Once, when I was pretty young, I was playing in my aunt’s back yard in Riverside. Now, when I say “back yard” I really mean this wild growth of brush and trees that separated her property from the interstate. Before long I’d wandered off, trusting in my innate sense of direction (which I don’t think I had developed by this point.) Even though all the trees looked alike to me, I still believed I could keep a generally good idea of where I’d come from. I tried to keep track of my path like a mental roll of twine tied off to some safe anchor and unwound behind as I walked.
Yeah, it didn’t work. I got lost.
Have you considered what it means to be lost? At one point we are right where we’re meant to be, but something entices us away. We follow the will-o-the-wisps of pleasure, money, popularity—whatever Satan can use to draw us from our anchor. We may think that we can always return, going back along the way we came, but eventually, we realize that nothing looks familiar, and all the safe landmarks have disappeared.
Fortunately, that day that I got lost, it wasn’t long before I heard someone calling my name. My cousin had come looking for me, and it was an immense relief to be found again. Maybe we can do that—find the lost and bring them home.
That’s something to think about.