This is an excerpt from my upcoming book, The Agape Triangle.
Mondays.
The only day in God’s creation that was not called good. Tuesday ended up receiving a double blessing but as for Monday when it was over, God surveyed what had been done and simply motioned to His heavenly host, Let’s move on.
The gray pall and stigma of no Atta boy from God seems to plague Monday to this day. And sometimes in our journey through life, it seems there are seasons of time where we string together a whole slew of Mondays.
The great philosopher Jerry Seinfeld sagely observed, “Sometimes the road less traveled is less traveled for a reason.”
One logical motivation is because no one wants to go there.
Imagine being on a beach, comfortably stretched out on a lounge chair. The sun offers a radiant warmth to your body with intermittent breaks as the scattered, puffy white clouds passing by filter the heat. Seagulls provide a melodic chatter in the background. There’s a slight breeze coming off the ocean, warm air—freshly seasoned with salt, and a tasty fruity drink, complete with fancy umbrella to shade the ice cubes, lies perfectly within arm’s reach such that you don’t have to lean forward to retrieve it. Life is good.
Well, we’re not on that road.
As I type this section of the book on my laptop, I am in a chair that reclines and I did receive a pillow and a blanket. However, overhead is not warm sunshine but sterile fluorescent lights, and the motionless, somewhat humid air carries a distinct antiseptic smell. The cawing of gulls is replaced with the clicking of a pump dispenser as an IV bag labeled hazardous, brought in by someone wearing basic hazmat protection, is dripping poison into my body. That was a surprise—seeing the nurse who brought the cisplatin wearing a mask, gloves, and an extra gown. I thought — how bad is this stuff they’re pumping into me?
Welcome to chemotherapy—a road no one wants to travel and the medical version of the desperate military tactic of firing on one’s own position in hopes of killing more of the enemy than you do of yourselves. It’s never a good solution. But sometimes, it’s the best available.
In this journey through life, most everyone will have a moment or season where even the best possible solution is suboptimal — a choosing among the least bad. It is here where the humility of need and the holding tighter to our Lord becomes essential.
Sun Tzu identified nine types of terrain in warfare. The most demanding he called desperate ground or often referred to as death ground — where there is no retreat, no safe option, no comfortable exit. Fight or die. On desperate ground, Sun Tzu wrote, soldiers give everything — because they have nothing left to protect. It is an “all in” moment.
The believer on desperate ground operates differently than Sun Tzu’s soldier — but the intensity is the same.
Though there are many variants to suffering, perhaps the poster child for having a bad day must be Job. In a 24-hour period he lost all his children and all his wealth. If that wasn’t enough, he then lost his health being infected with terrible boils from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. Job then took a piece of broken pottery to scrape himself as he sat among the ashes (Job 2:7-8). How’s that for quality healthcare?
Yet Job endured.
And through this season of devastation, Job gave us the anchor principle to every form of tribulation, “Though He slay me, I will trust Him” (Job 13:15). This is your Alamo verse. It is desperate ground.
Consider the cost.
It’s all in. Every time. As a devoted living sacrifice, following Christ will always be desperate ground potential. When you chose Him as your Lord and Savior, you signed a blank contract so, be prepared. Jesus tells us the bad and the good, “In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). He has overcome it and we will too. Jesus walked the walk—sweating blood in the Garden, He asked the Father if it were possible to let this cup pass from Him. Yet, He concluded, “Not as I will but Your will be done.” Trust and obey even unto death.
Other journeys down the road of suffering may not involve the ultimate sacrifice but they are no less difficult. After the surprise of being anointed future king of Israel by the prophet Samuel and having the stunning victory over Goliath, David spent years hiding in caves and running from King Saul. The prolonged persecution probably inspired his soulful cry in Psalm 13, “How long O LORD? Will you forget me forever?”
Joseph had to endure for much longer. Being sold into slavery by your brothers was insulting enough. Then being falsely accused of sexual assault landed him in Pharoah’s dungeon for at least two or three years which we can assume were not the best of accommodations. Air conditioning and laundered orange jumpsuits were not the rage back then. Yet, at the appropriate time, every injustice, every delay, every year of apparent abandonment — was precise formation for a Divine assignment that required exactly what those years produced. When the opportunity arose, he was prepared and got promoted from prisoner to Prime Minister in a day.
