My main assignment that day was picking up the expedition group from the backcountry trailhead and driving them back to basecamp.  I arrived shortly before the group appeared, and the weary hikers joyfully settled on the bus.  The day was going well, but as I drove down the country dirt road back to camp a sinking feeling that I was on a course for disaster descended in the pit of my gut like a threatening dark cloud. 

It took only a couple minutes to realize I had missed the road that would have provided the swiftest passage home; I realized my error, but I didn’t change course.  I kept going and reasoned that finding a turnaround on the narrow gravel stretch would be difficult with a van and trailer.  I rationalized further that this would inconvenience the group, requiring them to disembark and help detach the trailer and swing it around to retrace our route.  However, if I’d been totally honest about what fueled my greatest reason for not turning around to go the right way I'd had admitted it was my pride.  But I needed to save face in front of these people who had just achieved a great challenging and bonding experience through adversity.  I felt the pressure to fit in and not show weakness or incompetence by admitting I had made a mistake.  So, I kept driving the wrong way, assuming optimistically that the road would soon curve in the direction I needed it to go and, somehow, magically bring us to the main highway home.  I rationalized that this slight alteration wouldn’t cause much inconvenience, and the group need not know my error.  Yes, I could save face.  

I began to realize the road I was following didn’t supernaturally curve in the direction I was hoping for.  In fact, it veered exactly the opposite direction from basecamp, but I kept driving.  The farther I went the more the pressure mounted because now if I turned round, I was going to add a significant amount of travel time to the day.  And my face would be covered in egg, so I kept driving. 

Pretty soon, I knew I had gone so far that I couldn’t reasonably turn around.  At that moment I decided to throw all my chips in and dedicate myself to the road I was on even though it was the wrong way and I didn't know where it would lead.  I believed that eventually I would hit blacktop and then come upon a familiar town or landmark.  Then surely upon a major highway we would arrive back at basecamp.  So, I pressed the accelerator pedal a little harder and kept going. 
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By now, the expedition participants were quietly gazing out the windows, probably wondering why the drive was taking longer than the morning's hike.  The instructors who knew the area certainly must have wondered if I’d lost my sanity, but out of respect, they said nothing, just trusting that I was making the best decisions for the good of everyone.  What I was really doing was trying to preserve my self-image that I’m a competent logistics driver who knows my way around, but what the devil was screaming in my ear was that after 20 years of backcountry navigation and instructorship, the best I can offer is incompetence.  

I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally reached a small, backwater town with a road sign directing us toward a bigger town that I recognized.  So, I got on the path of familiarity, grateful that I wasn’t wandering anymore.  Now, I could keep driving because the fact remained that I was nowhere near where I was supposed to be.  My pride would add nearly two hours to the journey home as we traveled over some of the most curvy and hilly stretches of highway in America.  All the while, silently loathing myself for the error, I kept driving. 

Later after logging nearly 100 extra driving miles, pulling over once to allow a carsick participant to throw up, and significantly delaying the group’s post-trip cleanup, dinner, and departure timeline, we arrived at basecamp.  The ironic reality remained that the naive participants trusted that I had chosen the best way to get out of the backcountry for our return home.  In the end, I had saved face.  
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Reflecting over the next couple days on my major, directional error, I felt disgusted with myself.  The real cause of the problem had not been my mistake in missing a turn; we all make mistakes.  My problem was my pride.  Thinking back to that long drive, I recalled a quiet breath-prayer that I had uttered as I drove that narrow, dirt road: “God what should I do?”  Evidently, I was not really wanting an answer!

“Turn around.” I heard the Spirit say, but I was too committed to saving face with the people too listen to God.  He answered, but I was unwilling to obey.  I kept driving, and it cost the people with me.  Pride had undermined my leadership and established that I would sacrifice the group’s good so that I would not look incompetent.  I was convicted, and I repented.

The next day, I apologized to the instructors, not so much for my missing the turn, but for the pride that followed.  They generously forgave me, but I had to own the reality of my pride and wonder, “Where does this compulsive drive to save face come from?”  For me, the answer lies in a false identity that says I have to look competent and skilled to be valuable and loved.  The belief goes deep and is rooted in a lot of undisciplined listening to the world and the cause and effect of ego strokes and soul wounds from people and myself. 

