Your soul and body are weary from a long journey. To the north lay the rugged and snow-tipped peaks of the Land of Difficulty. You’ve thought about going north, but you’ve been there before. You remember the band of warriors who left you for dead. You remember the impassable mountain ranges and the bitter cold nights. To the east, lay the Land of Rebellion. Before you, the cracked and parched land forbids any traveler from exploring the desolate and hostile terrain. To the south, the Land of Wandering stretches out in a seemingly unending pattern of dry bones, sand dunes and dust storms.

To the west, the sun is setting in the Land of Promise. Your heart longs to find the harbor on the Great Ocean and sail into adventures untold. You strap on the heavy pack and begin your westward journey.

“Where are you going?”

You spin around too fast and almost fall from the weight of the pack. Before you, a grizzled old man is leaning heavily on a staff. His intense gaze is made more stern by his thick beard and sun-scorched face. He leans toward you. “I said . . . Wayfarer, where are you going?”

You look down at your faded and worn boots. “To the west….to the harbor on the Great Ocean.” You search his face for approval. “I’m tired of wandering and need rest.”

He shakes his head slowly. “No, you need to be made whole before you reach the shores—before you sail to the City Above.”

As if gleaning every bit of confusion and doubt from your face, he continues. “Your peace lies to the north—in that twisted and harsh land. Your compassion lies to the east—where, just like the terrain, it is covered in thorns and scorched by the fires on the mountain. And your joy is lost somewhere in the south—where sands cover and cause one to forget.”

Weakness and despair fills your mind and weakens your legs. You sit down hard. “I can’t go to those places again.”

“You can.” The old traveler reaches into his pack that hangs at his side and pulls out a scroll. “This time you’ll have His word and His promises.”

You accept the scroll, unroll a few inches and study the script. Your heart sinks. “How is this supposed to help? I can’t even read the scroll.”

“There’s one more thing.” He kneels on one knee and stretches a wiry and aged hand to your shoulder. His shadow blocks the relentless sun. “The Seven Spirits of the Lord will guide you, empower you, restore you and cause you to grow stronger in faith as your journey continues.”

A faint but undeniably musical tone rings out from somewhere close. A few seconds later, a second note is added and then a third. The chord resonates in your heart. The melody seems so personal and encouraging. It calls you and fills your heart with confidence. “In those lands,” you convince yourself, “my soul will be restored and I will be ready to search for my heart’s real desire—the City Above.” A blazing light penetrates your thoughts. You blink your eyes open and shade them with your hand. “What the heck?”

You search the horizon but nothing appears but endless desert landscape. Then you notice your sleeve. It is the sleeve of a torn robe. A long, worn tunic reaches your sandaled feet. A sash is tied at your waist and a leather pack hangs from your shoulder. The music around you rises with a new urgency. The tones alert your senses to new dangers. You pick up the old man’s staff from the sand and take your first steps toward the north.