God doesn’t waste the hard road. He builds your character with it.
Your Travel Partner
The key point to remember is that the One you follow is never surprised by your circumstances.
This is not some comfortable platitude. It is a load-bearing theological claim. The God who comprehends every possible configuration of this universe — who knew before creation what this moment would contain — is not scrambling to respond. He is not consulting advisors nor revising the plan.
He permitted this. Which means He has purposes within it that exceed what you can currently see.
Consider the story of the man born blind in John 9. If asked, who’d volunteer for that assignment? Seriously. Who’d want to spend their entire childhood and into their adult years blind? Anyone? Bueller?
Not just a life in the dark but growing up and hearing the whispers—living with a condition that his neighbors and the disciples falsely attributed to sin — either his own or his parents’. A life with little hope, limited to a career path of begging burdened by stigma and unanswered questions. And when the disciples asked Jesus whose sin caused it — Jesus answered with something that reframes every inexplicable suffering:
“Neither this man nor his parents sinned. This happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him.” (John 9:3)
Not punishment. Not abandonment. Not even bad luck. Purpose.
The purposes operating beneath the surface of desperate circumstances are often invisible until later — sometimes much later. Faith is what sustains the journey between the suffering and the perspective.
God’s No — The Hardest Answer
Faith is built upon the promises of God. Hope extends faith into the realm that with God all things are possible. Thus, hope is ever present. The wounded soldier keeps fighting while reinforcement is plausible. The patient endures treatment while recovery is expected. The trapped or isolated due to a disaster hold out for a potential rescue.
But what happens when God says no?
Not silence. Not delay. A clear, definitive No to a genuine, faithful, persistent prayer.
Paul asked three times and this was likely three seasons of prayer. Three times refused. And what he received instead of the removal of the condition (or “thorn” as he labeled it) he requested was something the removal could never have provided — a testimony to grace that required the thorn to remain.
“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is perfected in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12:9)
Paul’s response is one of the most countercultural statements in all of Scripture:
“Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” (2 Cor 12:9)
He didn’t resign himself to this thorn as some burdened ball and chain to endure. He didn’t claim victimhood. He sincerely celebrated it. Not because weakness is pleasant — but because he understood what it produced and Who was glorified through it.
What makes me weak glorifies God.
That is not a theology developed in comfortable circumstances. It is a conclusion reached on desperate ground by someone who sincerely asked for a different outcome and genuinely received a no.
The cup didn’t pass in Gethsemane either. Jesus asked — with blood-sweat intensity that defies casual spiritualization — if there was another way. There wasn’t. And the “no” that was given produced the only thing that could redeem everything that had gone wrong since Eden.
The hardest No’s in Scripture produced the greatest fruit.
That doesn’t make them easy. It makes them bearable. The framework doesn’t ask you to be unaffected. It asks you to be unflinching.
Embrace the Suck
There is a phrase from military culture — specifically from the communities that train hardest and suffer most deliberately — that deserves admiring acknowledgment:
Embrace the suck.
Not deny it. Not spiritualize it prematurely. Not perform positivity while internally collapsing. Acknowledge the hardship honestly — this is genuinely hard, genuinely painful, genuinely not what I would have chosen — and keep moving anyway.
My cousin and the childhood best friend to my dad was First Lieutenant Thomas Caswell McAllister. He flew a P-47 Thunderbolt with the 365th Fighter Group Hell Hawks over Normandy in the late spring of 1944. In roughly two months of combat over Normandy, he flew enough dangerous missions to earn eight Air Medals. Eight! — documented, witnessed, individually recognized acts of valor in an era when valor was expected and rarely formally acknowledged. The participation trophy was not in vogue during the timeframe of the Greatest Generation.
On June 15th, nine days after D-Day, on a mission to bomb a fuel depot, their sortie was attacked by eight German Focke-Wulf Fw 190s. In the ensuing dogfight, 1LT McAllister shot down one aircraft. When his wingman radioed that his plane was suffering engine trouble, McAllister circled back to assist. It was then that his plane was catastrophically struck by small arms fire. When he tried to parachute to safety, his chute caught the tail of the aircraft and carried him down. His efforts on that final combat mission earned him (posthumously) the Distinguished Flying Cross. He was twenty-one years old. He is buried in the Brittany American Cemetery in France. His wingman told my father the story. I carry his name.