I had grown to a place where saving face matters so much because I had neglected to consider what God says about me; I doubted His love.  What I need to do is stop trying to save my face and start seeking His face.  Psalm 27:8 declares, “You have said, ‘Seek my face.’” My heart says to you, “Your face, LORD, do I seek.”’
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I think there is a tendency to feel that God is nearly always disappointed in us for one reason or another.  It’s true!  There’s lots for Him to choose from when it comes to our sinfulness, but when we live with the sense that Jesus is fed up with us, we find it difficult even to want to seek His face.  Furthermore, it’s an affront to His sacrifice on the cross, as if to say that what He did had no power or value to actually sanctify us and make us saints.  Let me be clear.  When God looks at the believer in Christ He sees saints, not sinners, and His reality is supreme over ours.  How often I forget that part of the gospel!  I find myself compelled by the pressures of other voices and other faces to project more confidence, competence, successfulness, wealth, value, and greatness than are mine to give.   

After the frightfully long journey of picking up the backpackers, the instructors forgave me and God forgave me and I even forgave myself, but if I could go back in time, I would swallow my pride, apply the brakes, and turn around.  I would have looked less competent and perhaps had to endure the momentary derision of trip participants.  My error would have been blatant, out there to be criticized.  However, if I had just taken the humble approach, I would have mimicked the humility of Christ.  He would have seen me as one who believes I’m valuable and loved despite my mistakes.  I would have spared the group a more arduous journey, and I would have had the opportunity to experience something far greater than looking good before people.  I could have traded in saving my own face for seeing God’s face. 

Let’s commit together that next time we take a wrong turn, make a mistake, or show our incompetence, instead of  keeping on in our pride, we will close our eyes, take a deep breath, look not at saving our own face, but fix our eyes on Jesus’ face—winsome and smiling at us because of the greatest truth in the world: to Him we are beloved.  His love endures forever!

Something noteworthy about the old oak in my backyard is that it’s the reason I live here.  Years ago, when my wife and I purchased our parcel of land, we noticed this big, old, gnarly oak leaning heavily to one side, testifying that it had braced against many great windstorms and yet stayed standing with scars of its battles showing the signs of the fight.  We would sprawl in the shade of its spreading branches, and dream about our future home.  Months later, as we marked out the house site, that leaning oak became the focal point of our layout. 
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It really is ironic that I would place so much emphasis on a tree.  In my younger years, I rolled through life more like a tumbleweed than a mighty tree, enjoying being light and free.  I lived on the move, blowing into town one day and out again the next, never allowing myself to be pinned down by commitments and responsibilities.  I chased new sights and traveled with abandon to the next adventure.  This attitude defined my life and mapped the way I thought I wanted to live.  There was no way I could have been a tree, just stuck in one place to watch the world go by.  

Trees and tumbleweeds…this comparison aptly sketches our culture.  As a product of our society, I clung to the tumbleweed life, drawn there by two false ideals:  1. The best life is a life of always going, doing, and moving from one significant adventure to another; and 2. The only way to accomplish this lifestyle is by drifting with little to no commitment.  It has taken me years to accept that the life of a tree is indeed the better life for me, and I have discovered it is not an unadventurous life at all.  The Bible’s wide array of wisdom literature on the subject of trees not only convinced me of this truth, but it also inspired me to let loose of the free, fast-paced lifestyle to become not so much a tree hugger, but a tree-analogy-of-life hugger—one who is planted, rooted, steadfast in faith, a shield for the weak, and full of praise. 
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Did you know trees were all of those things?  Yep.  Tree-talk is all throughout scripture.  In fact, God skillfully includes trees to teach us spiritual truths.  Note the comparisons of a person’s devotion to God as noted by the prophet Jeremiah describing as follows:   

​ “He is like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream, and does not fear when heat comes, for its leaves remain green, and is not anxious in the year of drought, for it does not cease to bear fruit” (Jer. 17:8). 

The lure of tumbleweed living held me tight as I entered adulthood, so I decided to appease my craving and become a cross-cultural missionary.  I would see the world, experience new cultures, and do it all in the name of ministry.  However, the romance quickly wore off, and I found myself feeling blown, tossed, and in need of a deepening root system as I faced the questions from critics I was supposed to be evangelizing, not to mention some inner doubts forming around the edges of my soul.  In my wanderlust, I realized I had to sink roots into Christ and His word if I was ever going to make it in this world. 
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After a stint on the mission field, I began to work at a Christian camp specializing in outdoor challenge and adventure.  Thinking little of rootedness or longevity, I plunged into the work mostly because it held a draw of the unknown that called to me, wrapped up in leading expeditions.  I wanted to see over the next hill, climb the next mountain, and watch people change from the experience.  Little did I know that I would be the one changing as I grew a “stronger trunk” with some “fledgling branches.”  I noticed a little ​fruit now and then, but mostly, I just had a sense of growing tougher bark that comes from facing the hard knocks of life.  

