At the edge of the property where I grew up, and still live today, there is a ridge of mountains.  Actually, these are more like steep hills, and while they certainly can’t compare to the high country of Colorado, they are still a comforting presence. 

These mountains are part of a gigantic tract of land, a small area in the holdings of a family who is seldom involved with the property.  The hills are completely wooded and have been virtually undisturbed for several decades.  There are no nearby houses and no sign of human activity, except for an old railroad bed abandoned by the Union Pacific since before I was born.  It still harbors the occasional rusted iron spike or train-car coupler and features a concrete bridge with the date “1936” stamped on the side. 

These mountains don’t legally belong to me, but they are still part of my home.  I’ve spent many hours roaming their slopes (with permission from the owners).  These are the mountains where I first learned to use a compass.  Where I learned the rudiments of tracking wild animals and discovered that moss truly does grow on the north side of trees.  Where my beloved dog Angel, years ago, chased a mountain lion and inadvertently led it back to me (but that’s another story!). 

Perhaps, in the familiarity of the mountains, I took them too much for granted.  To me, they seemed like an unspoken guarantee, a knowledge that tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow they would still be standing there.  They seemed anything but fragile.  But now, my mountains are being destroyed. 

For the past three weeks, I’ve awakened each morning and lived each day to the sound of saws.  The crews arrive at dawn in the morning and stay nearly twelve hours—sometimes longer.  They’re busy clearing the mountains, they say—clearing my memories, my background, my life away as surely as they remove the trees. 

They’ve widened that lonely railroad bed, grading it and converting it into a dirt road for their log trucks.  They’ve cleared scarred swathes through the woods, tearing down trees in enormous, barren sections.  They’ve parked equipment just over our property line, spilling diesel, leaving litter, hacking, chopping, destroying.

For them, it’s just a job, but for me, it’s like a slow-motion horror film, like watching a piece of myself be stolen every day.  Now, I walk across what was once a verdant mountaintop, and there is not a tree left—only twisted shreds of bark and branches crushed on the ground, only powdery dust that billows with my every step.  It feels like walking across a world after Armageddon.  The air smells unfamiliar, and I now require a compass to maneuver these once-familiar mountains, because all my old landmarks are unrecognizable.  I see the deer trembling on the edges of the devastation, exhausted, anxious, and I picture the fate of all wild things—cornered into an ever-shrinking box by the relentless push of people.  And I watch the fireflies glimmer in the sparse corners of forest that still remain, and I wonder—if I have children one day, will I have to explain to them what fireflies were, because humans will have erased their habitat entirely?

Devastation.  Destruction.  It always hurts.  And as I watch this personal destruction unfold, one truth taps me on the shoulder—it is always easier, in this twisted world, to destroy rather than create. 

Those forests have grown for years, without haste or interference.  A typical tree grows about 1-2 feet a year, depending on the species.  Many of the trees on those mountains had stood like sentinels for well over a century.  Yet in a matter of a few brutal moments, they’re gone—chopped down, sawed up, carted off to lumber mills. 

Yes, it’s easy to destroy.  We see that in the world around us…and in our own lives.  It takes a lifetime of good decisions to build noble character, but only one poor choice to send it tumbling down.  A friendship of years can be wrecked with one small lie.  A marriage that has weathered many storms can be destroyed by a forbidden decision.  Nothing in this world is ever invulnerable.  We are all only one choice from destruction.

Just consider the life of King David—a man after God’s own heart, he’s called.  As we watch him fight Israel’s enemies, accept the coronation as king, defeat Goliath, and pen hundreds of cherished psalms, the title seems appropriate, well-deserved.  However, one day, this righteous man makes a terrible choice—the harmless-seeming decision to stay home during a battle and allow his armies to do his fighting for him.  Alone in his palace, he walks up to the roof; and “he saw from the roof a woman bathing; and the woman was very beautiful” (2 Samuel 11:2 ESV).

And now the poor choices begin to accumulate rapidly, faster than David can handle.  He doesn’t stop with observing the woman; he then begins inquiring about her, seeking details he doesn’t need to know.  Next, she’s in his palace, and then, she’s reporting a pregnancy.  In the blink of an eye, David is guilty of lust, deception, seduction, adultery, and finally, the elaborate murder of her husband.  All that he has sought to build—the trust of his nation, the respect of his family, his character before God—has been shattered in a single destructive moment.

