The un-dragoning

​There’s a scene in CS Lewis’, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader that’s been living rent-free in my brain for about a week now.
Eustace Clarence Scrubb, spoiled, self-pitying, allergic to grace, sneaks away from his companions to sulk and wanders into a valley that gets narrower and narrower. At once, he realizes that he can’t go back the way he came and must go forward. But the farther he goes, the tighter the valley becomes. Until, finally, he’s stuck there. It’s here, in that tight and lonely place, that he meets a dying dragon, and by nightfall he becomes one himself.

It’s a hard scene to shake, terrifying: a boy swallowed by the very thing he feared. But it’s also where mercy begins. It’s in that frightening place, that place of utter desolation that Aslan comes. When the Lion eventually shows up, he doesn’t scold or lecture. He tears. He cuts deep. He painfully pulls the scales away again and again until Eustace stands fully human, raw, aching, but free.

I’ve thought about that narrow valley in relation to our current predicament a lot. 
Ours looks very different. It’s hospital hallways and sleepless nights and the strange peace that comes when you’ve had a hard cry. Cana and I didn’t wander here out of pride; we were brought here, abruptly and firmly, by Love Himself. And yet the work feels similar, the undoing, the unmaking, the “un-dragoning.”

I’ve always been a doer. A builder. A planner. A salesman. My whole adult life has been about forward motion; working, leading, advocating, trying to make good things happen for all of God’s people and for His glory. I’ve prayed hard for the virtues to be a godly husband and father and missionary. I’m a neurotic perfectionist. I want to do things efficiently and excellently. I’m addicted to motion, to the plan, to order. 

But this valley doesn’t care how good my plan is. This valley has given me no choice but to surrender all that. Here, there’s no strategy to win, no amount of charisma or leadership or grit that can make cancer disappear. The valley has stripped me down to something smaller and truer, a 46 year old man learning to trust, not because I’ve figured out the formula or read the book, but because I’ve run out of options.

I don’t know what God has in mind here. I don’t know how this story ends.
But I do know Him.
And I know that He is good, and that His goodness isn’t dependent on the outcomes.
He’s un-dragoning us. It’s painful, but I know it’s for our benefit.

In this valley, He is growing something in our family, in me, that could not have grown in the sunshine of easy days or on the mountaintop.
He is growing faith in me that’s less about outcomes and more about presence.
Less about answers and more about surrender.
Less about doing and fixing, and more about trusting that He’s still at work, even when everything feels broken.

The valley is where my illusions go to die: my illusion of control, of strength, of being “useful” to God. The valley is where I finally stop performing and start abiding.
And it hurts. 
But this pain, this pruning, is producing something I really didn’t even know I lacked: utter dependence on God.

Flowers have a hard time growing on mountaintops. There’s too much wind up there. The soil is too thin. The beauty’s in the view, not the flora.
The valley, though, the low, damp, hard places, that’s where the roots take hold. That’s where the ground is rich enough to sustain new life.
And that’s where God has us now: learning how to bloom where it hurts.

This valley is very narrow. But God keeps planting flowers in it.
Today we are back home for a few days, enjoying a beautiful fall day in the front yard. EvanMarie’s smile and energy reminds us of the great blessing of life and love and family. Later on today our neighbors will gather and there will be laughter, then some kind friend will show up with a delicious meal. We will pray as a family and love each other well. These are the blossoms that only grow down here, in the soil of surrender. 

And maybe that’s the mercy of the valley, that when all our plans collapse, love remains. Down here, among the shadows, God is still planting something tender, unseen, and eternal. We don’t see it clearly yet, but we trust that when the sun comes out again, the garden will tell His story.

For now, we’ll stay low, let the roots go deep, and keep our eyes peeled for flowers and the One who holds the watering can.

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me."

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