Lost in Murang’a.

There are few things more humbling than getting lost in some places. Especially the kind where the roads seem to know where they’re going… but you don’t. Not lost in Nairobi where you miss a turn and U-turn after a petrol station. No. I mean, properly lost. The kind of lost where the roads begin to look like they are still deciding whether to road or not. In fact, some of them start big and wide but end up narrowing to a footpath to total bush after a kilometre or Kinuthia’s homestead. Out here, every hill looks familiar, every valley looks suspicious, and your Google Maps pin starts behaving like a confused prophet receiving partial visions. One second the dot is on the road and the other it’s moving across your screen right into the middle of a tea farm on the steepest slope that has ever steeped*.

Brethren, I got lost a few days ago. And really, I rarely get lost. At least that is what I like to believe as a husband, a driver, a former military man, a whole pilot… well, debatable a bit… and a man who thinks he understands “direction.” My wife and I were attending a burial somewhere deep on the Kangema side of Murang’a, near the edges of the Aberdare forest. Beautiful country. Tea bushes clinging onto the slopes for dear life like a well-manicured beard. Green hills. Fog hanging over valleys. Roads twisting like serpents in the wilderness. Actually, the main route there is referred to as the Nyoka Nyoka road.

The problem started with time. The meeting point for everyone was supposed to be around 7 a.m. somewhere along Thika Road, beyond Thika town. But we had parental duties first. Children do not care that saints are gathering for a burial. School must continue. So we dropped the boys off at school first, then began our journey. Naturally, everybody else already had a head start. So we did what every civilized Kenyan does when travelling to a place they have never been before: We asked for a pin location. Pastor S. sent us a live location. This was after he had updated us on the route they had taken and informed us that they had not left the morgue a long time ago. Excellent. Beautiful. Technology. Progress. Civilization. And off we went.

Now initially, everything was smooth. We knew the general route. The pin seemed accurate. The roads made sense. We were climbing steadily into Murang’a, and somewhere in my spirit I felt confident. Too confident. The banter with my wife is endless. With this one, drives are such a joy and boy did we tell stories! Then another pastor, Pastor N. ahead of us called to check whether we were still following. “We are almost there,” I told him confidently. “The pin says fifteen minutes.” “Aah, hamko mbali, kujeni” he responded casually. That statement became the beginning of our suffering. You see, in my mind, “fifteen minutes away” meant one thing: “These people have arrived at the burial venue.” Little did I know they were only talking about a stopover point. A stopover. Not the destination. And that is where the confusion began. Now we had two pins. One old. One newer. One moving. One stationery. One leading us to the moving convoy. The other leading us to memories. And brethren… We followed them both. Here is where history also had a number on us. The last two times, we attended events in Murang’a, most recently a Ruracio Ceremony, cars were left downhill and we navigated our way uphill through some seriously slippery terrain. The other time we had a service in a church and then walked about a kilometer to the homestead. That is the nature of that beloved part of the country. That is the Murima for you. So you see when a pin stops in the middle of the road, you start looking to the left and to the right, looking for a path or something, a sign to show you that the people you’re looking for are either uphill or downhill…

Back on the road now… Murang’a roads are not roads. They are theological tests. One road becomes two. Two become four. Then suddenly one disappears behind a tea plantation, and another enters a valley that looks like the opening scene of a documentary about lost hikers. One sharp corner and the next thing you know you’re almost driving off the road. At some point, we were convinced the burial venue was inside some hidden homestead deep in the hills. Why? Because every pin seemed to end in the middle of nowhere.

