I think I’ve mentioned this in a previous episode or two, but growing up, my family spent many a Thanksgiving in the mountains of North Carolina. It was a pretty significant change of scenery each year, coming from Florida and all. And my entire family loved it and we always made sure to immerse ourselves in the landscape, as much as we possibly could.

We spent our time hiking different trails, chasing waterfalls, collecting colorful fall leaves, and rock-hopping in the river. It felt like we would never run out of ways to explore.

While I have many memories from these Blue Ridge Mountain adventures, I remember one in particular, because it didn’t quite go according to plan. It was Thanksgiving morning and we decided to just hike near our cabin rather than getting in a car and driving to a mapped out trail. After all, there was food to be cooked, and the cabin was literally on the side of a mountain, so it wouldn’t be hard to find some good views, while also making it back in time to prepare a delicious Thanksgiving meal. We told my grandmother we’d be back in an hour or so and all of us—me, my parents, my sister, my aunt and uncle, and three of my cousins—were on our way.

This hike was different than anything I was used to because we weren’t on any sort of pre-made path. It felt like we were making our way into uncharted territory, which, as a kid, was exciting. We were traipsing through the woods, among the trees, leaves crunching beneath our shoes, a crisp chill in the air, following my uncle and my dad as they attempted to create a path for us. It was so much fun.

After some time, though, we stopped, and it became clear that my dad and my uncle were trying to figure out which direction to head next. We were in the olden days, long before cell phones were a thing for regular people, so we didn’t have a compass or maps app at our fingertips. The goal when we first set out was to do one big loop, easily making it back to the house in a timely fashion. But some way, somehow, it seemed we’d gone off course.

Eventually we started moving again in a new direction hoping it would lead us home. But long story short, we ended up in the middle of a Christmas tree farm on the side of a different mountain. It seemed we were officially lost, but not scared in the least. We laughed and laughed and laughed and decided to sit down and enjoy the sunshine, along with some freshly picked apples from some random trees we’d passed at one point. And as we sat and took in the view, we could just make out our cabin on the side of the opposite mountain across the valley. How in the world had we strayed so far?

After a bit more downtime, feeling refreshed and reoriented, we got going and eventually made it back to the cabin. What was supposed to have taken one hour ended up taking several, but in the end, we were safe and sound with memories made and a pretty good story to tell. It turns out, getting lost wasn’t so bad.

Normally, when we talk about getting lost, we usually don’t think of it as being a good thing. Literally or figuratively, there’s this shame attached because being lost means we must have screwed up. Being lost means we are far-away and need to be found. Being lost means we are wrong. Or maybe there is fear attached, because being lost means we are in danger. Under threat. Alone. And sometimes, those things are true.

But there is another kind of being lost that, in the context of our faith, isn’t actually a bad thing and might be worth our consideration. There can be something good about stepping outside the lines of a familiar path, about forging a new one, about gaining a different perspective, about having to really pay attention to where we are because we’ve maybe never been there before. And it’s this kind of getting lost—the willingness to learn, to ask questions or for help, to not have it all figured out—that can actually be kind of wonderful.

In fact, I’m learning that sometimes, getting lost can be a life-giving spiritual practice. Because for God, what feels to us like uncharted territory is often fertile ground.

Here’s what I mean: the truth is, no matter how hard we try to avoid it, we will find ourselves feeling lost in life whether we intended to or not. It might look like the hospital bed or the seat right beside it. The job termination or the rejection letter. The unexpected loss. The undesired move. The dwindling bank account. The severed relationship. The burden of responsibility. The death of a dream. All with the potential to significantly throw us off course.

In Scripture, this kind of being lost is often called, “the wilderness.” It’s an inevitable place where we are so keenly aware of our limits, our shortcomings, our dependency, our need. But it can also be a place for us to explore, to question, to discover, and to grow more into the people God is calling us to be. It allows for a healthy kind of wandering, within the bounds of the presence of God, and maybe it isn’t meant to be feared but engaged. Maybe, sometimes, faithfulness looks a bit like wandering.

As priest, teacher, and author Barbara Brown Taylor puts it in her book, An Altar in the World,

“I have found things while I was lost that I might never have discovered if I had stayed on the path. I have lived through parts of life that no one in her right mind would ever willingly have chosen, finding enough overlooked treasure in them to outweigh my projected wages in the life I had planned…I have decided to stop fighting the prospect of getting lost and engage it as a spiritual practice instead. The Bible is a great help to me in this practice, since it reminds me that God does some of God’s best work with people who are truly, seriously lost.”

Barbara reminds us that sometimes it’s okay to give up the plan, the well-worn path, the linear trajectory. We have permission to wander outside the lines a bit and explore the beautiful landscape. Because we know that in the context of our faith, lost never means alone. We are always within God’s line of sight and never too far out of God’s reach. And it’s often in the getting lost that we discover the presence of God with us all along.

So, if life will inevitably throw us some curveballs, what it might it look like to practice getting lost? I’d like to offer a few very practical, literal suggestions. Because our literal, physical, embodied experience contributes to our spiritual formation. And when it comes to getting lost, I’ve found that reality and metaphor are often deeply intertwined.

Maybe you practice literally getting lost by turning left instead of right or vice versa on your morning or evening walk, foregoing the predictable path. See where you end up and what you notice within and around you while you’re there.

Maybe you change your daily commute, not necessarily choosing the fastest route, but a different one. Yes, you might lose some time, but you just might find yourself paying closer attention along the way.

Or maybe you choose to eat or grocery shop or just spend some time outside your familiar neighborhood or zip code. How do you respond when you are in unfamiliar spaces? What might you learn or discover while you’re there?

These are simple, low-stake ways to practice getting lost. When we take the time to reflect on these little, seemingly inconsequential experiences, they can help us learn how to be when circumstances don’t go according to plan. In subtle ways, the more we practice, we will become more prone to notice the presence of God, with us when we wander, with us when we feel lost navigating the twists and turns of life. After all, we just might find that when we feel off-track, we’re actually drawing closer to the heart of God.

I have a feeling Jesus knew that to be true when he subtly reminded us in Matthew 10:39:

“Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”

So today, practice getting lost. May we remember that lost doesn’t mean alone. May we learn to find the presence of God off the beaten path, in unfamiliar places. And as we faithfully wander closer to the heart of God, may we continue to become the people God is calling us to be.