Years into ministry, I came across a passage in Isaiah that stopped me in my tracks and has since become one of my life passages.  Isaiah 61:1-3 says,
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“The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon me, because the LORD has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound; to proclaim the year of the LORD's favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to grant to those who mourn in Zion— to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit. They will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified.” 

It’s a classic “drop-the-mic-and-walk-off-the-stage” moment when Jesus after quoting this passage in Luke 4:18-20 announces, “It’s fulfilled in me.”  Jesus goes on to accomplish everything prophesied by Isaiah, changing the lives of all sorts of troubled, needy folks, but it’s the end of Isaiah’s prophecy that astounds me most: “…that they may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.”  Suddenly I realized that a life lived in Christ and submitted to His lordship is not a tumbleweed life, being blown and tossed, never really remaining anywhere, just constant aimlessness.  The real life I want is the life of an oak of righteousness.  
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Think about the image.  Oaks are attractive.  We love gazing upon the beauty and majesty of a huge tree, feeling the thick bark and marveling at its height.  However, for that tree to become that way, it has to be planted, which implies a gardener’s intentional digging of earth and placing the seed in the ground, covering and cultivating the sprout.  That’s the story of the people of God.  It’s my story.  

The tree grows in the place where its planted.  It might feel like being stuck, but given time, it looks more like rootedness.  The higher the tree grows the better the view until it is able to spread its protective canopy over a forest of more fragile growing things.  This takes great patience and a period of waiting which is something a tumbleweed doesn’t do.  But a tumbleweed does not put down roots and cannot face the pressures of the storms of life.  Oaks can, and with each new season, its arms are raised to spring forth fruit and praise to the Maker of heaven and earth.  Psalm 92:12-15 expands the analogy,

“The righteous flourish like the palm tree and grow like a cedar in Lebanon. They are planted in the house of the LORD; they flourish in the courts of our God. They still bear fruit in old age; they are ever full of sap and green, to declare that the LORD is upright; He is my rock, and there is no unrighteousness in Him.” 
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A few years ago, I climbed the old oak in my backyard and hung a tire swing from a sturdy limb.  The other day, I watched one of my children joyfully swing there, anchored to the mighty timber.  I looked back to my tumbleweed days and realized I’d been serving the Lord faithfully in ministry for many years.  I had become a reliable person to many, an anchor for my family and a spreading of shade and shepherding for friends, and even some coworkers.  As my children sang and played under that tree, I couldn’t help but smile as I, too, have become one rooted deep in Jesus; an oak of righteousness. 

Whether you feel stuck in ministry or blown and tossed like a tumbleweed, know that the Lord has a special place for you planted by streams of living water. 

By the end of last summer’s busy retreat season, I was tired—tired of the bugs, tired of the Ozark’s humid heat, tired of the pressures of leading and facilitating groups of young people through the backcountry.  It was about this time, as I was spending some time in prayer, that I heard the Lord prompt in His still small voice, “Come to the mountains.”  I love the mountains, the real mountains of the western United States, where a peak pushing above 10,000 feet is considered medium sized.  I loved the idea, but the invitation seemed improbable.  I didn’t have the provision, a plan, or a partner, yet the nagging sense of invitation, coupled with the yearning to breathe high-elevation air, kept calling to me. 

A few days later, my friend in Colorado called, and in the course of our conversation, I mentioned how lucky he was to be in the mountains.  “Come out and let’s go backpacking,” he offered.  “I’ve got a pile of airfare points and can spot you the ticket price.” 
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Wow!  I had the provision, the plan and the partner all in the course of one phone call.  What I didn’t know at the time was that it would take something more like a miracle for this to work.

The day came for me to fly to the mountains, and as is often the case with busy people who overlook details, I failed to make sure my credentials were up to date.  Minutes before jumping into the car to head to the airport I grabbed my passport.  “EXPIRED!”  I called the airlines.  “Do you have a ‘REAL’ I.D.?” they asked.  “NO!” 

