The memory is as vivid now as it was all those years ago in college. A group of us, my teammates and I, ventured into a “cave” in Northwest Arkansas. It wasn’t the kind of cave you stroll through with paved paths and dramatic stalagmites like Blanchard Springs. No, this was more of a vertical shaft, a dark hole in the ground that led to an underground stream. Armed with flashlights, we followed the water, swimming deeper into the earth. It was exhilarating at first, a thrilling adventure. But the novelty soon wore off, replaced by a creeping dread. The absolute darkness and the icy grip of the water began to disorient us, and before we knew it, a wave of panic swept through the group.
Just as despair threatened to consume us, a voice cut through the muffled panic. One of our teammates, bless his foresight, had chosen not to descend into the abyss. His shouts, though faint at first over the rushing water, were a beacon in the oppressive blackness. We scrambled towards the sound, our hearts pounding, and miraculously, we emerged from that subterranean trap just moments before it felt like the entire world was caving in. Since that day, I haven’t been able to bring myself to enter another cave. And with each passing year, a subtle claustrophobia has taken root, growing more pronounced with age.
I understand firsthand the suffocating grip of confined spaces, a fear my father knew intimately. His severe claustrophobia meant MRIs were out of the question, and crowded elevators were a definite “no go.” It’s a legitimate fear, the feeling of walls closing in, of being trapped in a dark, damp space. I can truly identify with that sense of impending collapse.
Often, our lives can feel like that cave. We face fears about the future that seem to make life itself collapse around us. The demands of work become overwhelming, our children struggle, creditors come knocking, and then, the doctor delivers devastating news. Life can become that dark, damp hole we once crawled into, leaving us lost and panicking in a rapidly shrinking world.
In those moments, we desperately need a voice to guide us, just as I needed that voice in the cave. The good news is, that voice is always there. It might manifest differently for each of us—the comforting words of a friend, the wise counsel of a colleague, the unwavering support of a family member, or the objective guidance of a professional. But ultimately, the deepest source of that comfort and guidance is the hushed tone of God.
In the cave, the roaring water initially drowned out my friend’s voice, making it almost impossible to hear. Yet, somehow, I did. Similarly, the voice of God can often be hard to discern amidst the chaos of our lives. But it is always there, waiting to be heard.
Excellent! Been thinking about you. Do we go to Grand Canyon in Sept or October?!?