the fullness of our beings as a gift of God to be grateful for. Let's not be afraid to look at everything that has brought us to where we are now and trust that we will soon see in it the guiding hand of a loving God.

—Henri J. M. Nouwen, Catholic priest, mystic, and writer (1932-1996)

German pastor Martin Rinkart served in the walled town of Eilenburg during the horrors of the Thirty Years War of 1618-1648. Eilenburg became an overcrowded refuge for the surrounding area. The fugitives suffered from epidemic and famine. At the beginning of 1637, the year of the Great Pestilence, there were four ministers in Eilenburg. But one abandoned his post for healthier areas and could not be persuaded to return. Pastor Rinkhart officiated at the funerals of the other two. As the only pastor left, he often conducted services for as many as 40 to 50 persons a day—some 4,480 in all. In May of that year, his own wife died. By the end of the year, the refugees had to be buried in trenches without services.

Yet living in a world dominated by death, Pastor Rinkart wrote the following prayer for his children to offer to the Lord:

Now thank we all our God With hearts and hands and voices; Who wondrous things hath done, In whom this world rejoices. Who, from our mother's arms, Hath led us on our way, With countless gifts of love, And still is ours today.

First grade teacher, Linda, shares an interaction she had with one of her students on the first day of school. Accustomed to going home at noon in kindergarten, Ryan was getting his things ready to leave for home when he was actually supposed to be heading to lunch with the rest of the class. Linda asked him what he was doing. "I'm going home," he replied. Linda tried to explain that, now that he is in the first grade, he would have a longer school day. "You'll go eat lunch now," she said, "and then you'll come back to the room and do some more work before you go home." Ryan looked up at her in disbelief, hoping she was kidding. Convinced of her seriousness, Ryan then put his hands on his hips and demanded, "Who on earth signed me up for this program?"

As believers, it's easy to feel a little like Ryan when we consider the Christian life. The requirements are daunting—"Surely the Lord doesn't expect me to forgive seventy times seven;" "Surely he doesn't want me to turn the other cheek when someone hurts me;" "What does he mean, 'take up my cross'?" It isn't long before you want to say, "Who on earth signed me up for this program?"

In an on-line article for Leadership journal, John Ortberg discusses how adverse situations are necessary for our spiritual growth. He writes:

Psychologist Jonathon Haidt had a hypothetical exercise: Imagine that you have a child, and for five minutes you're given a script of what will be that child's life. You get an eraser. You can edit it. You can take out whatever you want.

You read that your child will have a learning disability in grade school. Reading, which comes easily for some kids, will be laborious for yours.

In high school, your kid will make a great circle of friends; then one of them will die of cancer.

After high school this child will actually get into the college they wanted to attend. While there, there will be a car crash, and your child will lose a leg and go through a difficult depression.

A few years later, your child will get a great job—then lose that job in an economic downturn.

Your child will get married, but then go through the grief of separation.

You get this script for your child's life and have five minutes to edit it.

What would you erase?

Wouldn't you want to take out all the stuff that would cause them pain?

I am part of a generation of adults called "helicopter parents," because we're constantly trying to swoop into our kid's educational life, relational life, sports life, etc., to make sure no one is mistreating them, no one is disappointing them. We want them to experience one unobstructed success after another.

One Halloween a mom came to our door to trick or treat. Why didn't she send in her kid? Well, the weather's a little bad, she said; she was driving so he didn't have to walk in the mist.

But why not send him to the door? He had fallen asleep in the car, she said, so she didn't want him to have to wake up.

I felt like saying, "Why don't you eat all his candy and get his stomach ache for him, too—then he can be completely protected!"

If you could wave a wand, if you could erase every failure, setback, suffering, and pain—are you sure it would be a good idea? Would it cause your child to grow up to be a better, stronger, more generous person? Is it possible that in some way people actually need adversity, setbacks, maybe even something like trauma to reach the fullest level of development and growth?

Ian Leitch writes in Life Before Death! A Restored, Regenerated, and Renewed Life:

A businessman asked me if I would speak to his staff, and I readily accepted. One of his staff asked me if we could talk privately. She said, "Ian, when I was 22, I was in a serious car accident, and my boyfriend was killed. I have gone through a lot of surgery and am now doing well. When that happened, I lost my faith."

What do you say to someone like that? Well, I prayed and I said, as kindly as I could, "You know, when they built the Queen Mary, the Queen Elizabeth, and the QE2, they did not test them in dry dock. They didn't leave them in dry dock and get big hoses on them to see if they would leak. They got those ships out into the open ocean to put them through sea trials. These trials were not intended to sink the ship. These trials were to prove that the ship was seaworthy. The only way you can know whether your faith is real or not is when the pressures of life come, when you go through trials. Then you know if you are seaworthy or not. Can I ask you honestly, did you lose your faith or did you find you had none?"

She said, "Ian, I guess you are right, I had none."

In his book Exodus and Revolution, Michael Walzer shares three lessons we can all learn from the Exodus event of the Old Testament:

What the Exodus … taught: first, that wherever you live, it is probably Egypt. Second, that there is a better place, a world more attractive, a promised land. And third, that "the way to the land is through the wilderness."