The July sun was low in the trees as I pounded through our woods, hopping over tree roots and weaving through the aspen, cedar, and pine groves. A slight breeze cut through the humidity as I slowed to a walk near one of the streams. Scout, our German Shepherd mix, was panting next me while Meowser, our black and white cat, darted from a log between my feet.
It had been a horrible day. Just… so. incredibly. hard. And in a brief moment of will-power that only comes from divine grace, I grabbed my running shoes instead of a glass full of vodka.
I’d spent too many days the last few months grabbing for a bottle before my Bible. I was tired of fighting losing battles and facing fear after fear come to life. I believed to my core in the goodness and faithfulness of God. In His mercy and justice and sovereignty over all. I believed that He cared deeply about me and my family. And as the darkness descended, I held on to the miraculous ways He’s intervened in our lives over the last few years. I prayed fervent prayers, and I whispered verse after verse to myself of His promises.
I’d been here before; the battle was familiar, but the weapons formed against me were different. They cut deeper. They pierced areas I thought were protected. And my counter moves seemed ineffective against the new attacks. I was exhausted. I was vulnerable. I felt like I crawled back to the bunker each night battered and bloody. And when the Physician didn’t swoop in to bind my wounds, I dumped some alcohol on them and hoped for the best.
*
The story of the blind man in John 9 is one of my favorite stories in the Bible. One reason (of many) is that, to heal this man, Jesus mixed his spit with dirt, smeared the mud over the man’s eyes, and then tells him to go wash in the pool of Siloam. (1)
What?
I mean, really, was that necessary?
Because only a few chapters earlier Jesus heals a lame man just by speaking to him. And a few chapters later he raises Lazarus from the dead with just words. (2)
But this guy needed to wander around with spit-mud on his eyes.
What if he hadn’t gone to the pool? What if he’d wiped the mud from his face right away? What if he had yelled at Jesus for smearing spit on him? What if he had walked to the nearest wine seller instead, insulted and despairing over ever getting healed?
But it says he went, he washed. He saw.
And when he came back, his relatives and neighbors—the people who saw him every day—didn’t recognize him. They argued over whether this was really the blind beggar.
And that was where the real miracle began: He wasn’t just healed. He was transformed.
*
This summer I prayed for reprieve. I prayed for answers. For healing and help. For God to reach down and miraculously make all things right.
But instead I got mud.
And you know what? I recoiled. I yelled a little bit. I questioned his methods. I wandered without finding the pool to wash in, so I tried to wipe it off with alcohol. I lit my own torches to find my own way out of the darkness.
Could He have healed me and my circumstances with a word or the touch of His hand? Absolutely.
But I was blind to the deeper reality of what was going on. And I needed that mud for what He really wanted to give me.
*
Scout wandered over to the stream for a quick drink. I wiped the sweat from my face and sat down, sinking into the moss next to the beaver dam and breathing the heady evening air. The sky above was deepening to violet and the nightly chorus of frogs and crickets was warming up. As I stretched my tired legs, I could feel a soothing Peace slowly seep into the cuts and slashes of my battle-weary heart.
Somewhere around mid-July I had rallied. Or, more honestly, I got so sick of myself that I had to make changes or become a person I despised.
So I stopped drinking. I started running again. I stopped praying for my own agenda and solutions to come and started praying again for His Kingdome to come.
I spent more and more time in the healing peace and beauty of the woods.
Turns out, surrender is a muscle memory.
And as much as I wanted a divine hand to reach down and make everything right, to take away my thirst, I was thankful for simple moments like these.
They weren’t life-changing moments full of tears or laughter or even miracles. There were no choruses of angels or earth-shattering epiphanies.
I was usually sweaty and full of moss and dirt. And wood ticks.
But they were good moments.
The simple, slow moments of transformation.
*
When I finally found my way to His quiet streams, I knelt down and submerged myself in the cool weightlessness of Living Water.
As the muck slowly flaked from my eyes, I could see the green pastures around me and the feast He’d spread before me. He didn’t take away my thirst, but He gave me a choice of what to sate it with. (3)
I drank deeply, and He showed me new depths of what it means to rejoice always. To pray without ceasing. To give thanks no matter my circumstances. I knew these things—they have been my trusty weapons against the darkness. But in my mud-soaked wandering, He was reforging them with a new strength. (4)
He showed me how to focus more keenly not on what is seen, but what is unseen. How to fully and freely love my enemies. How to truly humble myself under God’s strong hand, to be patient and bear with others in love. How to soak in the Peace that passes understanding. (5)
*
God didn’t change a single circumstance this summer.
He changed me.
There was no one-and-done healing experience.
Instead there was invitation to experience a more Life-giving way of being and living.
In my everyday moments, my hard moments, my good moments. Even in my lost moments. He was there. Come, He said. You who are weary and burned out. I will ease, relieve, refresh your soul. (6)
The invitation was there, but I had to choose to accept it. And then, with mud on my eyes, I had to wander, stumble, and find my way to Him.
*
You might feel battle weary and full of mud right now. You might be trying to wash it all off with alcohol or food or television or a million other distractions we feel entitled to in the name of “self-care.” Honestly, I still have hard days like that.
Can the White Knight swoop in to save us? Can He take away our thirst? Absolutely.
But sometimes He comes as a cup of Living Water with a quietly audacious invitation.
Come, He says. I will ease, relieve, refresh your soul.
And He might not change a single thing about our circumstances or the battles we’re fighting.
But.
No weapon forged against us will prosper. The dark valleys He leads us through will give way to green pastures. He prepares a table before us in the presence of our enemies. (7)
And the quest, the destination, is not just for answers or healing or even comfort. We can know all the mysteries of this world, be healed of the worst wounds, have our every need met, and still be stuck right where we are.
Instead of a map, we have an invitation. And the choice is ours—it always is.
Come learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly. (8)
It’s the choice to choose Him, in the good moments and the bad, step after arduous step, day after hard-fought day. It’s the choice to wash in His Water, to drink from His cup. To be mud in His hands, shaped and reshaped into the beautiful, cracked vessels that we are. (9)
To let His Light fill us, transforming us into burning beacons that pierce through the darkness of this world.
***
1. John 9:1–10:21
2. John 5:8–9; John 11:43–44
3. Psalm 23: 2, 5
4. 1 Thessalonians 5:16–18
5. 2 Corinthians 4:18; Matthew 5:44; 1 Peter 5:6; Ephesians 4:2; Philippians 4:7
6. Matthew 11:28
7. Isaiah 54:17; Psalm 23:4 – 5
8. Matthew 11:29–30
9. 2 Corinthians 4:7