He didn’t choose desperate ground. He chose to answer his country’s call, and desperate ground found him. But on that ground, he gave everything — because that’s what desperate ground requires. James calls it joy. The military calls it embracing the suck. Thomas Caswell McAllister called it Tuesday.
James doesn’t say pretend trials are pleasant. He says count them as joy — which requires knowing in advance what they produce before you can value what they cost. We introduced these verses in chapter two. Here, in this context, it displays its full meaning.
“Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” (James 1:2-4).
The joy is not in the trial itself. It is in the trajectory the trial is producing — perseverance, maturity, completeness. You can’t get there without going through here.
There is something else that develops that is the key to living a peaceful life—gratefulness. When you are grateful, you appreciate everything. When you recognize that every gift is from God—the taste from the good road is savored not expected. Contrast brings clarity. Suffering to celebration and back again. From a position of humility, we recognize our dependence on God. Because we trust Him, we find peace in every circumstance.
Yeah, sometimes it gets dicey.
How long oh LORD?
Wisdom resets the timeframe perspective. As a veteran of trials and persecution, Paul writes, “For our light and momentary affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory that is far beyond comparison” (2 Cor 4:17). Here on earth, we may experience a dirty job. Afterwards? It’s pure heaven!
Still in the Fight
The Agape Triangle doesn’t collapse on the tough road. It becomes most essential there. It is the apex of sacrificial love.
Upward — love God when you can’t see what He’s doing. Trust His character when you can’t trace His hand. The vertical beam holds even when circumstances argue against it.
Outward — love others even while you’re suffering. Perhaps especially then. Proverbs 18:24 talks of a friend who is closer than a brother. I was blessed to have a friend like that who also travelled through the valley of cancer although his journey was the terminal kind. Yet, he had that peace that passes all understanding. When you trust completely in the LORD is when that peace appears. It’s not fatalism; it’s faith that God knows best. Even as his body failed him, he witnessed and encouraged all the hospice nurses and those who came to visit. The person in genuine pain who still extends genuine care for others is demonstrating something that no comfortable believer can replicate. It is the most credible witness available.
Inward — steward yourself well on the tough road. Draw near to God. Rest. Receive care. Abide. The living sacrifice doesn’t volunteer for unnecessary damage. You cannot sustain others from empty reserves.
“And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose” (Rom 8:28).
The beauty of this verse is its universal application. Whether we screwed up, failed to execute, misread a situation or just happen to be on a bumpy and difficult road, it is all within God’s providence and it all works for good.
Relationship over results.
The Alethes Loop continues cycling on the tough road — faith already settled before the circumstances arrived, belief oriented through truth rather than through the appearance of the valley, trust deciding from God’s character rather than from visible outcomes, obedience acting in love regardless of how the road feels underfoot.
You may be wounded. You may be operating at less than full capacity. You may not be able to see past the next step.
But you are still in the fight.
And the One walking beside you has already seen the end of this road.
He knows it’s worth it.
The Valley Has an Exit
Psalm 23 does not say David camped in the valley of the shadow of death. He walked through it. The valley is a passage not a destination.
The tough road leads somewhere.
Not necessarily to the outcome you requested. Not always to the healing or the vindication or the restoration you hoped for on this side of eternity. But to something — to the perseverance James describes, to the testimony Paul discovered, to the glory the man born blind displayed, to the maturity that only the tough road produces.
Every road changes us. The question is never whether suffering will shape us, but how it will shape us. The same fire that hardens clay softens wax—we either become better or bitter. Trials don’t automatically produce character; they reveal what we trust. The road doesn’t determine the destination. The decisions we make while traveling do.
And to the quiet certainty — available only to those who have actually been on desperate ground and found the framework holding — that the God you serve is exactly who He says He is.
Remember the Alamo. Though He slay me — I will trust Him.
That is not defeat.
That is the deepest victory available to a human soul.
For we know the story doesn’t end in a cemetery. The sting of death is gone. Eternal life awaits.
