Over three hundred shipwrecks lay on the ocean floor at the entrance to San Francisco Bay. The spot is known as Land’s End, and a hiking trail by the same name runs along the shore overlooking this particularly hazardous stretch of water. This is one of my favorite hikes, and we took our kids last week while on the long road home from Seattle. The trail is dreamy for a Texan like me: cold, salty winds, and majestic vistas of wild cliffs and raging seas, with the Golden Gate Bridge rising up through the fog in the distance. But for the ship captain, that waterway is a dangerous gauntlet of tides, rocks, and fog that brought many a vessel to its grave.
Recently I learned that a childhood friend of mine had, now in adulthood, lost his faith in God. When his job asked him to look closely at child abuse for a time, he concluded that if such an evil exists, then God couldn’t also.
Many of my earliest childhood memories involve his family. Their house was the house I went to after school if my Mom couldn’t get me. Our families were close. I remember vividly his mother’s laugh, and her African stew with sticky rice and peanuts. I remember meeting his father’s eye over my mom’s shoulder as she held me in the pew at church, and him making funny faces at me, like crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out, until I giggled and his face dissolved into a warm and playful smile. (Their Dad had the best smile.) Once I went home from school sick to their house, and ended up throwing up all over their living room carpet. It was embarrassing and I felt terribly, but their Mom wrapped me up in a huge hug and told me it was all okay.
His was a family of strong believers. We knew them from church, and his parents were, like mine, committed to the Lord. He and his brothers were raised, as we were, with God everywhere: three times a week at church, in conversation, in friendship, in life lessons and spankings, in the giving of thanks at meals and every other time, and in the answer to every real question asked.
This news of him, some thirty years later, made me sad. It grieved my heart. I wished we were still close. Close enough that I had been there at his crossroads. The moment he held child abuse in one hand, and God in the other, and then laid one down. I would have told him this:
I stood here, too. For some it’s a divorce or a sick child. For me, it was child abuse, too, just like you.
That place is hard. And no matter who else has stood there or when, you are there alone. The moment is lonely. Your parents don’t factor in. What others believe for you doesn’t matter. It is as if you are in a dark forest surrounded on all sides by looming darkness. It is one of the frightful scenes out of Alice In Wonderland, or The Wizard of Oz, or Harry Potter. And you look down at your faith, so little in your hand. Here and there it catches light from an unknown source like a tiny glittering object, like the resurrection stone or a pair of red sequined shoes. And you make a choice.
In the season I made mine, I read a quote that profoundly impacted my life. It is by Oswald Chambers, and it says: “Unless we can look the darkest, blackest fact full in the face without damaging God’s character, we do not yet know Him.”
And that’s the thing. I know Him. He’s the One who showed up, time and time again, for two child abuse prosecutors who prayed against all odds (and the evidence at hand) for justice, and heard “We, the jury, find the defendant guilty.” He’s the One who showed up to meetings with abused children when I looked in their faces and said, “I believe you. You are brave, and you are strong,” and watched their eyes fill with tears. He’s the One who shows up in the aftermath of evil and helps the underdog and the weakened rebuild with courage and hope. He’s the One who raises the phoenix from the ashes, the dead from the grave, and the sinner to a second, and third, and infinite chance. He’s the Hope Against Hope, the Watcher on the Wall, the Holder of the Gate, the Last One Out. He’s the One who jumps on the grenade, and inspires us to do the same. He’s the world’s fool, and Heaven’s delight. Because of Him, grass finds its way up through concrete, spring follows winter, and morning follows night.
Yes, there is night, yes there is evil, yes there is darkness. But there is also light. A light catching here and there, dancing and playing over the faith in your hand, calling out your name in a whisper, reminding you that there is goodness and love all around you.
I learned last week in San Francisco that there are “harbor pilots” whose job is to guide ships through dangerous waters. They possess unique expertise and detailed knowledge of the local waterway. They ferry out to an approaching ship and climb aboard for the sole purpose of guiding the ship through the channel safely. Their role is crucial. They’ve been there before. They know where the rocks hide. They know what is below the surface of the waters.
Not all of the ships with a harbor pilot make it through. Having one isn’t a guarantee. But still, if I were a ship captain approaching Land’s End, I’d want one to climb aboard. If for nothing else, it would be nice in those final moments to simply not be alone in the dark night.