No church. No tent. No parked vehicles. No mourners. ahaaa… No white wash or lime drawing big arrows on the road, to show us “this way”. Just my wife and I. A car. And confusion. I even switched the map to satellite mode. That is when you know things are bad. When a man abandons normal navigation and begins zooming into trees from space. Meanwhile, the cockpit temperature had started rising. Frustration started kicking in. My wife was navigating, comparing locations. Confirming that Apple Maps and Google Maps were talking of the same thing… I was driving. We were cross-checking pins like intelligence officers intercepting enemy coordinates. This one says turn right. But the other one says continue straight. Multiple routes to the wrong location… But this pin moved. Maybe they are already inside. Call them. They are not picking. Aah, they must be in the service already. – Logic. Dangerous logic. What we had failed to notice was this: One of the pins had been sent thirty minutes earlier – and it was not a live location. Meaning we were chasing ghosts.

At one point, we actually backtracked through another route, thinking we were advancing. That is the thing about being lost: Sometimes you can be moving very fast while going absolutely nowhere. Then came the funniest part. Somewhere along the road, we spotted one of the vehicles from our group. We waved confidently. They waved back. And then… we overtook them and continued driving. Why not? We had a Pin, right… Do you know what hurts me even now? If we had simply waited for them, we would have followed them directly to the venue. But no. Captain CB had coordinates. Captain CB had confidence. Captain CB had live locations and pins. So Captain CB proceeded to get gloriously lost. Eventually, by the grace of God and repeated repentance, we found ourselves following a graceful silver Vitz which we had a feeling was headed in the same direction. And you know what, at the point that it turned off from the road, we saw the markings on the road. The distinct white powder with three big arrows and the name of the departed saint, directing us to the venue. Beautiful place. Cool air. Quiet hills. Right at the edge of the Aberdare Forest’s side of Kangema. The views were kinda worth the hustle.

And as we sat there later, laughing about the whole ordeal, the Lord began ministering to me deeply. Life is exactly like that journey. Most people are not destroyed because they have no desire to move. They are destroyed because they are following the wrong coordinates. Some are chasing old pins. Some are pursuing temporary stopovers, thinking they are destinations. Some have mistaken movement for progress. Some are pursuing other people’s destinations. Others are moving confidently in the wrong direction simply because they refuse to stop and ask for direction. In military navigation, one of the first things you learn is this: When terrain begins to look identical, coordinates become everything. Coordinates will never lie. In forests, hills, deserts, or combat zones, your eyes can deceive you. One hill can look exactly like another. One valley can resemble the next. That is why soldiers trust coordinates more than feelings. And beloved, this life has many hills that look alike. Opportunities. Relationships. Careers. Dreams. Voices. Open doors. Without godly coordinates, you can spend years circling mountains thinking you are advancing toward purpose.

That is why the Word of God matters. That is why the voice of the Holy Spirit matters. The believer does not navigate life by vibes. We navigate by coordinates. Psalm 119:105 says:

“Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path.”

Isaiah 30:21 says:

“And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, ‘This is the way, walk in it,’ when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left.”

Notice something powerful in Scripture: God rarely gives the full map. He gives direction. Abraham was told to leave his country, but not initially shown the full picture of where he was going.

Genesis 12:1 says:

“Now the Lord said to Abram, ‘Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.’”

Not “the land I have shown you.” “The land I will show you.” Present continuous navigation. Daily dependence. The children of Israel followed a cloud by day and fire by night. Joseph received dreams without timelines. The disciples were simply told: “Follow Me.” And perhaps that is the tension of faith. We want the full route. God gives the next coordinate. We want guarantees. God gives His voice. We want the completed map. God says, “Trust Me enough for the next turn.” And for sure that is the lesson Kangema taught me. Sometimes the stopover is not the destination. Sometimes what looked delayed was actually guidance. Sometimes, slowing down to follow the right vehicle is wiser than speeding ahead with confidence. And sometimes the most spiritual prayer a believer can pray is this: “Lord, recalibrate my devices, confirm my coordinates for the next rendezvous.” Because a man can have fuel, passion, intelligence, equipment, confidence, and movement… and still be lost. But thanks be to God, our Shepherd still leads. And unlike our Murang’a pins, His voice never glitches. It is sure! Because even the destination; Is Sure!

Grace & Peace.