Perhaps you’ve stood in David’s shoes.  Perhaps you’ve watched the trees fall and seen the landscape of your life be irrevocably altered.  And now, all around you, what was once a beautiful forest is simply a barren waste.  Your life is beyond recognition.

When destruction visits a life, it always hurts.  It makes us feel angry—why is this happening?  It makes us feel vulnerable—this could happen again.  It makes us feel disoriented—where am I now?  But most of all, it makes us feel hopeless—what can I do?

Some of us, like David, can point to a litany of bad decisions that began the destruction.  We can look back over a pattern of poor choices—or even just one catastrophic decision.  However, others have no such point of reference. 

Consider the case of Job.  His children dead, his wife estranged, his possessions gone, his health ruined—Job’s tree-filled life is now dust and ashes.  But despite his friends’ stubborn insistence to the contrary, Job isn’t responsible for his own sufferings, and he’s not harboring secret sin.  “My face is red with weeping, and on my eyelids is deep darkness, although there is no violence in my hands, and my prayer is pure” (Job 16:16-17 ESV).

Destruction without explanation is one of the most disempowering experiences in the human condition.  We work hard to maintain a good life, one of peace and joy, centered on the people and callings that mean the most to us and surrendered to the will of the Father.  Yet, in a moment—one phone call from the doctor, one pink slip from an employer, one drunk driver on a highway, one natural disaster—that life vanishes.  The fabric of our existence is forever changed, and we lack not only the capacity to salvage it but also the ability to explain why it has been destroyed.

In such moments, what do we do?  What can we do?

When sin has bred suffering, the answer is obvious, if not easy.  Restoring a right relationship with God is the only first step to removing the shrapnel of the fallout from your life.  But when destruction is not caused by wrong choices—when it is sudden, unexpected, and terrifyingly random—the path to recovery is less clear-cut.

I can’t offer you a magic formula or a five-step process to managing pain, although I desperately wish that I could.  I can’t even give you that golden gift that people in unexpected pain crave more than anything else—an explanation.  I can only tell you these truths:

1. The ways of God are higher than ours.  A wise friend once instructed me to view my life from the perspective of the end.  In other words, we must not look at our future through the lens of our present pain but look at our present pain through the lens of the future.  As Paul reminds us in Romans 8:28, “For those who love God all things work together for good” (ESV).  Is this a guarantee that we will be free from pain?  Absolutely not.  But it does mean that eternal lessons and blessings are being shaped from the raw material of your suffering.
2. There is no substitute for faith.  In times of trial, many people abandon their faith—some in anger, because they feel that God has mistreated them.  Others become fearful of His seeming capriciousness and cower in the shadows.  Still others are driven away by the well-meaning but simplistic didacticism of other Christians.  “Though He slay me,” Job declared in the midst of his grief, “I will hope in Him”—even when he believed God was responsible for his anguish, he stubbornly clung to his faith (Job 13:15 ESV).  Instead of allowing your fear, or guilt, or anger, or confusion to stand between you and God, bring it to Him instead.  Honestly confess your emotions, and then determine to continue your pursuit of His presence.
3. Trees will grow again.  This is perhaps the most comforting, amazing, and hope-filled truth available.  When you feel completely robbed of any reason to hope, remember that God is in the business of radical restoration.  It’s the way His world is designed to work.  After a terrible plague, God assured the nation of Israel, “And I will restore to you the years that the locust hath eaten”—this promise included not only physical renewal but spiritual restoration as well (Joel 2:25 KJV).  Even as I stand on the barren landscape and look at the dusty deadness, I know that in that dirt are the seeds—the seeds of the trees that once stood here.  And when the work crews leave, and the land is left to itself, it will recover.  The world of God—and the people of God—possess a resiliency unlike anything else on earth. 

So yes.  Destruction is painful.  Even as I write this, the growl of heavy equipment fills my ears, and I can see the skyline of the mountains changing right before my eyes.  It’s always easier to tear down than build up.  But if you have been torn down, if the life you once knew has been altered beyond description, I have hope for you today.  Seeds are being sown, even if you don’t realize it.  Press through the pain.  Trust God in the shadows.  And I promise, I promise, that one day, trees will grow again.

Did you like this post? Are there any other truths you’ve learned from destruction? Let me know in the comments, and don’t forget to subscribe! Also, for a wonderful song to share with anyone who’s hurting, click here. Lastly, if you haven’t read my new short story “After the Storm,” click here for details!