God’s Overwhelming Grace. Tuesday 24th August: The Day God Guided Me Home

This is a true story of something amazing that happened recently when I was hiking in the Peak District and God showed up and powerfully spoke to me. It is a day I will never forget. I pray that God may bless and speak to you as you read it and that you too may come to an understanding of His overwhelming grace.



Tuesday 24th August and I was out in the Derbyshire Peak District (Edale to be precise) with the aim of getting some decent hill walking in before the, already dismal, summer came to an end. The weather was quite poor by the time I set off and the increasingly strong wind and rain buffeted against me with mounting violence. But I carried on unperturbed; I had my waterproofs and, at any rate, the harsh conditions were sure to ease off before too long.

Being alone and in a relatively quiet and secluded place I seized this as a perfect opportunity to spend some time in prayer. I knew this particular footpath well (or so I thought) having trodden it countless times before and so, as I strode doggedly forward, head down against the wind, I began my (entirely one sided) conversation with God. I rattled on about numerous issues I felt the need to get off my chest, not least of which was the matter of my life’s direction. Of late, it’d been a subject of increasing prevalence in my prayers owing to a number of minor instances and musings (which I will not go into now) that have caused me to pause for thought. In any case, as I lifted these words to my Father in Heaven I could have had no idea of either the speed in which He would respond or the dramatic fashion in which He would choose to do so!

Contrary to my initially optimistic predictions, the higher my footpath ascended the worse the weather seemed to become. By now the thick grey clouds that had been resting on the peaks ahead began to roll in and visibility grew increasingly poor. Presently, I reached a farm where the footpath split. I was quite sure that the route I needed lay straight ahead and so, pulling my hood tighter up around my head, I ploughed on, across a road, over a stile and onto another footpath. Despite walking this route on many previous occasions, this current leg of the journey didn’t appear at all familiar and I soon became, more than a little, convinced that this might not actually be the right path.
Of course, what I should have done at this point was to stop, consult the map in my rucksack and navigate my way back on track. But I didn’t. It was raining very heavily now and the thought of stopping and studying a map, let alone backtracking and prolonging my route seemed quite an unappealing one. “Anyway,” I concluded, “this path looks like it’s headed in roughly the right sort of direction. Ten to one it’ll join up with the footpath I’d actually wanted anyway. It might even be a short-cut!” And, of course, the more I said this to myself, the more I began to be convinced by it. Before long I had become certain, in my own mind at least, that if I just kept persevering along this, now quite narrow, footpath and up to the top of the peak where it seemed to be headed, I’d recognise where I was and all would be well.

By this point the footpath had become really quite treacherous and the higher it ascended, the narrower and more precarious it seemed to be. The heavy rains during the past few days meant that, what were once tranquil, streams ebbing their way down the hillside, were now gushing rivers – quite deep in places – rushing down into the valley from which I had come. What made the situation worse was that many of them seemed to have all but engulfed entire sections of the footpath meaning that, before long, I was gingerly picking my way across make shift-stepping stones, trying not to fall in (and failing on several occasions). I’d climbed high enough now as to be entering into the low lying puffy white and grey clouds that were the cause of all this torrential rain. The annoyance posed by the rain, however, soon took a definite back seat as I realised that, owing to the misty conditions, I could scarcely see more than a few yards in front of me. Despite this, I eventually succeeded in reaching the top of whatever peak it was I’d been climbing and I surveyed what little I could make out of the landscape. It didn’t seem all that familiar. However, there was a footpath and, again, I convinced myself that if only I were to follow that path it would surely lead to somewhere I would recognise or else a signpost or something of use! The path seemed to stretch on forever, twisting round and round and up and down; across streams and over rocky outcrops growing momentarily wider and then narrower again and less and less pronounced, until eventually (although it took some time before I’d admit it to myself) it disappeared altogether.

I looked around. I was in the middle of a barren wasteland of soggy peat bogs, divided only by an occasional clump of moorland heather and a whole network of tributaries flowing...somewhere. For as far as I could see (and that wasn’t very far at all) the landscape appeared identical in all directions. There were no features to speak of that may have aided my bearings, no other people that I could make out and, worst of all, no footpath whatsoever. Stubbornly however, I kept going straight ahead, hoping I would find something (although by now my hope was beginning to wane) and, as I walked, I prayed. I asked God, politely at first, to help me; please would He give me some sort of clue, some indication of where I was or where I needed to be heading? Nothing. Alright then, would He at least provide a momentary break in the weather; a lifting of the cloud cover so that my journey might be slightly more manageable? The mist seemed to become thicker and the rain heavier.
I began to panic.
I knew this area of the Peak District well enough to know that these vast expanses of, seemingly, desolate peat moorlands can often stretch on for miles and miles and attempting to navigate oneself through them is, at the best of times, difficult and with no footpath, poor visibility and absolutely no sense of direction it becomes all but impossible. I could spend hours simply walking round in circles and not be aware of it. What had started out as mild concern was growing, increasingly, into genuine fear. I imagined spending a night in this bleak abyss and wondered how, or if, I’d survive. Despite being August, it was already quite cold and I was wet from the rain and thoroughly miserable. I tried to imagine how I’d even attempt to describe my location to Mountain Rescue or how they’d ever hope to find me shrouded, as I was, in this dense cloud.