My wife graciously consoled me in my anguish and idiocy.  She reminded me, “But God did invite you to the mountains, so I think you should still try.” 

All the way to the airport, I fought back visions of being a laughing stock at the ticket counter.  Surely a cruel TSA agent would take one look at me and laugh maniacally.  Then picking up the intercom, he would announce to the entire international airport that if anyone wanted to see a genuine, incompetent, audacious ignoramus then just come over to the ticket counter where I would be on display.  “Let’s just turn the car around and forget this whole thing!” I pleaded.  But my wife was resilient.  “God invited you.  Let’s see what happens.” 
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As I approached the ticket counter, where I knew full-well what would happen, I was called to the next available attendant.  I didn’t try to make excuses or connive my way forward, I simply plopped my bag on the carousel and matter-of-factly told the lady, “I’m sure I won’t be allowed to fly.  My passport’s expired, and I don’t have a real ID.”  

Looking up from her computer, she smiled kindly and told me to go over to the TSA agent and check in. 
I went as directed, suddenly bolstered by the fact that the ticket lady hadn’t instantly thrown me out on the street.  I was standing in the wrong line, and a TSA agent told me to move to a different line.  A minute later, that same agent approached me and apologized because she thought she had told me to move in a rather abrupt way.  A TSA agent was apologizing to me!  What was going on here? 

The agent in charge beckoned me, and I began my pathetic spiel, attempting to conceal nothing except the fact that I felt irresponsible for not having checked my creds sooner. 

“No problem, sir.  This happens all the time.  And there’s a grace period on your passport.  You’re free to fly.”
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A scene from Star Wars flashed through my mind in which Obi-Wan waves a hand at the storm troopers casually saying, “These are not the droids you are looking for.”  Was I a Jedi?  No, just invited to a mountain party by the One who directs the courses of men.  

Hours later, I was hiking up a trail with my good friend, despite his car overheating twice on the journey to the trailhead.  I felt invincible that nothing was going to stand in the way of my time with God in the mountains...until the next morning when, at that high altitude, 9” inches of fresh snow greeted us upon unzipping the tent!  As we sat in our shelter wondering what to do and watching the mass exodus of every other hiker on the mountain, I remembered God’s invitation, “Come to the mountains.” 

“Let’s stay and keep going,” I said.  My equally adventurous friend agreed, and soon we were trekking gingerly through deep snow between the boot tracks of the multitude of hikers abandoning the heights.  As we climbed, the sun came out and shone so brilliantly off the freshly fallen snow that we had to shield our eyes to take in the cold, majestic beauty. 
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This backcountry usually hosts a throng of visitors, but that day we saw nary a soul.  We fished the lakes for trout and dined on our fresh catch roasted over our alpine campfire.  By the middle of the next day, the snow had mostly melted, so I decided to climb a nearby peak.  My friend opted to continue fishing in the lakes at the mountain’s base while basking in the 70 degree heat.  

The trip had been good up to this point, but when I sat among the rock piles on the mountain’s pinnacle, I knew God had invited me to meet Him there.  In my Father-God’s presence, I breathed deeply of the crisp, high-mountain air and tried to wrap my mind around the beauty before me.  Sure, I had summited higher mountains and had wondered at more captivating views in the past, but that day felt distinct.  I sensed a depth of blessing that I was with the One who knows me so well that I don’t have to pretend to be anything but my true self.  God knows I love climbing mountains.  He knows everything about me, and as I sat there wrapped in the fullness of His invitation, having pushed through the doubt, the fear, and the trials, He welcomed me into His intimate space.  I existed there sensing very little separation from Abba; in that moment I was fully known, and I knew Him a little more fully. 

​Jesus has been inviting people all along—you and me and every disciple through the ages—saying, “Come, follow Me.”  For many, Jesus’ offer appears dangerous and creates a fearful response.  Obedience requires stepping out to follow when all we can see is the impossibility of success, our own self-doubt, and the fearful realities that lie in the path.  Nevertheless, when we boldly risk the consequences and accept His invitation to follow Him, we will experience life in all its fullness.  Instead of the roadblocks, the humiliations, the breakdowns, and the blizzards, we will find reward in life with Him, and it is good.  So come…follow Him…and be blessed!  

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me.
John 10:27