Guidance

Guidance. Why do I crave it so? Why do I feel a compulsive need to provide it, to the point of obsessing over it? Well, if I’m being real, I believe that to be guide-less is to be vulnerable, and to be vulnerable is to be hopeless, indeed. An unguided man is a man without a map, and a man without a map stumbles through the dark, unsure of where he is going. He might wind up in a ditch, falling into a trap, or running into a tree. Who knows what horrors, what disasters await!

I recognized this need in myself when I was talking about my book with someone. I talked about how weird it was that I was preaching without a theology degree. Here I was: just some schmuck, talking about God like I knew Him. Shouldn’t that be up to the dudes that have studied Him for years and years and stuff? To prepare myself and to have a path to walk is the epitome of safety. A guided man is a protected man, and a protected man is a hopeful man. After all, what danger would be left in the world if we could break it all down into step-by-step pieces? 

But all this is assuming that vulnerability is the worst thing for us. As if the worst place we could be is on wobbly ground. What if it was always that wobbly and we didn’t see it? What if we’re blind to the situations we’re in; blind to what needs changing? What if the foundations were all messed up from the start and we were just too blind to see it? Or, worse yet, what if we’re too blind to see the better path that’s right in front of us? Maybe we need to be knocked loose sometimes so that we can be moved to a better trail. 

And while we have our skeptic hats on, why don’t we question the other part of the original statement. Is the unguided man truly doomed? I often slink back into believing so. Usually it’s when I’m not looking; not paying attention to myself. But every time I find myself in this thought pattern, I remember the intense moments I lived through that taught me otherwise. I remember the emotional roller coasters that I went on that all ended with one simple lesson: I can’t predict what’s coming. I can’t understand the vastness of the universe, the complexities of the cosmos or even the nuances of planet earth. Put simply, I can’t “get it” all.

The truth is that planning isn’t everything. Sometimes, plans fail. They fall through because of a calculation error, or a wrong piece of information. They can fail for a lot of reasons, and none of them are really your fault. They just happen. You can try your best to plan better; plan smarter. But, at the end of the day, the plans can still fail just as easily as anything else. 

On the other hand, you can also be lucky. Every now and then, fortune favors you and treasure falls right into your lap. It may even go better than you expected. You may ask for a $1 raise, only to get two! You may find $100 laying on the ground. The thing I have had to learn this year is that things can, in fact, go well when you aren’t trying to control life down to the last drop of rain.  

What’s humbling about luck, though, is that it’s far less consistent than we might like. Today’s clear skies could easily be tomorrow’s early thunderstorms. That’s the scary part: you never know when fortune may favor you again. It might be tomorrow, it might be next week. The pessimist may say it’ll be later, if ever, that good things will happen to him again. The optimist will say it’ll be sooner. But the truth is that neither truly knows for sure. And I’m starting to wonder if they ever could.

What, then: should I give up trying to help others on their journey through life? Should I stop trying to offer practical advice? Worse yet: should I give up writing altogether? I think that’s a little extreme, don’t you? And isn’t guiding you into vulnerability a type of guidance all the same? Isn’t admitting that I don’t have it all figured out, and telling you to admit the same a form of guidance as well? Maybe I’m just digging a layer deeper and guiding you in a different way. Perhaps what I’m actually offering is a path to greater maturity.

And you know what? There’s something valuable that comes from vulnerability: community. When used well, vulnerability can be used to bring us all closer together. That weakness, that feeling of not being sure, can bring us together because we all have it in common. Everyone gets scared, freezes, and loses all clue of what they’re supposed to do next. It’s the glue that holds human beings to one another. Isn’t that part of why we scorn those that are only there when things are going well? When it’s convenient, they’re all over the place. But when it’s hard, they’re nowhere to be found. We act like that’s wrong, like they’re not good friends. They failed to form a deep connection because they would rather have their comforts.

It’s in being able to share those less-polished sides of ourselves that we come to truly bond with a person. Sure, we can share in the good times. That’s important as well. But when you don’t know what you’re doing and someone else understands that, maybe even helps you get through it, there’s a bond that forms that’s like no other. It’s in this bond that the truest of connections is truly formed. 

So maybe it’s just fine to be scared; fine to be nervous. Maybe it’s fine to not have it all together, or even to fall apart every now and then. Because maybe, just maybe, that’s an essential part of what life’s all about. 

Or maybe I’m just nervous about life and stuff.

Until Next Time

May Peace be your Guide.