How To . . . Get Lost

When my dad turned 75, he went skydiving. He loved it so much that he decided to celebrate his 80th birthday the same way, deliberately jumping from a small plane 12,000 feet in the air. But this time, his preferred tandem partner, Peter, was in Puerto Rico that month. So dad went to Puerto Rico on his birthday to skydive with Peter. Dad doesn’t speak a lick of Spanish. He had reserved a motel room — the cheapest one he could find — on the internet. When he arrived in San Juan, he discovered that the motel was an hour’s drive outside of town. So he set off in his rental car through the mad, rush hour traffic of the city, lost much of the time, arriving well past dark.

The jump was scheduled for the next day at 10:00 in the morning. Dad left the motel early, sketchy directions in hand, and set out to find Peter and the plane.  After a very long drive down a lonely road, he began to believe he was lost, so he stopped at a rundown gas station and, using sign language and good humor, managed to learn where the road to the airport was. It turned out to be a dirt road, which stretched on for miles and miles into the wilderness of the island. He saw no sign of civilized life, just vast expanses of brown. It was 10:00. Then, just ahead on the right, he spied a small metal hangar and a short, packed-dirt runway. And Peter, waving a welcoming bandana. Dad loved his second jump even more than the first, perhaps because he willingly surrendered to the adventure of it all. He consented to get lost.

So did Abram and Sarai, setting off from Haran with no directions at all, other than the divine command to depart. Or Lehi and Sariah, trading the comforts of Jerusalem for the hardships of the wilderness (including parenting difficult children and birthing in the dirt.) With only God’s say-so, enormous faith (no doubt coupled with some doubt) and a ball of curious workmanship for a GPS, they consented to a harrowing experience of wilderness, with only a vague hope of a promised land. Or how about Moses and the whole multitude of Israelites, wandering in the desert for forty years, until the nomadic life became the familiar and manna their staple, until their collective faith had been sufficiently tried to make them ready for their own promised land. Then there’s Jesus, walking willingly into the wilderness, vulnerable and lost, yet determined to face the tests that would fortify his faith for the few crucial years ahead.

There is an art to being a stranger in a strange land, whether that land be Puerto Rico or Sinai. It requires a relaxing of our will to control, an openness to the unknown. Like the time I was in Madrid, hobbled by a bad ankle, when I hopped on the first bus that came by and rode around the city for two hours, willingly lost, having perfect faith that I would find my way home again. Or just yesterday, when I took a different route home and discovered a whole, wonderful neighborhood tucked behind Safeway.

Often, getting lost isn’t so deliberate. There’s the time I spent in a Seoul hospital with a kidney stone — not willingly, but necessarily. Or the day we moved my mom to a Memory Care facility, continuing a journey into dementia that no one would willingly choose. Life happens. Marriages fall apart, children do dangerously stupid things, jobs fall through, we fail. Failure is a wilderness with precious lessons. The unasked-for experiences of loss in our lives can yield delicious eternal fruit, but only if we live with hearts wide open, both to the pain and to the direction and comfort of the Holy Spirit. Those not willing to walk in the wilderness never become strong enough for the promised land.

So how do we practice the art of getting lost? We get out of our ruts. We greet strangers. We eat something weird. We do the uncomfortable thing, whether it’s filing for divorce or giving the Easter message in Sacrament meeting. We push our perceived boundaries — physically, emotionally, spiritually — so that we grow bigger. We do this with intention and focus, willing and working ourselves into a sacred space of faith and receptivity to the Spirit. A space of total obedience to God. We obey because we trust. We trust because we know He loves us unconditionally and that His vision of who we are far surpasses our own weak self-image. When life throws its worst at us, we open our arms to embrace it all, with our feet planted firmly in Christ, our hope secure. When doubt and depression become so dark that we don’t know anything for sure, we stand still and wait upon the Lord. When we are unintentionally lost, we hug that tree and blow our whistle and wait to be found. And when we set out in faith and strength to get a little lost on purpose, we pay attention, we eagerly welcome the surprises, and when it turns out that we’re more lost than we intended, we ask for help and we use what we know to find our way. Lost or found — our position is always known. We are never lost to the Lord.

If you’re honest, you’ll admit that the most important life lessons happen in the wilderness. We learn the most when times are tough. Our “lost in the wilderness” experiences prepare us to fully enjoy our promised land. Mortality itself is a wilderness, one that was prepared for our eternal benefit and one that we willingly chose. So next time you’re called into the wilderness, go. Go immediately. Go in faith. Go with trembling knees. But go.

How do you get lost on purpose? What lessons have you learned in the wilderness?