I began to curse God for seemingly abandoning me to my fate and I shouted angrily at the heavens, deploring “The Almighty” for His vindictive silence. If God ever had been in my life, clearly, He had chosen this opportune moment to make His departure. I felt utterly alone.

I then did something that, for me, is most uncharacteristic both when hiking and, indeed more generally, in life. I did a u-turn and began to walk back in, what I hoped was, the direction I had come. I wasn’t overly optimistic of my chances but, I concluded, there remained the faintest possibility that I might just be able to find my way back to the footpath I’d been originally following and from there work my way back. Those who know me well will realise what I significant thing this was for me to do. This wasn’t just a strategic change in direction, this was an acknowledgement that I had failed and that there was now no chance of my rescuing either my planned walking route or, more importantly, my pride. No longer would I be able to say that I’d gotten “momentarily lost” but, nevertheless, had succeeded in getting back on track and completing my planned circular trail. Now I would have the personal humiliation and, moreover, the galling physical drudgery of attempting to retrace my steps. That was, of course, assuming I could find my way back.

I must have been walking for no more than ten minutes when, quite suddenly and without warning, the rain stopped. Moments later the thick cloud which had enveloped the landscape in every direction began, gradually, to lift. Then something happened which, at the time and in my state of distress, appeared quite remarkable. A section of clouds, right up ahead and in the direction I was walking, parted, just a little, revealing a small patch of brilliant blue sky and, almost instinctively, I knew what I had to do. I followed it. In time it started to grow bigger and, moments later, the sun (all but invisible until this point) gingerly crawled out into view and showered the, once miserably dull, sky with its warm light.

I was walking on a footpath, although I cannot say from where it appeared and it certainly didn’t seem familiar. I doubted this was the way I had come but that was of no concern now – I simply knew that I had to follow that patch of blue sky, always keeping it straight ahead. And then my heart did a little dance of delight because, sure enough, the path brought me out and onto the edge of a ridge. The mist had all but disappeared now and I could make out my position, quite clearly. I was standing on a plateau, overlooking a large valley over which the sun had rested, illuminating the entire landscape below in an incredible golden glow. Of course, I recognised it. It was the same valley in which the village of Edale –where this epic adventure had begun – was nestled. Indeed, I could make out the small farm buildings and houses that were dotted around its periphery. And right beneath me, not ten minutes climb down the hillside, was a footpath, so wide and so clear that one could have made it out a mile away. This path I certainly did know for it ran parallel to the river which, in turn, snakes its way right into the village itself. I was going to get back after all.

In my delight and relief it took me several moments to realise what had just happened. God had just been speaking to me.

In my rash and emotional state of stubborn pig headedness, I had wrongly concluded that God had deserted me and was maliciously withdrawing His presence to teach me some kind of lesson. How wrong I was. Of course, looking back now, what God was doing seems so blindingly obvious I’m quite ashamed I didn’t realise sooner. He was forcing me to turn around!
Having studied the map since my return and deduced my whereabouts I was, it seems, actually heading away from, not towards, where I needed to be. Had I continued, at best my journey would have been significantly (if not dangerously) prolonged and, at worst, I could have been stranded. It hardly bears thinking about. I see now how imperative it was that I turned around and yet, I fear, had God not made it so impossible for me to otherwise, I would have arrogantly forged ahead – in the wrong direction!

Walking down the valley and into the warmth of the sunshine it slowly began to dawn on me that God had not simply come to my rescue and guided me back to safety from the wilds of Edale Moor. He was telling me something else as well and I could almost hear the words pouring forth from His mouth with, probably, the slightest hint of a suppressed chuckle; though not one that expressed either scorn or contempt but rather the kind of chuckle that a loving father might give after having just watched his precious child trying to be “all grown up” and making an absolute hash of it!
“Jonny,” He seemed to be saying, “You will insist on always doing things you own way won’t you! I do so wish that you’d stop being so obstinate and stubborn all the time and learn that swallowing your pride and admitting defeat isn’t a sign of weakness in my eyes. It’s a sign of wisdom. If only you’d admit that you simply don’t have all the answers and you need My help. If only you’d acknowledge that, for all your efforts, you really don’t know where you’re going so much of the time and you need My direction. If only you’d stop and turn to Me, you’d realise that I, not you, know the way home.”

I walked the couple of miles back to civilisation laughing and crying, almost simultaneously, partially in sorrow and remorse for my own stupidity but, in far greater measure, in wonder and amazement at God’s overwhelming grace.